Fences @ High Dive
The Crocodile Presents

Fences @ High Dive

Ages 21+
with Photo Ops

“Horse Not Running”

I’ve exited black tinted windowed vans in back alleys of tv studios to be met by young women and men in tie dye t-shirts with Fences screen printed horizontally in white. Some giving me notes and drawings. Drawings of me in pen, all the shapes on my face matching when held up. New Mexico, cheek. Often a song title on top in some sort of banner. My girl the horse, my mountain is cold. Sometimes they cry, sometimes I would cry too.

I’ve played in bars to a single man mopping, sometimes lifting his head to make eye contact with me then returning to the bar to wipe a glass as if hollowing it out. I have had a bell curve or more accurately put, pendulum of a “career”. Highs like Everest and lows like sleeping bags in Portland parks.

How did I get here? Why do people care? This connection to other human beings has been my life’s greatest mystery and joy. Regardless of my confusion and self loathing nature I knew I had and I know have to keep going. The tears that fell in London have driven me to once again place the capo on the third fret and try to make sense of all of this mess. For you, for me, for no one sometimes.

My mother a chord, my daughter a melody, my right hand driven by god or Django Reinhardt. I have all my albums on vinyl or at least someone I know has them for safe keeping. My life poured onto a thin black wax the size of a dinner plate. Failure Sculptures is my favorite plate.

It holds the sweat of a Tennessee night and the fireflies that stopped glowing the moment I put them in a pint glass. It has the car rides with the street lights breaking and splintering like veins against the summer storm windshield. It has a stool and a microphone and the most drunken warm warble we could muster with modern technology.

I remember specifically the sound of birds from open windows, lawnmowers, a cat put away in the other room. Richie’s house, Patrick’s studio after closing, raiding the fridge and smoking by a flickering light covered in spider webs. The beautiful humans who came to sing and perform in the chaotic play that is embarrassingly me.

After we finished the album I drove from Nashville to big sur in a broken car, a blue Volvo with stickers on the back that made the driver behind us clear of our political stance. The car was not mine, the stance was not mine. But it pushed us through miles of desert and I saw the sun rising and falling 4 times from the passenger window.

Big Sur, the deer, the bob cat and the cabin. The car angled by the sliding glass door. The beautiful driver often sitting on the trunk and rolling cigarettes. I would walk in the woods and wait to hear the final mixes. Sometimes you forget. Sometimes you have to wait.

I eventually headed up to Portland to meet Cheyenne, an artist and a large part of this story. We had a bond in our dreams and even nightmares. Hawk filming, slow motion sage smoke and found footage. He the director and me an admirer. “A mission” is the opening track of Failure Sculptures and the first video that was made. Our minds brothers and our eyes projectors.

Venue Information:
High Dive
513 N 36th St
Seattle, WA, 98103