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Taken New Year’s Eve on Busy Street, just before meeting the man in the shiny jacket.

We chased our pleasures here
Dug our treasures there
But can you still recall
The time we cried
Break on through to the other side
Break on through to the other side

– Jim Morrison, Break On Through

He approached me through the drizzling rain, his jacket a twinkling shine large silver, green and red sequins. I think he was wearing antlers, or maybe they were alien antennae. It was dark. I was high on painkillers and THC oil and probably shouldn’t have been out in public, for I was not feeling at all fit for human consumption. He, in a gentle voice, said to me “Hi, good evening. We’re hosting a free event tonight. We have musicians set up and they’ll start to play in a few minutes. You’re welcome to join us.”

I looked through the open door into the event. Cartoons were playing on a large screen on one wall. The lighting was low and attractive. I felt a pull to go in. “Will you be here for the countdown?” I asked.

“Yes, we’ll be here until 1am.” he said.

I thanked him and kept on. This was on Busy Street, a short, charming stretch of road that runs behind the Value Village in Leslieville. It reminds me more of something out the the Bowery in 1970s New York City than something you’d see in modern day Toronto. While I walked home, I opened a discussion in my head, lobbing the pros and cons of going or not going. I felt like it was somewhere I should be, to ring in the fucking new year and all that.

“The fucking new year?” I can hear you saying to yourself. Where’s he going with this? Is this going to be a pile of major bitterness?” Well, yes, and no.

In the past, I’ve been the first one to hit the socials and ring in the annual turnover with all the righteous platitudes. This year was different, for two main reasons: the first is that I’m more and more sick of social media all the time. The clickbait, the phony, staged bullshit and, most of all, the desperation. We artists posting like crazy, our creations there for a nanosecond, then evaporated into the mists of digital nevermore. I get why we need to do this and admire those of us with the wherewithal to continue to do it without choking on the puke in our mouths.There are so many breathtaking bits of artistic heroism out there, but it’s so disappointingly momentary. And the sheer volume of it. I’m not good with too much of anything. I’d prefer less and social media is the not the landscape where less is the order of the day. It might help us all if I decided to shit or get off the pot. To go all in with it, especially with a new record to promote, or to delete all my accounts and go dark. The second reason is the deep depression that I’ve found myself in, and fighting against. It’s been here very intensely for the last year, ramping up towards year’s end, as my chronic pain issues have increased and become more debilitating. I’ve become, this season, acutely aware that the pain from my hip surgery and trashed nervous system may be things that I may have to live with for the rest of my life. Aware that management, rather than a curative solution, may be the new reality. It would require an acceptance and a process of grieving that I’ve been struggling with accepting for weeks. I’ve tried everything, and spent thousands in different therapies, working on a solution, all to no avail.

That said, I can’t help but wonder if my pain would lessen if I were spending my days doing what I love doing, instead of spending hours a day working at something that I’m not naturally inclined to excel at.

Yesterday I found myself cringing at the litany of posts on facebook and IG, with all the things everyone accomplished in 2024. Again, I’d usually be the first to champion my deeds. I don’t want to disparage anyone who worked their magic to make shit happen. This stuff is hard. I felt the way I did due to the stark reflection of my own feelings of failure and not meeting the sky high mark of my perfectionist standards staring back at me. I feel like I barely survived the year. My biggest accomplishments were taking Ava, my daughter, to New York City for our summer holiday, and, against the odds, finishing Stereophile (the record and the book). The latter took two and half years to complete. There were days and weeks where I was too damaged to make any progress. There were times where I worked longer sessions, in the timeless flow of creativity, only to suffer the physical effects of that, having to then take weeks off to heal. I had best laid plans to gig like hell last year, only to wake one night in February, from my second show of the year (which was great), with my body screaming at me to stand down. I listened, and stopped all work on the live shows, knowing that I couldn’t finish the record and gig concurrently, along with being a present Dad and solo householder with a day gig.

I didn’t go back to that warm and welcome room last night. I got home and barred the door, wept buckets for my broken body and battered mind, for the state of the world, and for what feels like the most disconnected and isolated I’ve ever been from everything. The attraction to that open door and the warmth within was the connection I’m missing and yearning for. Playing live music does this for me. It’s my primary source of feeling connected. It’s not just playing the music. It’s meeting people. It’s the hangs with friends old and new. It’s the natural high after the gig, that carries over into the days after. At that gig in February, which was through So Far Sounds Toronto, and in the basement of a local chap’s house, there was a queue for the bathroom after the show. One high point of the night was chatting with a girl in line. She was from Brazil and a few years new to Toronto. We didn’t get into anything deep. We connected. Plain and simple. Or not plain. Divine is a better word for it. The web of our humanity grows vaster and stronger with each of these interactions. We come away from them more beautiful for the experience.

