Once upon a time, we had a common friend in silence, a primordial fire, shelter, some beans and hopefully a warm body to lay beside. Silence was a constant companion and it was through it that we were able to go out among our own and share a common truth and existence. This was perfectly accepted and an intrinsic part of the deal.

Silence, isn’t a popular topic in our society; especially when referring to the contemplative, soul searching, middle of the night, tugging at your gut type of silence. The kind that hits when no one is around, when all the emails and texts have been attended to, television is mind-numbing, you’re too sober to drunk dial and there you are, alone….completely. Whether it’s from a breakup, death or just a compilation of too much time spent between your own ears, no amount of distraction can quiet it.

Recently, I was in New York City, it was around 2 am and the streets were typically full, music and din spilling out along with the scents that accompany a giant city. (cigarettes, b.o. booze and bacon)

The lights were bright enough to summon a 747 from fifty miles away and there it was, that gut churning silence that summons jaw clenching emotion. I found myself mortified, praying no one noticed I’d actually got a little teary-eyed and thankfully, it was New York, so they didn’t.

This tsunami of emotion and silence isn’t unusual or uncommon, in-fact, I believe it’s normal. Whenever a major life experience occurs, the only way to deal with it is through time and what seems to be insufferable silence.

In retrospect, I realize that whenever a major shift like this happens, something really honest and amazing is making it’s way to the forefront of our consciousness….something that’s been brewing and waiting to be acknowledged.

For me, music has always been one of those instigators, but music that demands rigorous honesty and circumspection. Call it the muse, destiny or purpose, but regardless, it always gets my attention.

It seems that the Universe has a way of correcting itself and intervening when we manage to quantify or force our own will with destiny herself. Of course, initially, our motives always seem to be in check and we justify whatever it is that’s driving us and then the by-product ultimately ends up being filled with confusion.

Unfavorable events, circumstance and consequences occur as a result and we’re left wondering how on earth we got ourselves into such situations.

…Enter that infernal SILENCE

If you look at the archetypes throughout history, Job, Parcifal, King Arthur, Thor….hell, even Robert Downey Jr; all have risen to the top of their life/game with intensity and zeal, but also accompanying them was reckless abandon. Broken hearts, homes, societies, health, you name it, they got a belly full.

Then, somehow they seem to rise back up, renewed and refreshed, completely restored and somehow, better than before with a life and purpose exponentially increased along with HUMILITY, DIGNITY, AND GRATITUDE.

How on earth did they find the resolve to carry on, accept life and consequence with such distilled accuracy?

I’ll tell you how…

….SILENCE

I had a mentor that used to preface our conversations with, “Matt, you got your ears on?”

And that’s when I was willing to listen; long after he’d blasted me with some kernel of truth and only when I was engulfed by my own heart wrenching silence did I hear, somehow allowing a new and unfeigned reality to evolve in my life or work. Every time I did, it seemed to take all weight and worry away.

I write about topics that seem to pick at the scabs and scars of society, but if you listen, somewhere in there is redemption and hope….ALWAYS.

Perhaps I take comfort in exploring these topics due to my own experiences, but it’s because somewhere deep-down, we ALL pull for the underdog. The one who overcame and created an existence that legends and love stories are made of. The ones that we say, “If they can, maybe I can too”

The fallen king, the junkie star that cleans up and makes the best films of their lives, the materialistic whore who fell and became a beloved philanthropist and of course, the broken heart that bounds back from lost love and finds contentment and an even bigger, more true love, and inspires us to do the same.

There seems to be an unrealistic drive that is systemic in society. A lifestyle expectation, one driven by media, the wealthy and near-do wells who propagate and testify to the latest trends that are deemed worthy.You know the type I’m talking about…the chisel chinned mogul, mountain climbing, marathon winning kind, full of charm and charisma, all while managing a fortune 500 company via his cell phone.The 40k per year millionaire and the trustafarian who claim to be on ‘the enlightened path’ yet snarl at those who truly struggle. Or the sedentary suburban who cashes in everything to go find herself through a combination of consumerism and fast-food metaphysics.

We sit back and go, “me, me, me, my happiness depends on parroting these lives and then I will have arrived and be fully satisfied and fully realized”

…..we’ve become spectators in a Roman blood sport of cultural bastardization, artistic apocalypse and ultimately,personal paralysis with no true sense of civic or familial responsibility.

