Redemption and a Prairie Fire

I've learned, if I've learned anything,
That "never" has no place in the main ring.
You can turn your lover from the inside out.
Irish whiskey in the cupboard, saved for the title bout.
Old memories and beleaguered years keep rising to the top of the cream.
I think just maybe you might have heard those muted screams.
Directed to a pillow.
In the midst of a dark midnight.
Nothing ever told me, "You don't have the right."
In fact, it's the exact opposite.
All this regard brings the wondering to the top of it.

To the top of everything, where we breathe sweet helium.
And a sad note only lasts a minute.
Forgiving a satisfied wound is a perfect tune.
You can only tell someone enough of what they want to hear.
And they can only tell you everything you might have to fear.
But I've heard it before.
And there's NO WAY I'll listen.
Especially when I know the score.

I compensate my English with a dark blood wit.
I could shudder to think, and throw the towel to quit.
But there's something in me that won't die,
And I damn sure won't lose on the back end.
When you're as blessed as I am, you're blind to the floor.
In a place where less is more.
I'll pretend.
The great secret is that I don't have to.
What you see is what you get.
And all the change that comes in between has already been spent.

I do use what I need,
And I'll be damned if there's a place for greed.
There is the relief in knowing that when I get to the bottom of this glass, I'll find rest.
I'll sleep on it and wake in the morning to something beautiful and refreshed.
It's with focus that I train my desire,
And I can make things work through redemption,
In the middle of a prairie fire.

When There's Nothing Left To Do...

Late night dust up...

Agree to Agree

This girl's got the sand...

Cary Ann Hearst & Michael Trent - The Thread from The Moving Picture Boys on Vimeo.

CHRISTMAS BELLS, THOSE CHRISTMAS BELLS!!!

We wrote a holiday song...

Your New Favourite Video

For this weekend anyways...

Being a Man

"COURAGE IS DOING WHAT YOU’RE AFRAID TO DO. THERE CAN BE NO COURAGE UNLESS YOU’RE SCARED."

— Eddie Rickenbacker

"Talking to God is Laurel Begging Hardy For a Gun..."

They say youth is wasted on the young...

They couldn't be more right.  When you get older you have to bend all the rules.  Every.  Damn.  One.  Of.  Them.  If the rules don't give you the bend you're expecting, then you owe it to yourself (in a form that calls on madness) to break them in half.  Break the holy shit out of them.  Let's call a spade a spade...there is a wick in every candle, and it's only so long.  When it burns out, you're just left with a mass of formless, empty residual.  I think that speaks volumes of the biology we've been so intrinsically tied to, and to some degree found prisoner to and (to an extent) our own little delicate psyches.

Growing old doesn't scare me.  Growing stale does.  That's why I want to burn bright.  Like that little ferocious birthday candle that won't give in to the wind.  I've never felt truly numb and I never want to.  In fact, I know that I won't.  It's just not going to happen to me.  However, the minute I do, the Good Lord has my invitation to take me home...no matter the age I find myself sitting in here...inside my own head.

It's funny...I've spent the better part of my life thinking that everything is going to click like a light bulb in the darkest night.  Like everything is going to be illuminated and tangible.  You can see it, you can pick it up, you can feel it's contours, hand it to your friend, show them how it works, heat burns their hand, looking at it through a magnifying glass, write instructions for playing with it, leave it on a shelf and be mobile without it...drop it on the floor and know it won't break.  If that does happen, I imagine it won't be that way.  It will be a little more intricate.  Or maybe it won't.  Maybe it is that simple.  Maybe it's that great simplicity that seems to be the problem...just flying under the radar of all our great complications and distractions, successes and victories.  Better said, maybe it's the undeniable ability to recognize the lives we live which is the problem, and maybe it's the hope for what they might turn into that's the blessing.

I was born at 10:10pm.  I was a lucky baby born on an unlucky day.

http://cults.bandcamp.com/track/go-outside?auto=mp3-320

California in the Morning Always Made Me Warm...

There's a giant western sunset, beyond this here horizon, pointing it's finger at me with invitations on the table. To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under Heaven. I can already hear the surf break on the shoreline and feel the little hand I might be holding in mine. Hello love! I'm floating...

Sun Was High (So Was I) - Best Coast

Here's To The Day

This song is owning my mood right now...all warm and floating with eyes opened wide.