I passed out last night listening to a live take of Roadhouse Blues. I woke this morning and listened to Break On Through. That lead to finding a clip from the Classic Albums series, where the people involved in classic records talk about what went into creating them. Often, if the engineers and musicians are still alive, they’re the ones involved. In the case of Break On Through, the engineer felt like Morrison had a Sinatra vibe, in that his vocals went from a crooner-type delivery to a soaring, visceral growl. When he showed Jim the vocal mic he’d be using, the singer was chuffed and said it was the same mic that Sinatra used. This is the stuff. I love it. Music nerdery at it’s best.

As I sit here at the local and write this, I’m feeling good. I’m writing and riffing on all the good feelings of creativity and connection. A dear friend sits beside me. People pass by, many bleary-eyed from last night’s revelry. We see other friends passing by. We meet new ones. It feels good to be here and feeling fine. Who knows what this year holds, what divine paths will cross and what wonders may come. Finishing the record and book are a massive victory. I hope to make a success of Stereophile. Mostly, I hope to connect with others via live music and real time social connection. Here’s to having the physical ability to do so. Here’s to the undeniable worth of us connecting through music. Here’s to seeing you out there sometime soon.

As always, thanks for reading. And Happy Fucking New Year 😉

K. xo

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“There’s one thing you can’t lose and it’s that feel
You can pawn your watch and chain but not that feel
It always comes and finds you, it will always hear you cry
I cross my wooden leg and I swear on my glass eye
It will never leave you high and dry”

– Tom Waits, That Feel

It’s been a minute. I usually attempt to pen these bits every other Saturday, when my daughter, Ava, is at her Mum’s. I sit down at the local, fresh cup of mud in hand, and try and make some sense of certain thoughts and feelings that have been rambling through my mind.

This week has been a very intense go. My day gig responsibilities are at peak requirement, to the point where I’m waking up at night going over the task list. This is never a good sign of work/life balance. The music is going well, though that’s generally an all consuming state. I’m okay with that, but having one foot in it and the other in the land of Responsible Adulting is a tricky dance. If you’ve read any of my other blogs, you’ll know that this is a recurring theme. Apart from all this, there’s the darkness of winter coming on. And, of course, there’s that thing that happened this week down south that I’m trying desperately hard to keep ahead of. Ahead in the sense of not falling prey to the vitriol, hatred and division that’s coming in from all sides.

There’s that sense of We and Them that never sits well with me, where we feel compelled to pick sides and point fingers at the “other”. I struggle with this myself: On one hand I’m down with following the Yogic/Buddhist approach of our interconnectedness, where we recognize that there’s a President Elect lurking somewhere in all of us, and we do what we can to be kind and open to all beings. Christ was on to something when he said “Forgive them Lord, they know not what they do.” We all have blind spots, where we are out of personal and universal alignment. On the other hand, I sometimes feel like all manner of retaliation, from slaps to armed revolution are appropriate steps to deal with those I share a foundational disagreement with. The fatalist in me feels that a global cataclysm, like the space rock that wiped out the dinos, is the only thing that will save us from ourselves.

The darkness that turning the clocks back ushers in each fall this year feels metaphoric for the spiritual darkness that’s fallen deeply upon us in the wake of the US election. These post covid years have already been dark. We’re missing so much, now more than ever. Social media, the rising cost of living, corporate piggery run amok, greed, stupidity, ego, mental illness, all of these and more layering our days, robbing us of our ability to see our commonality.

Not lost on me is the election falling on Guy Fawkes Day, the British celebration of the thwarted Gunpowder Plot, which, in 1605, was an attempt to blow up the Houses Of Parliament. That said, Fawkes & Co.’s impetus for the plot was to gain more tolerance for Catholics. I see election falling on November 5 not as religious, but symbolic of how satisfying it would be to blow up the current political model. To establish anew a system where one didn’t have to cast a ballot for which crass, double-talking greaseball will do the least damage.  