Many years ago, I was watching t.v. at 7 am (don’t know why I remember this) and saw a singer being interviewed on NBC. I hated my life at the time and knew that my potential was constantly being compromised by a mind-numbing lifestyle of washing cars, dropping in-and out of college, booze and homemade philosophy… all this being fueled from the twinkling lights of media, religion and madness. I was thinking, “life is happening everywhere but here”

What I didn’t realize, was that it WAS happening, exactly as it was supposed to be happening.I chucked the tv, made a decision to build a life of my own, one filled with people who actually participated in each others lives outside of a (then) cathode ray tube and lived deliberately and purposefully.

Something almost immediately occurred and suddenly I didn’t give a shit about how so-and-so had just found God and love through their latest acquisition or critical acclaim. That vodka ad or New Years celebration happening across the country had just lost it’s appeal.

Then,

Silence….

Dammit, there it was and though my moment of clarity had been real, I had to face-the-fact that I had to take action and do the inevitable leap of faith in order to actually realize this new life. I did it and it worked, has worked and will continue….. music happened, events happened, real life happened and it’s still happening now.It constantly seems to challenge my motives and kick my ass…relentlessly asking if what I’m doing is, good, true, if it hurts no one and if it resonates, it allows me to sleep at night. (considering I’m an insomniac already)

I’ve left a well-worn rut along this path and had a gazillion amends to make, but along the way, this silence seems to have given me more than I could have ever imagined and there are real, honest-to God red blooded hearts that I am fortunate enough to share it with.

Today, once again, that same silence is with me. I try to stay with it and  trust and know that in the midst of sub-woofers, fast food enlightenment, IRA’s, and social standouts, that life is unfolding, at full volume and will continue to get louder until I get my ears on and hopefully hear, and when I hear, it’ll be you and me, hanging out around a primordial fire sharing stories beneath stars that were here aeons before us and will be long after….all while the light of tv’s, and computer monitors flicker and sputter down the street.

It’ll be happening…not somewhere else, but here, now and the crickets will be the best thing we’ve ever heard.

Peace, Love and Kudzu

Enjoy:

Just had the best night. I got to sing with Jim Lauderdale, Tim O’Brien and Bare Jr.
What an honor and reminder that for every gig that seems like you’re paying yet another due…it’s one more gig that will lead to a night or two more like this. I’m thankful for my tenure in Nashville, I’ve been blessed to work with the best in the biz, cry, laugh, make music and lifelong friends here.
In a world of McMusic…nights like these give me new hopes