The Flood - Delta Spirit

You and I Have Unfinished Business

I want you to yell out loud if you need me...I'll be there if I can.  You be your woman.  I'll be your man.  

Damn Sam, I Love a Woman That Rains

And I will settle for nothing less.  I'll walk this world alone till I find the one that does.  I want her to be sweet.  I want her to be engaging.  I want her to be welcoming like the women in my family.  I want her to look me in the eye.  I want her to be clear as a silver bell.  I want her eyes to be blue...or whatever color they may come by.  I want her to have eyes, preferably.  I want her to be soft and smell good.  Like rose water, or bluebonnets.  I want her to be smart and speak with grace.  I want her to disarm me with a glance.  I want to glance off her ricochet.  I want to change her tires and cook her a country breakfast in the mornings.  I want the stupid pillow talk.  I want to slap her ass when she walks into my kitchen.  I want to put her name in my phone as "My Lover," disregarding her name.  I want her to laugh out loud with my sister, like she does.  Cackling at the moon and everything underneath.  I want to write her silly poems that I leave in envelopes, hidden in places she'll find before work.  In fact, everything I write is to her...before I even know her.  I am as sound as an old fucking engineer.  Ryan Adams is a Scorpio, just like me.  That means nothing (I'm listening to him).  I am at a point where I feel very blessed.  Age does that to you.  You count your eggs, and they mean so much...big, round, and full.  Hearty, as they are.  Full of sustenance.  Good things abound and I feel filled to the brim.  I have everything I need and then some.  This boy is full of blessings.  I wouldn't trade it for anything.  I do want a woman.  A woman that rains.  On me.  Damn Sam, I do fucking love a woman that rains.

Play This Song

"Undertow" by Warpaint

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=130693015

Saw these interesting kitties at ACL this year.  Despite falling in love with them on a totally non-music-related level, I fancy them because they can write a mean tune.  Rawr.

Let The Poets Cry Themselves To Sleep

You're the yellow bird that I've been waiting for.

Rare

I laughed, a belly laugh, at God tonight...or more accurately with.  Because of, in spite of, and in direct rebellion and welcome response to free will. Tears were streaming from my eyes during a bone-rattling laugh. I literally took a knee.

Why is there always a carrot in front of that damned old mule? What a torturous prank. Or is it?  God is a tricky cat. He'll toy with you till you learn the point and swallow the lesson. It will be learned. Carefully studied. Dangling in your face. Just beyond your reach.  He keeps watch over His flock by night.  As the vipers lay in the garden, sprawled amongst our ankles, to wit, armed against us.  

All you can really do is laugh.  Focus on one point and breathe.

I Sank My Teeth Into...

Things that should be felt and never heard.
The unbroken horizon on a blood-moon night.
Contradictions and alterations and silver coins that left no divot.
Fertile soil in a harvested row.
The face of youth while it flew all around.
All seething age as it comes crashing down.
A marked forehead with an ash-cross burn.

An anthemic route for a voice to be heard.
The bone, where the marrow lays bare.
The scars on my chest, and the wounds beyond there.

Worldly pursuits like meat on a stove.

Sanctity and benevolence and purity and love.

Mountains of fear and oceans of doubt.

Modernity and all the filth it spews out.

The halo on her head and the crest in her wings.

The vindictive instability the other one brings.

The Scorpio's good form.

The Aries' burning ire.

The Taurus' quick tongue.

The Libra's desire.

An antiseptic of spiritual redoubt.

A deception of will that poisoned my mouth.

An unbearable heretic conflagration.

The words of my iconic heroes, steeped in admiration.

A powder keg of sentimentality.

My ancestral heart for the courage and the nerve.

Things that should be felt and never heard.

As an Aside...

There is currently an infestation of lady-bugs in my apartment. At any one time, I will find 10-15 on the ceiling and along the walls. I thought about calling the exterminators to rid of the invaders, but decided against it in remembering that lady-bugs are good luck. Considering the innumerable and less desirable unwelcome guests from the insect world, I figured we'd live and let live here. This, after all, is a house of welcome, a house of respite, and who am I to decide who is worthy of that or not...just short of poisonous or winged attachments. Add that to the fact that I've had hallucinatory medicine-head for the past four days (attacking this vicious cold), on top of the fever dreaming, one in which a car horn outside actually kept the beat to the "Green Acres" theme song playing in my dream.