We need to remind ourselves how Adolph Hitler was able to take the reigns in Germany in the 1930s. It was by the lack of awareness and inability for the commoners to inform themselves and not see past the poison they were being fed. Some may find me comparing Hitler to our current leaders off. With the current state of the world, I’d urge those with misgivings to look deeper. If things feel like they’re getting shittier, there’s a reason for that. It’s okay to be very fucking angry right now with the attitude that’s coming from America, and also with what politicians and the corporate model are doing to our own country.

After the election this week, myself and some friends, other creatives, talked about the outcome. The consensus was mutual: to go deeper into our respective modes and continue to create beautiful things. To continue live in that place where we are truly free, if only for those moments between our adult responsibilities. To bring Light & Love to the world, through art. To continue to foster the feel that Old Tom Frost refers to in the lyrics above.

It’s hard to keep loving and see the light, when around us is so much horror and disregard. May we continue to fight the good fight, without and within. May we learn to see ourselves in the basest actions of others, and for our basest inclinations to wither, in the spirit of connection, goodness and unity. May we harness our rage and use it to foster the highest in us all.

Lastly, and awesomely, Stereophile will be finished this week! I’m sending one final mix tweak to Howard today, and the accompanying book of lyrics and images goes to print early in the week. It sounds and looks grand. It’s very beautiful. I can’t wait for you to hear the finished work. I’m planning the official release for the new year, but you’ll all get dibs on the first listen. I’ll keep ya posted.

As always, thanks for being there.

K. xo  

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Pic by Marcel Lanteigne

“Grace is what matters in anything – especially life, especially growth, tragedy, pain, love, death. That’s a quality that I admire very greatly. It keeps you from reaching out for the gun too quickly. It keeps you from destroying things too foolishly. It sort of keeps you alive.”

– Jeff Buckley

Rolling around in bed of a Sunday, I met the day with the usual thoughts: yesterday’s news, the past, the future, today’s todo list, music, the record, the book. More present than these was a terrible level of chronic pain and whether or not I have a future playing live music. I watched a YouTube short of artists from Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, to Chris Cornell, to Brandi Carlile, to Adam Levine, talking about the late Jeff Buckley’s influence and incandescent glow. The clip ended with Buckley himself saying the first few words of the quote above. Not long after I sat down in the window at the local to start this writing, I came upon the full quote. Undoubtedly, someone had asked him why he called his debut album Grace. There is was, in full form, after my seeing snippet of it just hours ago.

I chose it today because of it’s timeliness. I’m on the verge of releasing Stereophile, my record and small format book that’s been, mostly due to stress and trauma-based chronic pain, the longest process I’ve experienced seeing a project from start to finish. That I’ve made it this far is a massive victory. In the face of daily adversity, I did it. I’m not without a huge sense of gratitude and pride that it’s all come together so wonderfully. The current issue lies elsewhere.

Earlier in the year, I did two shows. They checked all the boxes: connection, vibration and decent pay. The latter is an often shat upon aspect of art. The commercialism of it. The “desire” for money in exchange for scraping the guts from the skin of our souls, collating it all within a song and sending it out there, with a hope for connection and validation. With the pain I was experiencing, along with my day gig, parental engagement, domestic requirements, and the record and book hanging unfinished from the bleak February trees, it was too much. I took a step away from the live stuff.

As the record got closer to completion, I revisited the live thang. I started tweaking my live rig, simplifying everything. Getting back to the very foundation of the solo acoustic troubadour (plus some dub delays thrown in for cosmic measure). The setlist was revamped. I added some new songs to the running order. I say new songs, meaning these are new to me. I realize none of you have heard Stereophile yet, so those songs are new to you. I’ve been living with them for so long and they’ve been in studio process for so long that, in the meantime, new joints were written. I’m never short of fodder for the mill. It’s all good stuff. The new songs make the setlist that much stronger.

While all this was happening there was, in the back of my mind, the little voice, asking me whether or not all this preparation was going to come to anything. I’ve not yet parsed out if it was the kind, authentic voice or the voice of trauma and discord disguised as a helping hand. Whatever the case, I’m very much aware that I’ve learned to distrust my body’s ability to muster the energy required to deliver a killer live show. To give every ounce to the music and not feel afterwards the mingling of joy for being where I should be, doing what I love, with feeling like I’ve been rolled over by a tank. In the moment, there is no pain. I’m in the music. It’s only post gig that I feel my body and brain collapsing.