Drop by his site at http://unrepentantcowboy.com/

Also visit http:// Lonestarmusic.com

Matt King
I first heard Matt King on the radio, singing American Dream. I looked for and found the song on an album called Rube and bought it. I found much more than one good single on Rube. Intrigued by what I’d heard, I attended a live show and left quite impressed. I exchanged a couple of emails with Matt and then met him in person. Shook his hand. Looked into a real set of unwavering eyes. Met an honest to God southern man.
I now call that man brother. Not many qualify for that distinction; almost none from the sordid world of singers and performers where authenticity is the exception to the rule. Being my brother ain’t entirely a good thing. I share quite an array of faults and flaws with Matt, including but not limited to: anger management issues, sexual related struggles, a hero complex, addictive tendencies, a touch of arrogance that comes with first-born son status and a propensity for violence that goes back quite a few generations and can boil to the surface with the slightest of provocations. We are products of rural southern culture and all that entails. You just can’t wash this shit off with soap and water.
What gives Matt a chance and sets him apart from the rest is that he fights to overcome these natural tendencies and to do right by others, recognizing the faults of his people and his culture, while at the same time loving the land, those same people, and the good, honest, hardworking traditions the South engenders in its offspring. A handshake and a man’s word are worth more than a written contract in his world, and people don’t steal a neighbor’s stuff. All maintain a healthy distrust of government and authority figures. Passersby pick up stranded motorists, share with poor neighbors and firemen are non-paid volunteers. Yet some beat their wives and others may have family trees that don’t fork. And once in a while a wife kills her abusive husband or someone has an “accident” but we don’t talk about such things in public and no one goes to jail over the matter. We take care of our own. Matt accurately depicts his world and records the struggles he has with it, not only his own but also those of an interesting array of friends and acquaintances he’s encountered over the years.
Matt hails from the mountain ranges of the Carolinas, a place where moonshiners and purveyors of illegal drugs abound yet he no longer drinks alcohol. Not a drop. He doesn’t do dope either, but I’m guessing he did more than his share while he was a doin’. While a few less-than-noble preachers and maybe even a snake oil salesman or two appear in his pedigree, Matt has found and studied unconventional ways of practicing spirituality, not for public consumption or approval, and applies the tools he’s found to his own life and his own way of doing things. I’d say his views on religion probably put him at odds with some of his own, but it’s not something he wears on his sleeve, so he has managed to survive. While racial and gender related prejudices are the norm among the white male community of the South, Matt treats people of differing backgrounds with a measure of respect. Matt has had his share of failed relationships, but he is married for the second time and making an honest go of it. He loves and respects his wife, a woman some would call a peace-lovin’ Austin, Texas-raised hippie chic. A hippie chic with a steady job, thanks be to the good Lord almighty.
Some say all men are created equal. Not I. Some are born with more. Whether that more becomes good or bad is not a given, but the fact remains that some have greater potential to do good or harm than the norm, and Matt is one of these. Call it a gift. Call it a curse. I call it undeniable. There’s a thin line between a war hero and a bank robber and most don’t have what it takes to do either. But some do.
You’d think a man with the courage to stand in front of a crowd and sing for a living would be an outgoing person. In Matt’s case, you’d be wrong. Getting information about his past or his family is akin to pulling teeth. To this day, he refuses to tell me how old he is. He has almost a southern clan-like distrust of those asking questions, especially anyone outside his inner circle. Yet, at the same time, he’s quite interested in learning about the lives of others. Music and song, then, become Matt’s way of sharing experiences and teaching lessons learned from life, the medium in which he opens up to the rest of the world.
Matt has a rich, wonderful voice, well suited for acoustical songs of the traditional country genre. He spent quite a few years in Nashville trying to become a country singing star and I’m damned if I know why it didn’t happen. Maybe he was singing to the wrong state. Or the timing wasn’t right. Or he refused to pay homage to the right swinging dick. The music industry is a fickle bitch and I don’t always understand her ways.
Allow me to lift the veil. Matt is one of the best acts to come my way in the past couple of years. He’s handsome, smart, tough; a well-read, square-shooting, genuine country boy/mountain man. He writes intelligent ass-kicking songs and marries them to an interesting array of modern and traditional sounds. He can do it live and he can do it in the studio. He can do it with an acoustic guitar, or a hard driving electrified band.
While the new has worn off of Rube with me, it still gets regular play in my house and never fails to deliver. Rube was one of three CDs I picked for album of the year last year. Matt’s currently re-releasing Rube, which for most will be the first time around. Believe me when I tell you, Rube belongs in your collection.
As I write these words, I’m listening to a new release called Raw, a collection of older acoustical songs from Matt’s past that are incredibly good, of similar vein to American Dream. This also is a must have CD for country music aficionados. If you like American Dream, you’ll like these songs.
And if the EP Matt recently produced with his new Texas-based band, The Cutters, is any indication of what the future holds in store, there’s more to come. All five offerings are great; the only reservation I have is that the songs are on an EP and should be part of a full-length CD. Hear that Matt?
Get out and catch Matt’s live show next time it comes around. Buy his CDs. When you like what you hear, and you’re going to like what you hear, spread the word.
Matt King has arrived.

…Is what my friend Brian calls it. I don’t think it needs much more explanation. I’m sitting at 20-plus thousand feet with the power of a sixties-era super computer on my lap warming my nuts to an uncomfortable temperature. (I suppose it doubles as a birth control device)
My telephone is sitting beside me in ‘airplane mode’ but as soon as we land, I’ll switch it back on and check the mail inbox to see if anything needs immediate attention.

-I like to think of myself as somewhat well-read and technologically aware-

In the meantime, back on the ground, Brian has an application on his phone to check and see our current altitude, speed and eta and can switch over to another application to try and avoid traffic jams so we can hurry over and get to the radio station in time to pre-record an interview which will be digitally edited to sound as if we’re actually in the station at the time of the interview when actually, I’ll probably be grabbing the couple of hours of free time to update Facebook, Twitter and the other social sites, play a game of Mario Carts online against people around the world and then virtually grab a few hours of sleep before it all starts again tomorrow.