I've read paradigm-shifting quotes from Marcel Proust and delivered a personal "Waterloo" of sorts all within the past three days. This is a real watershed moment for me. Weird changes are happening in my head and around my life.

Some people write to make a living; others to share their insights or raise questions that will haunt their readers; others yet to understand their very souls. None of these will last. That distinction belongs to those who write only because if they did not write they would burst... These writers give expression to the divine — no matter what they write about.
 
--anthony de mello

The Clever Men of Manor Farm

Don't listen to the voice you're hearing,
In the halls of strong conviction now.
It might make sense somehow.

But can you hear the horns?
They’re singing.
Out loud for the mighty men you know.
But they don’t know,
That it’s a long way to fall.
And they’re not really men at all…

Riot of discontent on the horizon.
Where foreign winds take you.
Turning into arcing storms on this incendiary night.
Where discordant words aren’t true.

Mistaken sides,
Pour into the night to save their lives.

Oh, you know I’m dangerous to you...

Delightfully Anachronistic

My old soul will save me one day. It wrestles and grapples in awkward vengeance with the modern world. It doesn't really know the current methods or violent systems. It finds itself lost and confused in the swell of uninspiring convention. It takes unruly missteps. But it will find a soft landing place at some point. I know it will. Maybe it will bring her home to me someday, too. Maybe she'll put her key in her pocket and bring it with her so she can unlock this deadbolt buried in my heart that I've hid from everyone but her. Maybe we won't try to break each other in half this time, because time has gracefully aged our old souls. Eloquent and poetic. Old souls are tender at heart. The harlots and hyenas running around us in frenzied chaos won't be wasted on either of us anymore. Maybe I'll write a few sentences that change your life. Maybe I'll write a few that change my own. Old souls thirst for these things.

Disarming the Null and Void

My heart is a pounding war drum.
My eyes are long blue telescopes scanning the horizon.
Affixed and darting like the fireflies in my periphery throughout the heavy green vines, sweating fluorescence in the summer's sweltering choke.
My ears are deciphering sonnets and whispers charted in code.
The breeze lifts them into the air, and like radar I'm privy to what is heading this way,
So I can greet as friend or foe.
Whiskey is my petrol and my stomach burns like a combustion engine,
Shooting fuel into my amber-soaked brain...
The throttle is open.
It always is.

I've fired the first salvo,
But I've been lashed with a shiner hovering over my eye.
My aim was true.
True as my intentions.
Self-favoring is their vision and deceptive regret is the monologue.
I will raise no white flag on this hazy evening for I am a madman.
Mad as hell with a head full of bubbles and a tongue like a fuse.
I run with the moon and howl like the wild creatures stalking the cut in the middle of the night.
With blood in the nostrils I can feel kerosene pumping through my ventricles, and straining through my capillaries.
I hold no hostages, and I pour salt in wounds.
My favourite nerves hold tight and secure.
I clench my jaw and shake.

Painfully hungry, but no seat at the table.
I've got a plan, but some problems arise.
I've no more to give than what was already there.
Roads in black and skies in gray, sitting above your home...
You just gotta try harder, or feel alone.
Tell me something I don't know.
I'm angling for peace, and I do it standing up.
You're exhausted while the lights are on,
And I just want something graceful.

These are diamond-tipped offerings from the heart of a wanderer.
Everything means something.
A professional bleeding heart.
Everything you can see matters.
A poker face aimed at God and the devil keeps them guessing.
A ransom on the auction block for my soul.
It will take a strong arm.
It could be the great return of the wandering boy.
Tying cuts of ribbon to the trees he's passed so he can find his way back.
If only the storms hadn't untied and carried them off into the firmament.
I would lead you, but it's too absolute.
First I yelled.
Then I knelt.
Then I healed.

Everything you can see matters.

I Bid You Farewell

In light of the truth we stand before you...
Loose cannons with shaky hands.
Sober by morning through our self loathing,
Because the prodigal youth lament their sins.

Some say moral conscience has evaporated,
I’m afraid we don’t see it that way.
In the late night hours we stagger forward
Looking out and up for a better place.

The steps we take away from you,
Aren’t with our feet, they’re with our heads.
We’re naked, dirty, and too far gone.
They said we’d end up this way.
And they say we’re all insane.