The usual default is that this is old guy shit. That’s not the case here. I aware enough to know the difference between the possible limitations and afflictions of age and the underlying forces causing my chronic issues. I’ve been smart enough, after years of booze and drugs, to start taking care of myself. It’s an insight into how insipid stress is, and how both experienced and generational trauma can make a mess of good things.

I recently went to see an osteopath, whose work is intuitive and deep. I’ve seen her twice and it’s so far promising. I can feel shifts. I’ve also recently dialed back the pain meds I’ve been relying on daily for a few years. It was going well, until it wasn’t. I was limping across the finish line at the tail end of this week.

It’s been a weekend of reflection and making lots of music. I’ve been pickin’ like a hero and also leaning back and breathing. It’s my daughter Ava’s eleventh birthday this week. I had a ball going out and getting her prezzies, then wrapping them yesterday. There’s so much good in my life. I’m surrounded by abundance and Love, in this mad age where we blunder along, so often lost in survival mode and all manner of distraction.

I hit our local park two weeks ago, on a tired afternoon, knowing that I needed to sing. I packed up the busking rig and headed across the road. Barefoot, I let ‘er rip. It was so good. It was the reminder I needed. I was doing what I was put here for. I’ve been back out a few times since. I’ve met a bunch of folks who confirmed and validated me. They reflected back to me what I was offering. I left each experience higher that I’d been prior.

That high has always been there, after every show, after all these years. It’s a constant. I know any of you out there who play music for people know what I’m talking about. I’m not sure what the future holds. I’m afraid. Afraid to commit to a string of live dates in the face of the distrust I feel for my physical wherewithal to see it through. I don’t feel a pull towards being a digital creator. Real time is where it’s at, where we see and feel each other. Meeting, music, smiles, hugs, farewells until next time. This is the stuff.

I’ll keep on going like it’s going to happen. The live set will continue to develop. I’ll continue to look for friends/players who want to form a musical gang and play shows together. I’ll keep working on managing the sometimes unmanageable pain. With courage, humour and, hopefully, grace, I’ll rise to meet the road ahead.

Thanks for reading.

K. xo

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“Fak, these blankets smell nasty.”

– Me

I bunked off work early yesterday with much excitement. Last week I’d tracked vocals for Tattoo, the last song I need to add anything to. It was a bust. The intro is the most sensitive as far as needing quiet to record. The recording of vox and acoustic guitar for this record have been anything but quiet. We live only feet away from the streetcar and main street traffic ripping by, to say nothing of the orange men on the DeGrassi Street train bridge, whacking away at the the Ontario Line all hours of the day. I was able to make the rest of the vocal tracks happen, along with traffic noise and life sometimes audible on the vocal tracks, but Tattoo needed some real quiet.

I moved my vocal mic into the anteroom outside of our bathroom and reran the studio leads accordingly. I then headed off to Canadian Tire and picked up some moving blankets, at a friend’s recommendation, to help buffer the noise. I got home and excitedly hung the blankets and got my MacGyver vocal booth cooking. I noticed that the blankets were a bit stinky. I thought it was because they were just out of the package. After a special afternoon visit from a friend, I had some dins, went for my usual night walk around the east end and arrived back home, not sure if I’d record then, or spend the night kicking back and wait until today, when I was fresh with Saturday’s promise, to lay this final track down. The latter won. With the lights down low, I went slack and took in all the proper British crime drama that my inert, self-flagellating self could handle.

I woke this morning with my lungs and sinuses on fire. Our place is not that big and is open concept. The whole place bore the funky smell of yesterday’s newly opened blankets. I checked the material label for contents. Turns out some sod thought it was a good idea to put propylene in the blankets. I’d heard of this chemical before, but didn’t know much about it. Turns out it’s shite and should not be huffed in. Small wonder, on the heels of lifelong asthma and two recent, back to back respiratory infections, that I felt like crap after sleeping with these olfactorily strange bedfellows.

A quick shower and some brekkie, then off to return the offenders. I’m at the local now, having a coffee and feeling good about getting the Tattoo vox done. I’ll go old school and hang up some blankets and go for it. When the recording is done, I’m planning some studio upgrades. I’ll add the acoustic treatment to the list and get something dope cooking for future vox and acoustic geetar recordings. It’ll be crucial, as I’m planning for the next round of recordings to be live, off the floor solo voice and acoustic.