I’ll wake up, check the status of my manager’s Facebook page instead of calling because I can get a feel for her availability by checking her online status.
There won’t be any need to call the band to see if there’s anything they need before the gig because I know someone will text me if there is.
If the phone rings and I’m in the middle of checking any of my virtual lines in the water and I don’t recognize the number, it’ll go to voicemail where I can later retrieve it and then put it on an automatic call-back application for later.

And then……….I realize, I’ve made it through a day without actually talking to anyone

Damn, I’m lonely

So, as I’m sitting here thinking about being a little hungry for real human interaction I notice an extra bag of peanuts in the middle seat so I asked my neighbor if she’d like to eat them. She said “No, but I’ll take them because I owe them to my co-worker for helping me out yesterday”
….um, okay, “whatever” I’m thinking and then she proceeds to tell me she’d been in North Carolina for Father’s day and then I tell her I’m from North Carolina and then she tells me she lives in Texas and I say I live in Texas sometimes and she says she’s into Douglas Adams and we laugh about officious bureaucrats and, and…..

Well, I find out she’s an aerospace engineer for Johnson Space center where at that point I slam the laptop cover shut and dig into a conversation eager to share with her my daft awareness of the heavens and technography.
Ironically, she tells me about programming and communication with the shuttle and space station and how it’s all pc based, originally Unix until they decided to switch over to Linux a few years back.
I’m appalled to think that my other lifelong ambition is being controlled by the pc community and how technologically behind they must be.

She then proceeded to tell me that the space station was going to get a Pentium one this year due to years of testing that they require for approval. (refer to hitchiker’s guide)
Really? A PENTIUM FARIGGIN’ ONE????

Feeling humbled at my superficial need for all this hipster technography and realizing that we’ve gone to the moon, sent countless satellites into orbit, and managed to stay in touch with each other with land lines and old-fashioned knocks on a neighbor’s door..I thanked her for her insight.
I was feeling pretty good about my ability as a musician to actually hold a conversation about math and physics when I noticed she was looking at me with a pained expression…

I realized that I had something peeking out of my left nostril

My Uncle John is an amazing goldsmith, his father was a mosaic tile setter….you get the idea, lots of tradesmen who worked to become the best that they could at there craft.
Oh, and they all rose out of some of the most brutal family history I’ve ever heard about!

..None of them became stinking rich and they all had to fight to stay ahead of local politics in business.

That being said, it was never my intention to become a white-collar businessman. In-fact, I had it in my mind that the most honorable career was one of being an apprentice of sorts and then eventually getting to wear the proverbial apron of being a master of a craft like the other men in my family.

Fast forward many years and I quickly learned that my skills as a guitarist somehow paled in comparison to those who graced the cover of the music magazines that I devoured weekly.
Too stubborn to give up and instilled with the need to somehow prove myself legit in our little hometown, I put together a rock band and we convinced the locals that we had ‘made it’……we even managed to get a write-up in the local paper about getting the big break.
-Funny, our big break was renting out the National Guard Armory, selling tickets for five bucks and laminating our own backstage passes in hopes that the perception would be that of rock stars.
Gawd, I wish I could have been a fly on the wall, I can only imagine how garish we looked and sounded.

-My how time and reality flies

As I type this, I just got home after having played the 9th hole of a golf course for a cool radio station but had to stop early after my 1938 Gibson took a light kiss from a stray golf ball…..so much for superstardom.
That being said, I also recently got to play for a group of people who paid to see the band because I get to work with folks who believe in the same old-school notion that you work at it, get good at it, and somehow people will pay to enjoy listening to it.

I guess what I’m attempting to say here, is that one minute you’re ‘living the dream’ and the next, you’re living the reality of said profession.
Either way, it all adds up and it’s all good when it’s real.

Austin Cunningham has a song called “I don’t look good on paper” and I think it’s an excellent summary for a lot of us.
I have a resume’ as long as Princess Di’s wedding gown but it doesn’t amount to much when it comes to the day-to day of putting butts in seats.
Regardless of a musician’s resume’ the perception can be ruthless. Having seen and lived on both sides as a ‘professional’ I’m learning that life really is like high school. Sometimes, even if your kid is the slowest, least attractive and least talented, you root for that kid because it’s YOURS.
Unfortunately, once that kid goes outside of the comforts of the home womb, it gets ugly and real quickly…..I should know, I lived it.
Once I left, I had a rude awakening…..no one hurried to give me the ‘attaboys’ I had grown accustomed to and I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how on earth they could be overlooking such a grand talent as myself. (insert canned laughter)

At that point, I decided that it was either surround myself with people who were legitimately experienced, accomplished and successful or to run, tail-tucked back home so my friends could stroke my fragile little ego.
I’m so glad that I stayed after it because the experience and lessons are still coming, the accolades few and hard-earned, but I feel prepared (regardless of the situation) when given the opportunity to do this music thing….even when it’s playing on a golf course and taking it in the guitar by a stray ball.