If you venture this way, come expecting a mess
Cause every fool has a song
This makeshift virtue is truly painful
Judged for all the things we've done wrong.

This lost generation can’t live forever.
Marked by doubt and fears unlaced.
With dust in our teeth and whiskey in our eyes
We have no idea where our limits lay.
They say we’re all insane.

That’s why they say, we’re all insane…

Ruin Me

Just do it. I want you to. You're the highly-evolved zenith I've been stumbling around all these years. Long-winded diatribes be damned. I've no time for that tonight...probably didn't any other time anyways. A man to a little boy when you're around. Fumbling words, like nothing makes any kinda damn sense. Head spinnin' around dizzy as a damn fool. I'm afraid my love and lust buttons would sync up all too terrifyingly compatible with you. You are poisonous, and I want to inject you directly into my veins intravenously. I want you to do it. I want you to. I want you. Good Lord, I want you. Yes ma'am, I want you.

The Dust Settles A-Okay

Most everything hinges on fundamentals. There are certain absolute truths that I've experienced in my time, and I must admit they move like concrete...which is to say, little to none at all. One of those truths is that life, when given the opportunity, will check you at the plate with a high-rising fastball to the chin, or tell you to have a fucking seat at any moment. I guess I always have, but I'm starting to see the beauty in this. It's good for the soul. It really is.

Nothing is guaranteed. I've seen failures and successes of all shapes and sizes...my own and those of my acquaintances. Failure and setback give you two distinct paths to choose. And it's not even failure or setback...failure is a whole different animal right now. I guess "adversity" is what I'm currently facing. I've got a big white whale in front of me and I need to find a razor sharp harpoon with some expediency. There's no doubt that life has been extremely blessed for me lately, but there's one 800-lb gorilla in the room that needs a talkin' to.

Lucas Jackson had it right when told to "stay down" after being beaten to a pulp within an inch of his life.

His reply, "You're gonna have to kill me."

Carolyn

Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn...

Carolyn...

Yep

Fuck it. Fuckitty, fuck it. My thoughts, my paranoia, my enthusiasm, my writing. I'm fine with all of this. I am pretty sure I am fine with all of this.

Pay No Mind, I Have No Time

Pay no mind to the aberrations I create.
Only know that I do this because I'm haunted if I don't.
When every person is busy spinning, weaving, and climbing their webs,
I effort to make orderly little formations with the thoughts in my head.

Pithy observances,
So full of excitement and dread,
That I will readily drop once boredom arrives.
Mad little perceptions and curious inspirations.
All-colored threads, they weave through our lives.
I honestly don't know what I'm confined to do.

I can no longer pretend there is a moment coming,
A moment when I will come to know everything.
Everything there is to know about oneself.
I am constant and I am formless,
I am floating and I am fluid,
I am sinew and plasma.
I am translatable only by your tongue,
And I mean nothing for that which I meant.

Bouts of fiction against truth can only be told when they violently collide.
I do not censor my thoughts,
So I must not censor the way they find breath every morning.
The seedlings and the Master made a deal before time began.
You must grow the way you were designed, or forever be damned.

I Pay No Attention To Red Lights

Before I'm even done with my meal, I've decided we're going to pick a fight with one of Austin's favourite sons. Before I even finish my first glass of wine, I already have the melody in my head, and it's anthemic proclamation. They have no idea the tactical assault I'm sketching in the back of my mind, all quiet-like, while we smile and talk of jobs and inane shit; while they fork through their pork tenderloins and gazpacho. I am planning to launch this in the coming months. At worst, it will give me something to do; at best, it will cause some sort of rip in the fabric, no matter how small or insignificant...one that makes people (specific people) take notice. All the great one's need a foil. Marianne Faithful, Sedgwick, Simon, Nico, Joplin, etc. Someone benefited from the back and forth dynamic...the competition. Although, I will admit, the thought of this annoys me...I really don't want to give her the satisfaction. Any of them for that matter...non-deserving sponges of attention. There's no reason to claim reason, but there is a reason for everything, and as it stands, there is a reason for this.

Reason #1: My infinite and incomprehensible sentimentality. It springs from a well that knows no regulation or fears no exhaustion.