In the meantime, I’d like to share the premaster of The Pass, which is the first track on the record. Some of you have already heard it and have been in touch with your praise, which makes it all worth it for me. Thanks so much for that.

Hope ya dig.

The Pass

K. xo

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Father, why are all the children weeping?
They are merely crying son
Oh, are they merely crying, father?
Yes, true weeping is yet to come

                         – Nick Cave, The Weeping Song

I bunked off work early, the strains of the week pulling at my spirit, headlong into Friday’s reprieve; the wages of love, parenthood and finishing Stereophile jostling for the top spot on the neverending to do list. The plan: To kick back for a few, then head down the hall and finish mixing the last of the premasters for the record. The reality: With chronic pain at the redline, a few hours flat out in a haze of medically approved cannabis oil, searching the interwebs for musical redemption.

After a YouTube trip into Live At KEXP and NPR Tiny Desk Concert land, I came across Kingdom In The Sky: Nick Cave and Warren Ellis Live At Hanging Rock. It’s a forty-two minute doc and live performance from their show there last year. I was curious, but reserved. The setting at Hanging Rock is beautiful and these two chaps are both amazing musicians, but I’ve been a bit put off Nick after reading about his late-found Christian zeal.

I’ve loved Nick Cave for many, many years. I was turned on to him when he was well into his career with the Bad Seeds. I feel blessed to have grown with him over the years. In the time I’ve been listening to his music I’ve watched us both evolve. He’s become a kinder, more compassionate human being, with a wonderful perspective on humanity.

Not too long ago, I saw a clip of Cave at his Q&A tour and someone asked him about religion. His answer had to do with all of us reaching for something. It was eloquently profound and applied to all. Shortly thereafter, I read an interview where he talked about his Christian acceptance. I happened to be listening to one of his records at the time and it hit differently. All the aspects that felt like questions about Christianity now felt like devout proclamations. I said earlier that I’ve been put off, but I think, more accurately, I’m struggling to find a place for it, for the obvious reason that many of us find aspects of Christianity and the church questionable, and I am one of those.

I’ve often looked to Christ for guidance myself, though without the dogmatic trappings and hypocrisy of the institution that bears His name. I’ve often wanted to find comfort in the church, or something like it, for a foundation in which to live my life when the storm feels so relentless. Who that seeks understanding wouldn’t want a harbour so safe as this?

It occurs to me that Nick’s Jesus thing might be the prime mover in his evolution and greater kindness as he ages. I know others to which this happens without religion, but I don’t know many of us who have gone through the great tragedies of losing a teenaged son and then losing a grown son only a few years later. Nick Cave lived these sorrows publicly, with rare grace and courage. The former tragedy spawned the record, Ghosteen, which is a work of unspeakable beauty. Cave and Ellis close the Hanging Rock show with the song Ghosteen Speaks, where Nick sings, in the spectral voice of his late son “I am beside you, I am beside you…”

All this said, I hit play last night, not sure I’d make it through much of the show, but wanted to give it a go. I was almost immediately enraptured and riveted, without even realizing it. The delivery, the feeling, Warren and Nick’s love for each other, Nick smiling at the band and the backup singers, Colin Greenwood from Radiohead on bass. Throughout the concert there are cutaway interviews with folks at the show, most of whom echo my own feelings of being there all along for Nick’s growth, as an artist and human being. It was beautiful.

Years ago, on the eve of going to have my first record mastered, I had a dream where Nick and I were sitting in a pub somewhere, in a horseshoe shaped booth of the deepest red velvet and black wood. He looked at me and said “So, you’re going Hollywood?” I didn’t know what he meant, but thought it was cool to have a dream where we were hanging out. Turns out the studio I’d booked was abruptly commercial and managed by someone full of himself, who was blathering on about some Hollywood starlet who had just been in to try her hand at being a singer. Nick had given me the heads up.

Since then, he’s visited me overnight a few times. It happened again last night. He and I were wandering through field, farmland, and country roads, talking quietly together. He was leading the way the entire time, as though showing me the way. We parted at a petrol station, where he jumped on a Vespa and sped off down the road, muttering something about having to get back to work.

I’m so thankful for the gift of writing. As I write this, I feel a greater understanding. There’s so much in our dreams. And so much in our judgement of others. There’s so much we know inherently, but it’s not physical or cognitive, so it goes unrecognized while we try so hard to fit the mould of a world that’s been set up so fucking backwards. Our magic is beaten out of us from the time we are born. We are taught to forget: We are Divine.

