I went out on the porch at 3 am to smoke. I haven't been smoking lately. But at 3 am, defenses are down. And C has the damn things lying around. And I'd been up practicing chords and runs, trying to remember how songs go, and the tips of my fingers were tender and the muscles in my neck and forearms were a little sore from striking the keys. But it was a good kind of sore. Exhausted, but at the same time, completely awake. Like what you feel after ornery sex. Like, ouch, maybe being tied to that radiator wasn't such a good idea...oh, but wait a minute, yes it was. And all that makes a cigarette seem that much more necessary. And so with eyes squinty and in need of sleep, I ended up on the porch. At 3 am. Smoking.

The cricket grinding is in season. It's that time of year when going outside means being surrounded by a wet blanket of ambient noise. A/C fans. The rise and fall, the circular crescendo of the cicadas clicking like a thousand tiny maraca players tweaking on acid. The air itself—just seems to hum and sing. It's the opposite in winter, when there's nothing but hushed silence at night. I don't know which I prefer. Both have their charm. The sound is good. It reminds me of Houston, the sultry heat of adolescent summers, the languid dreamy afternoons, ripe with dormant potential. Houston didn't have much of a winter, and so back then I didn't really understand the silence. I may have even shunned it. But the silence, the silence is everything.

Playing music has always been one of those things I've felt my way through rather than thinking a lot about. Even when I'm doing something technical. Like scales: if I close my eyes and turn off my brain and just feel that shit out, I do much better. The scales work. But if I think about them, I fuck them up. It's one of the reasons I would never make a good studio musician. If you set a piece of music in front of me and tell me to play it exactly like that, I couldn't do it. I'd just have to walk away. But if you give me a loose structure and tell me to make it my own, we might have something. Or we might not. It all depends on whether or not you like my style. And okay, I can make all of this sound cool (which is what I'm trying to do) like, hey I don't read music I just play, man. But the honest fact of it is, I don't have the patience or the ability to really learn music the way I should. I want it to remain intuitive and fun. I admire people who take it further than I can. But I understand that with that comes its own burdens. And I don't want that. Not with music, anyway. I want it to remain sort of light. And a little mysterious.

Or maybe that's just an excuse. Maybe it's just that fear of commitment thing...

Whatever. Here's what I know about music: I like being a little surprised by it. I like playing with people and feeling the pull of that thing you're doing take you where it wants you to go. And tapping into the energy, on stage and off. And just feeling a little awed by it. Letting the sounds rush over you. The sounds. Drowning out everything and forever. And feeling your heart race because you're not sure where this thing is taking you exactly, and it may drop off the next cliff, but it'll be one hell of a ride if it does. When I'm doing this thing I don't want to be somewhere else. When I'm doing this thing—I don't want to be someone else. It puts me in the moment and into myself in a way few other things do. Where my mind is completely present. Focused. Stirring.

And then sometimes, with music, just like with winter, just like with people—like with anything that's good—it's not just about where you put the sounds, but where you put the silences. Like these chilling silences between us. And just our fingers touching. These drinks we pour. And these things we don't say. And then that does it. Sometimes that does it, too.

Category: InBetween