I would do this in front of everyone. I would be completely oblivious to their averted scoffs and silent judgements. I would defy all the sound reason that well-adjusted people carry in normal social circumstantial behavior. I would do it if they'd all jettison judgment and just know that I was half-kidding and half-serious, so when it worked or failed, I could conveniently fall to one side of the fence or the other and we could all go on about our normal course. I would do it if I knew I wouldn't be some social pariah because of an excessive show of overt-sentimentality. But I suppose that's a boring concept in some circles. I suppose it's much more riveting to talk about mind-numbing TV shows, temporary jobs, uninteresting movies, shopping, stores, drinks, apartments, houses, condos, parties, parties, parties, drinks, people who aren't here, dear God.

I would throw down my napkin, shuffle around the table, politely excusing myself for inconveniently walking around these boringly sensible people and their delicious meals, and I would put my hands on her face and say, "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I FUCKING LOVE YOU." Then I would kiss her on the forehead, under her newly red-streaked hair. I would turn and look everyone in the eyes like a wild man from some mountain hut. I would light a cigarette (INSIDE...she hates smoking) and then I would turn and walk out of the door, off into the night, under a streetlamp like some character in a James Dean flick. They would wonder why I didn't pay my check, if I was going to need a ride home, or if I was going to catch a cab. They would wonder if I was simply mad, or just collectively decide that I had gone completely batshit insane. You know...all the things people would concern themselves with if someone actually did what I would do. I would do it without regret. I would do it in a way that only I alone could, and she would see me. Maybe even wonder what it means.

Reason #2: The tendency, I've found, is to push the issue even when it's a dead-end street, on a fruitless plain, underneath a rainless cloud, on a starless night. I should probably find a way to stop this.

Because there's something truly romantic about a tragic, insecure girl. She needs to be "saved," right?! They need to be saved from the dark side of the world and all it's pointed barbs and thievery. Stealing and coaxing them into the dimly-lit back rooms and alleyways of the world. Assholes. They use tempting lures like fame and fortune to get the attention of those who need attention. Crave attention. Need it like oxygen in the lungs. It's amazing. And I need them in the same manner. Or at least I've partly convinced myself of that. Because I am the antithesis. I am the flashlight in the alley, waving my hand, "come this way...we'll get you into the light." I am the antiseptic that pours over the toxic scrape of the viper's fangs. I am the gigantic fucking hug in the middle of the thunderstorm like that uber-gay jewelry commercial. I am the roof over the head. I am the defibrillator in the middle of cardiac arrest. I am the rain in the middle of the desert. Or at least I've partly convinced myself of that.

Oh, of course I can psycho-analyze myself all the way through to the other side of myself. I know what would be said about it. I'm just trying to embrace it. The most important part though, is to keep what you really know about yourself inside. There's always someone willing to take, take, take. There's always someone there to call you crazy. So you're picky about what you show. Because in the end, it's yours. I'll have an outburst of sentimentality, and then withdraw in horror when I realize what I've done. I think people confuse it for being "emotional" or even "melancholy," but I don't think that's entirely accurate either. Everybody has those elements on some level or another. I think maybe it's more of an observational thing...and some are more in tune to it than others. I think it's something akin to how animals can pick up certain scents that we can't. Some of us are just programmed with more sets of sensitivity to certain stimuli than others.

When he's around, he always wins. That's why I'm picking a fight. When he's around, I'm invisible. It's no mystery.

Wankers

Posting political quotes on your Facebook account that you copy and paste off of Google, while at work, does not make you socially-conscious. I don't care how many of your retard friends reinforce your "wisdom" with their comments. Even if they do get into the double-digits. It's about as cool as being the best tracer in third grade.

Everyone That Mattered Went To Bed

And so it is. South By Southwest is LITERALLY efforting (in countless ways) to end me. There's only 15 ways to end a day. I chose one and did it. Yet I still stand, bloody, bruised, dizzy, and supremely happy!!

Walt Whitman, You Are a Friend of Mine

Bad Grammar Kills

It kills deader than dead. Errant and reckless, unchecked and negligent, indolent and hasty...it wrecks sentences. Complete sentences. These are not of my LOT! Fundamental exchanges ruined by shoddy workmanship, like a rusty knife might distribute. It's hard to prove a point with sloppy indignation.

I goddamn drank a whiskey, in genuine and sincere homage, inside the exact bar where Dylan Thomas drank his liver green and died shortly thereafter, because of my superlative reverance for the English language in it's correct and competent form!!!!!