I chose today’s quote, from the Bad Seeds The Weeping Song, for two reasons. The band did a bang up version of the song at the concert, with a newly minted groove, but also because of this particular verse. I think it’s only as more experienced beings that we feel true, deep sadness, in the face of all that we’ve lost and all that we long to return to.

Love,

K. xo

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“Never make a decision when you need to pee.”

– Leonard Cohen, Beautiful Losers

My back feels broken, my shoulders like crags of rock, my orbs are sore and red, my right arm feels like it’s telescoped from using the mouse, I’m irritable, I haven’t been the most patient Dad, the smallest inconvenience results in a reaction not at all on par with the inconvenience itself. In short, I feel like a bit of a wretched prick…and intensely alive and awake.

Making Stereophile, my new record and book, has been so many things. I’ve run the gamut of emotions, from despair to the highest elation. Little victories and many kicks to the nuts. I’m going to write more about the entirety of the experience when the record is done.

Currently, I’m in mix mode. This is my first attempt at mixing my own full length. I’ve released a handful of singles over the last few years. Mixing a standalone track is a different beast than getting a collection together. I usually mix as I go. When I finished the vocal tracks, I thought I was pretty much done with the mixes. Not so. As with each phase of the project, I’ve been learning on the fly. I’ve a old friend and mentor in Howard Ayee, whose experience dates back to the golden age of recording, the 1970s. I say the golden age, but we’re in a bit of a renaissance now. Technology now allows us to get analogue warmth with the convenience of digital editing. Howard’s directed me on how the greats did it back in the day, in the context of the gear available to us today.

This latest phase of mixing the songs to get them all ready for Howard to master sees me working, in particular, on the strength of where the vocals sit in the wormhole of the mix. The last week has been an immersion in the finer points of how the pros do it. While I grumbled at the thought of yet another learning curve, it’s been worth it.

There have been many days and nights of sitting at the console, having to pee. I’m not sure how many decisions I’ve made while nature called. Probably a bunch. Sorry, Len. Hopefully they haven’t been made in vain.

I can’t wait to share the record with you.


K. xo

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“La Niña de Los Peines had to tear apart her voice, because she knew experts were listening, who demanded not form but the marrow of form, pure music with a body lean enough to float on air. She had to rob herself of skill and safety: that is to say, banish her Muse, and be helpless, so her duende might come, and deign to struggle with her at close quarters. And how she sang! Her voice no longer at play, her voice a jet of blood, worthy of her pain and her sincerity, opened like a ten-fingered hand as in the feet, nailed there but storm-filled, of a Christ by Juan de Juni.”

– Federico Garcia Lorca, Obras Completas, Vol. 1

The passage above, from Lorca’s complete works, is preceded, in context, by the Spanish singer Pastora Pavon (La Nina) delivering a technique-perfect, but soulless round of songs to a crowd of the who’s who of the scenesters of the day. The audience sat quiet and still. No applause. Nothing. Nonina, as they say in Andalusia. Someone from the audience stands up from behind his brandy bottle and says ‘Here ability is not important, nor technique, nor skill. What matters here is something other.’

Pastora then digs deep, lets go, and lets loose.

I’ve only scratched the surface of Lorca’s vast beauty. What I do know of his work is wrapped in glorious romance, sadness and bravery. Everything I’ve experienced of his writing and life takes my breath away. It was he that introduced me to the concept of duende. The translation of the Spanish duende, to English, is elf. I love that, because elves, but it means so much more. Lorca refers to it this way:

“With idea, sound or gesture, the duende enjoys fighting the creator to the very rim of the well…the duende wounds. In the healing of that wound which never closes lies the invented strange qualities of an artist’s work.”