A few people who made the most with what they had come to mind right now:

Larry Sparks
Abe Lincoln
Einstein
Ralph Stanley
Ghandi

I hope I can be that honest someday

…and good

-Here’s to the guppies-

I grew up listening to bluegrass and gospel music, am old enough to remember when Southern Rock was still a big deal and muddled my way through the 80′s scene. I didn’t discover The Beatles until I flunked out of college and am still the latest bloomer I know musically.

I survived breaking into the music business (whatever that means) and had some great times in the process. Traveled from coast to coast, had billboards, videos, a tour bus for four years, stole robes from the Ritz, played The Greek, Irving Plaza, The Opry and more “big” venues than I can recall and yet still, you’ve probably never heard of me.
(You might go and find some hilarious old photos, some cd reviews, debates on why I sang “too country for country” music and then switched over to what I’m doing now, or you might have already stopped reading by now.)
Regardless, here I sit, in my Champion briefs, a cup of espresso and some Copenhagen, with a Husky and my favorite little mutt typing away trying to understand how I’ve managed to be able to eek out a living doing music for all these years.

Starting out as a staff writer and demo singer for publishers, I learned how to be a bit of a chameleon when it comes to writing songs for ‘the market”
However, after about 400 musical abortions, I got pretty bored with throwing darts at a moving target, got unemployed, divorced and sober and decided to smoke cigarettes and read for a few years…so I did.
After absorbing and uncovering my own family history and having been dismissed as a “never was” by certain parts of Music Row, I decided to just write. Write, sing, play and give a hail Mary to the world with it.

-Strange, something happened……

I never stopped singing the way that came naturally, whiny, nasally and infected with the mountains, however, considering that steel guitars and fiddles were now being recorded over 80′s style songs and deemed “country” I decided to whip out greasy guitars, bang on pots and pans and sing through distortion pedals over top of the most rural and unfeigned lyrics that I could. To me that would be country, it would speak to whomever it was destined to and the rest could carry on believing and dictating how and why music should be presented.

Somehow, I was able to take a 1938 Gibson out and take the new songs out and begin opening for Robert Earl Keen.
In the midst of the ball caps and snot-slinging rowdy beer fest, people said they liked what I was saying, that I should stay after it…I was stunned!
Years crept by, tires wore out, trucks and dogs died, but I ended up continuing, knowing full well that being “the opener” for everyone from Robert, Del McCoury, Junior Brown, to John Hiatt or Hootie and the Blowfish..is soon forgotten and no one really remembers the opener. BUT, that’s the gig, that was how I survived and although nobody wants to know who you’ve opened for or where you’ve played, it still seems relevant when you’re the one living that story.

So, here I am, with this rock record called “Rube” that has all the trappings of rural life trying to keep the margins of society glued together, lacking songs that make people want to screw but will likely cause a fist fight or religious debate and I wouldn’t change a thing.

…It’s just music.

I shouldn’t read all the press and blogs that are out there, but I AM a music fan and the late night rabbit hole catches me more than I’d like to admit. I’m fascinated by the opinions and passion of those who (like myself) want to find out why and how the people that make the music arrived at their current position.

Here’s what I’ve observed:

1. Grown ups are like kids with money, they’re honest when it comes to music, opinionated and entitled to think that they’re always right and that they’re safe drivers.

2. Never underestimate the power of mediocrity

3. People don’t wake up thinking about you unless you pissed them off and they’re plotting revenge.

4. Marketing, media, hype, record labels and money do not create careers, they are money herders and that’s their job, if you want to survive musically, it takes thick skin, determination and the ability to ignore those who try and tell you why what you’re doing will never work.

5. Life is beautiful, music is good and living half-assed with compromise only serves as a reminder that somewhere, someone else is getting to do what they love.

6. I still haven’t picked a “genre”

7. One man’s trash is another man’s best intentions

A little montage of our recent adventures and a nomination.