I...........AM A FAN OF PROPER GRAMMAR.




**And apparently tequila, tonight.

One Was Texas Medicine, The Other Was Just Railroad Gin

I've been exhibiting some rather comfortingly incidental behavior as of late. I've made myself a friend of risk. Like a real man should. I've abandoned certain lines of thought in an effort to find grace. I was told I was a "catch" tonight, and simultaneously told why I haven't been "caught." The people who have it all figured out are those I remain leery of. Speculation makes me laugh in the most secretive of ways. Everybody has an agenda.

Black and White and Read All Over

This isn't a subject I've ever really given credence to on this...thing, but since this is the first real incarnation of any press we've received, I think I'll concede and at least give it notice.

THE DAILY TEXAN

By Mary Lingwall
Daily Texan Staff
Published: Thursday, February 11, 2010
Updated: Thursday, February 11, 2010

Usually, it takes a few years for a local band to get notoriety in Austin. However, only about seven months after its first jam session and a few weeks away from recording its debut EP, Guns of Navarone is quickly gaining an enthusiastic, eclectic fan base.

When Guns of Navarone played at The Parlor on North Loop Boulevard a few Fridays ago, I was struck by the diversity of fans at the show. Amid the plaid-clad regulars of the Austin music scene, I also ran into two college students in cowboy boots and quite a few fresh-faced college-aged women.

When Guns of Navarone started playing, I realized why the band’s fan base not only packed The Parlor to capacity, but also drew from diverse music subcultures. By mixing alternative-country aesthetics with detailed and upbeat guitar riffs, and bass lines of a Southern rock flavor with the songwriting and vocal stylings of Americana and folk traditions, Guns of Navarone’s sound fills a unique — and largely vacant — musical niche in Austin.

Guns of Navarone’s sound is the natural product of a collaborative process between Seth Grueneberg on lead guitar, Cory R3inisch on vocals and guitar, Richard Knox on drums and Dustin Meyer on bass guitar. Longtime friends and former roommates, R3inisch and Knox have played music together since college.

“We did mostly covers,” R3inisch said before starting to laugh. “Well, that was a lie, it was all covers. [And] we have been talking ever since we graduated that this was something we wanted to continue and do our own original stuff.”

Oddly enough, R3inisch’s aesthetic — born out of a lifelong attraction to bands like Wilco, Whiskeytown and Uncle Tupelo — caught the attention of Grueneberg, local musician and former guitarist for local punk outfit Consider the Source. After meeting at a happy hour, R3inisch and Grueneberg began talks about putting a band together.

“Seth kind of lit [the] fire under my ass,” said R3inisch. “I thought he was just bullshitting me, honestly. Until he showed up at my house.”

Even though Grueneberg’s musical background is more in tune with more roguish styles of rock, he has actually become the spearhead of the band’s folksier edge. Guns of Navarone’s occasional mandolin-playing comes straight from Grueneberg’s affinity for the instrument.

“Seth is just such a naturally good musician that he picked [my mandolin] up and started writing these amazing parts with it,” R3inisch said. “When we bring a song in and we feel like it needs something added, we just do whatever feels natural.”

On their way into the studio to cut their first EP later this month, the bandmates are humbly aware of their freshness in such a music-saturated scene.

“Seth has been there with Consider the Source [for all those years],” R3inisch said. “And he has seen bands go up and have their falling. [We know that we] are still so young and new and in the infancy stages.”

But veteran knowledge and green ambitions haven’t given Guns of Navarone a sense of entitlement.

“I just want to play something [like] this,” Grueneberg said matter-of-factly.

“And we’ve got a great guy in our corner with James [Taylor, of Giant Steps Productions],” R3inisch said. “He’s been helping us with shows. And without him, I think that this would have been a much more strenuous process.”

With a full set of songs under its belt, the band is already preparing for a full-length recording this summer. But big plans and growing attention hasn’t changed what these guys really are — a group of friends down for just about anything, from talking about music to offering dating advice.

“You’ll wake up someday, and it will all make sense,” R3inisch said.

But, for some reason, I think his advice is more apt for his story than mine. After toying with his guitar almost his entire life, I think R3inisch is finally onto something.