– Sidebar!: I’m sitting at my local, which I’m always sitting at when I write. A guy came in earlier, seeing a pic of Jimmy Carter on the wall while he was passing by. He came in and started talking to everyone in the cafe about Jimmy Carter pardoning all the American draft dodgers of the Vietnam war. He spoke to one of the folks sitting here who happened to be a U.S. war vet. They had an excellent conversation about the currently morbid state of America (See what I did there? Groaaaannn). He named all the Jimmies on the walls, except for the one hanging behind me. I told him it was Jimmy Page. He thanked us for our smiles and disappeared to go get his haircut by George, our local Greek barber, only to return a while later, hair intact because George is closed today. He told the ladies that work here that, because he came in with a Timmie’s cup earlier, he wanted to come back and do them a solid and buy a cup from them. Solid character, that. He and I talked for a good half hour about motorbikes (Triumph vs. Harley and the shaft drive on his ‘83 Honda Goldwing) and English history. This man, Toby by name, and an Englishman by way of Ireland, has a deep knowledge of the Brit’s legacy. Fascinating. Turns out he’s a local. I hope I see more of him. I also kinda hope he doesn’t get his hair cut. He’s got an epic topknot. I love this stuff; our connections. My morning here has been peppered with visits from locals that I call friends. I would say I digress, but I won’t, because this stuff is what makes our lives amazing. So, back to duende…

It’s on my radar, this ancient thing, while I tussle with a modern problem…social media. The first time I heard about Facebook, I thought “No good can come of this”. Now, all these years later, it feels like the damage social media has done to us outweighs the good it’s wrought. My hunch was accurate.

My social numbers have never been great. I’m in the process of yet another attempt to reattune myself to going fully into them, to promote Stereophile, my new record and accompanying small format book. I’m told that the reason for my low numbers is the irregularity with which I post. I get that. I also get, and I’ve said it before, that art should not be reduced to content. We’re all struggling so hard to produce, produce, produce. FOMO. Keep that shit going, or fall by the wayside while the true hustlers get Instafamous. Malarkey. What this constant need to produce has resulted in is a lot of disposable, disingenuous shite, borne of a desperation to go viral in a world where the arts, especially music, have been decimated. There is little duende in the social media landscape. A lack of grit, shadow or depth. I don’t think that’s news. Liam Gallagher said recently that everything is beige. Artists I know who have great followings see the socials as an albatross around their necks. A tiresome, necessary evil. They’re a drag on art.

A week ago I had my finger on the DELETE trigger of my IG and FB. My site analytics gave me pause. Lo! Traffic was up, due to me consistently composing and posting my writings. I’ve spent the week researching the best way to take a solid crack at the crazy game of online promo. To find the most effective, efficient way to get the goods out, that leaves more time to create and hang out with family and friends. A friend is helping get this together and we’re discussing her coming on board to help manage the promo regularly. This weekend I had a first rehearsal with a rhythm section of two fine chaps (more on them later). The team is growing, which is amazing for me and long overdue. I’ve felt isolated for a while now, having others to create with feels wonderful. Moreover, having pals to hang with is giving me all the good fuzzies.

The music is going great, that’s what matters most. At least it does to me. I don’t care much anymore for wearing all the hats that a modern singer/songwriter is expected to wear. I’m still not sure how the social monkey business will go. When a certain mood comes on, I find my fingers again hovering over the delete buttons. Whatever the case, I hope I can make my way into and through this vapid online wormhole with some sense of substance. To strike a fine balance between consistency and art. To do battle with the dark elf and pin the little fucker to the mat, and then sing about it, honouring the wound that heals but never closes.

I’ll keep you posted (See what I did there again? Groaaaannnn).

K. xo

ps. Here’s a link to the full piece that I pinched Lorca’s quotes from:

https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Spanish/LorcaDuende.php

by on

The Silent Accord

“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society”

– Jiddu Krishnamurti

Sitting here in the window at the local. It’s a rainy Saturday morning. The studio is whispering to me from a few blocks away. Urging me in. Urging me on. I’m in a weeks long cycle of pain, illness and procrastination. I am one guitar track and one vocal track away from finishing Stereophile, my new record. I am mustering the courage, the heart, to lay them down. To breathe it all out and elevate out of this hard place. I’m aware that, while I moan about the delays, I’m afraid to finish. Afraid to release this work into the world, these bits of soul made digital, and see it mostly ignored, if my previous work is any measure. I’m at once hopeful, while feeling the cold whisper of the voice of ridicule and shame trickling down the back of my neck.

I drink my coffee and watch the people go by. I think of a better world. One where we are not so pressed and dented. Where art is not reduced to content. Where the substance of our silent accord is lived, rather than its loss bemoaned as a symptom of modern life. A place free of our Post Pandemic Disconnection, the cortisol coming in waves as we panic for breath, for a short reprieve.

I think I may be in the wrong lane. It may be time to hang up my modest public presence in the world and beat a retreat. I’m sick of the spiritual shithole we’ve made of this place, with all its potential for greatness and kindness. I’m tired of the helpless, hateful rage I feel towards our politicians, and the corporate world, who continue to refuse accountability for the widespread damage born of their relentless pursuit to hoard and boast. These for whom money has replaced the hardwired neanderthal idiot male need to compete and dominate. The depth of this greed is an uncommon stupidity in this day and age. For those of you feeling like this is a finger wag, make no mistake, I see myself in these people. I see all of us in each other and everything else. We all have the potential to shine or shit the bed.

Coffee is almost done. Time to head over to the studio and get embryonic, while my heart longs for more real time connection, to be among a group of souls. Maybe that’s what’s missing. Maybe, instead of retreat, I need to get out more. For me, and everyone I know, having the energy and making time for something as simple as seeing a friend has, due to the relentless hustle to make ends meet, become elusive.

We are fragmented. The societal machine we continue to allow to run is sickly and wrong. The silent accord I mentioned earlier is the feeling we all get, in the quiet moments, where Love comes in and fills us with its amber glow. That light is in all of us. It is the eternal, fixed point, like lights along the landing strip at night’s most impenetrable hour.

I’ve been sitting here for a while now, thinking about a succinct way to wrap this one up, but I can’t find one. This is an ongoing trip. One without end. We are Divine Misfits made flesh and bone, each with our own story, each flawed and returning, missing home and looking for the runway lights…

K. xo

by on

They’d all died, but just for a bit. One of them, a doctor, had gone over a waterfall in her kayak and was submerged and lifeless for a half an hour. She recovered and carried on with no cognitive impairment. There were others. Their details were different, but they all flatlined. I learned their stories recently in a Netflix doc.

They all felt profound bliss. They all had the same look in their eyes; a shine that those of us who haven’t died and come back are missing. There’s a knowing in that look. These people experienced a fleeting insight into the big question: What happens when we die? In most cases, these people were met on the other side by a loved one or guide who told them their work wasn’t done and that they had to go back. Imagine feeling that freedom and having to come back to our Right-Side-Left-Side-9-to-5-Cancel-Culture-Social-Media-Fame-Whore-Post-Pandemic-Great-Big-Mess-Of-A-World after having had a glimpse into the union we yearn for all our days.

Recently, a friend posted a memory about the anniversary of a friend’s suicide. It got me thinking about the folks in the doc who had died and come back. In each case, their temporary deaths were the result of an accident or ailment. What happens to a suicide? If we die by our own hands, do we get bliss? Or do we cross over somewhere further down the river, where the sky is darker and the general feeling bleak rather than blissful?

While all this was going on, I was revisiting a song I wrote a few years ago. It’s called The Hemingway, so named after Ernest and family, who were no strangers to despair, addiction and murder of the self. While writing it, I kept in mind the story of Kevin Hines. In the throes of delusion and illness, Kevin launched himself off the Golden Gate Bridge in an attempt to end his life. As soon as he was airborne, he felt one overwhelming emotion: Regret. He instantly wished he’d not done it. By the time he hit the water, he was falling at 75 miles per hour. 240 feet down in four seconds. He broke a bunch of bones, but he survived. He now travels the world to share his story, to help others through their dark nights, inspiring many to seek the psychological support they need, in a global society that still harbours a dim and emotionally unintelligent view of mental illness.

The Hemingway is a place that I imagine we end up, filled with the same regret Kevin Hines felt. How many of us have committed suicide and felt the same regret after arriving on the other side? It must be a terrible destination. A terrible way to spend one’s time. The song is also a reminder to me in my own struggle with depression, anxiety, trauma and daily, intense chronic pain. That, even when I feel like everything is going to shit and it’s all hopeless and wretched, and I want nothing more than the hurt to stop, I’m likely to end up spending eternity wandering The Hemingway’s lonesome halls. A fate that, unlike our earthly troubles, which rise and fall over time, might be forever.

The lyrics to The Hemingway are below. I hope they in some way help or inspire. You’re not alone. You’re cared for more than you know. Reach out. Call a friend. Call a crisis line. Drop me a line. We’re all in this together and we need to take care of each other.

Love,

K. xo

Resources
Suicide Prevention Canada – Call 988
Distress Centres of Greater Toronto – 416.408.4357 (GTA) / 905.459.7777 (Peel)
Canadian Association For Suicide Prevention (contact resources at link) – https://suicideprevention.ca/im-having-thoughts-of-suicide/