Rebecca Miller/The Daily Texan

(link to article)

Furiously Active Nucleus

It seems I'm at the center again. The place where the dam broke and became the catalyst for so much introspection and hyper-sensitive decision about how I was going to live out my days and the person I was to become. I've marked that day on my calendar, in blood no less, and use it as a reference point to determine the timeline of my life. Through miles and miles of memory and effort and regret...it was a big bang. One that certainly forced me to become the person I am today, for better or worse. Mostly better. I owe that time in my life a "thank you" note, and at the same time I owe it a shot to the face with fists clenched. I guess I owe it what's fair. To be acknowledged seems fair. To write some dizzying manifesto might do it justice, but I think everything I've touched since has left fingerprints all over the place.

All footnotes and diversions have been washed in bleach and driven away. I just need a handful of evenings to figure out an infinite equation that few have ever solved, much less even attempted. I've cleared all the lanes. I've paid all my debts. I've cleansed the system. Flushed the pipes. I've armed myself, and wiped off the windshield. It's time to process and make some sense of my staggering sentimentality...to see if it's ever justified...because if I can't reconcile it now, I'll never be able to make a case for it in the coming days. More importantly, it's time to project what it means to me moving forward. Two steaming locomotives marching towards collision. It's high-noon and here we are, staring each other in the face again.

Act Nice and Gentle...

...with me. That's all I ask.

I End Up Buying Flowers

For every transgression. As it should be. Nobody should be afraid of nothin'. We're all taken care of in one way or another. As it is, at the end of the day, I'm appeased by a life I'm reverentially grateful for. Quiet. Loud. Quite loud...are the voices in my head. "Quite possibly" couldn't be more possible than any possibility should ever allow. The hours keep tabs as we stumble along. Blissful and naive. As it should be...within reason.

Just nod your head in agreement. We all know our limits.

Happy Birthday Will. It will never cease being a diabolical scheme with you and I. I love you.

Oh The Sweetest Winds, They Blow Across the South

I enjoy the perfect absence of sound, when silence is all there is to be heard, and I'm privy to free-formed movement and thought. No ranting or wild speculation about how things are or how they should be. In fact, I need it. I need it to function and process. How we weather upheaval is something that intrigues and challenges me...in the best of ways. The ever-present ebb and flow of consequence and change moves in us and opens the door for reflection. I feel somewhat compelled to mention that. It's in the perfect absence of static that rationale comes into the fold.

An older family member that I greatly respected passed on and moved into greener pastures today. In the midst of the crowd, he kept, with perfect sweetness, the independence of solitude...in that, his soul wasn't swayed by the incidental or unforeseen. He held his core and he held it tightly no matter what life sent his way. I have the highest respect for that. An unwavering loyalty to yourself, and your ideals, is something I strive to emulate, no matter the consequence. Everything he did was with zeal and empathy. Even if it was something as simple as reading a book, or engaging in menial conversation. That's respectful. This was a man who worked as an engineer in the Navy and helped build the runways for the Enola Gay in the Philippines. He married the love of his life, endured after her passing, raised a wonderful family, and extended his tranquil soul to all those he encountered. He was a sweet man, and he lived a life of virtue and cordiality, employing an unrelenting humor and serenity. He was from the dying breed, and while his part in this story is over, there's a security I feel from having known him. It's a blessing to live a full life. Enriched with every sense of humanity one can encounter. It's a blessing we can all hope for before our own card is pulled. Life is happening all around us. No matter where we wander.

He was one of the good ones. I raise my glass.

Unfailing Loyalist

Everyone within earshot is wondering who's directing this here symphony. Driving down habitual impulses can be a heavy charge. I feel change, and I feel like I should change or be left in the silence. A moment before, where you could see everything luminous and clear has suddenly become a disjointed haze. Something akin to wiping the fog off a window, but the fog won't wipe off. It's on the other side of the glass, it seems. There's some type of metaphorical gun pointing it's shaky crosshairs at my forehead right now and I don't know where it's coming from. The aim is quite unsound. I don't know where to hide or even where to shoot back, or if I should do either. They don't hand out medals for bad behavior. In any case, most courageous acts occur where no one else sees or bears witness, and even the decisive act that leads to it is done somewhere in silence.

I always leave a light on in that window. I don't know why.

I hate to ask you this, but could you sit right there while I settle an old score?