Book Narcs


Justin Pierre and his wife Lindsay have a very cool podcast show called Book Narcs in which they chat with folks about books.

I was a guest recently. I share my love of historical non-fiction. Enjoy.



Endings and Beginnings

After my son Daniel’s death, when I was at Daniel’s mother’s house in Saratoga Springs, NY, I immersed myself in all arcana related to my boy’s life and death. I wore his clothes and slept in and in his bed; I went through photos, pored over his drawing books, sorted through his toys, piled his stuffed animals on myself as I read his books. Memories were evoked. Tears were cried. Secrets were discovered. Clues unveiled. And a strange comfort was achieved.

A spiritualist friend of mine advised against this immersion, believing that the negative energy of his death could somehow engulf us if we aren’t careful to create a little distance between the “us” and the deceased’s “things.”

She was probably right, but I was so grief-stricken and my world had been so upended by my son’s death, that I’m not sure I could have refrained from the slightly macabre rituals…it felt right and I know it has cross-cultural corollaries; humans need this connection in order to assert our eternal love for the deceased, to understand the profundity of the exit and to grapple with our own mortality. Our culture has done much to separate us from these natural processes and the important cognitive and spiritual connections essential to our humanity. I’m not alone in my desire to see this change.

I took many pictures of Daniel’s room, the art his mother was going to hang on to, and of his myriad things. One photo I keep coming back to is of his hospital birth armband next to the tag that denoted his ashes– The first and last human written “documents” of his existence on earth. I titled the photo “Our Paper Trail.” It seemed to capture so much.Our Paper TrailThese were the tags that were issued to prevent him from disappearing into obscurity, from being accidentally confused with other babies, or from ending up being buried in the wrong hole in the ground. In both cases, the absence of these simple but essential tags could lead to massive alterations in our earthly and maybe even cosmic journeys.

My son’s death coincided with an important cultural marker in my own life, that of reaching mid-life. Birth and death are inalterable occurrences. They can be mediated by some interference, but they simply happen whether we want them to or not. What happens between them, though, is where we have immense possibility to change courses. Daniel’s death has reminded me so much about what we can and cannot control. His premature death was a tragedy of epic proportions, and while I know he made a choice to leave when he did, as a parent I will be eternally tormented by the guilt of thinking, “I could have done more.”

But it has also reminded me that those of us who do not suffer from such profound mental anguish can examine our lives and alter their courses. We who possess the essential life force of hope can imagine things differently than as they are, and can attempt to move towards that imagined future.

One year and a half after my son’s death I found myself paralyzed. Fearful. Hopeless. Overwhelmed by a sense of finiteness of experience. It cut across all facets of my life. It seemed like nothing could give me great joy ever again. That I would never love as deeply; that my professional accomplishments were diminishing and that creatively I would never reach the heights I had envisioned. Aware of this spiral of negativity, I felt like I was teetering towards a nervous breakdown. It was a summer from hell, a sense of self-defeat that I hope to never experience again.

I sought professional help. I became active in boxing and took up yoga. I talked with my partner…a great deal. Without her and her mental health expertise, I’m not sure where I’d be now. Slowly some things started to unfold and the powerlessness I was feeling eased a bit.

I realized I had coincidentally experienced a bunch of blows, in addition to the mourning of my son’s recent death — financial challenges, relationship turmoil, professional disappointments, and a two-year marker in my drug-free life. It was a perfect storm, and recognizing the multiple car pile-up I was experiencing helped me dig out a little.

In the wake of the darkness came an explosion of creativity. I had been having trouble writing music since Daniel’s death. Everything felt trite, but mid-summer this year, songs began dropping in my lap from the gods. Maybe not the best work I was capable of, but the muse had returned from a long vacation.

The link for creators between feeling creative and mental well-being is documented and almost cliché. We don’t feel “right” if we have a block or are unable to “make.” Conversely, we often feel more alive and lighter when creation blooms.

And the creative spell continues. Thank you gods — Lakshmi, Ganesha, Zoroaster, Buddha, Mohammed, Yahweh, Jesus, et al.

And, of course…Daniel.

His ending made me call into question my future. It has become a beginning in my life — the beginning of life without my son. The beginning of sorting out what is really important and what is bullshit. It is an opportunity to retune my art, to restructure relationships and priorities, to decide what to do with the second half of my life. I wouldn’t be maudlin enough to call it a “gift.” I didn’t choose the status of suicide survivor, but the cards dealt have forced some big choices and changes. And I get to decide who I want to be for the rest of my life.

I end with a great F. Scott Fitzgerald quote sent to me by my band mate and collaborator of 20 years, Trent Norton, as he and I discuss our next creative move. It resonates well right now.

For what it’s worth…it’s never too late, or in my case too early, to be whoever who you want to be. There’s no time limit. Start whenever you want. You can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you can make the best of it. I hope you can see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you have never felt before. I hope you meet people who have a different point of view. I hope you live a life you are proud of, and if you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.
-F. Scott Fitzgerald

Daniel’s Ashes, Part 1

Adam and Daniel

3-4 pounds of dust. Like a big pair of winter boots. A cantaloupe. A carton of milk. Daniel’s body was incinerated into a four pound bag of pulverized bone and carbonized matter. They don’t kid when they say the human body is up to 65% water. When I opened the bag, the scent of sulfur was overwhelming. Interestingly the effluvial odor from Daniel’s ashes was a familiar, triggering scent — what I most remembered about cradling his head while he lay dying a few days earlier. The urge to inhale was compulsive, the acrid powder filled my nose the way sniffing a bag of white pepper chokes and yet (if you have an ounce of kid left in you) you can’t resist — that was a game I taught Daniel, always the daredevil — “see if you can take a breath of the white pepper bag.” The dare resulted in mad sneezing and a skullopening, searing sinus sensation.

When Jennifer let me hold the bag for the first time following our memorial ceremony for Daniel in Saratoga Springs, I impulsively wanted to open the bag and thrust my hand in, but refrained in a moment of circumspection and respect for Daniel. The sense that I was crossing a boundary between the way “normal” folks in our society deal with death and my morbid curiosity also kept me in check. But I so wanted to pat and rub his ashes into my skin like talcum powder — inhaling, tasting, eating, and absorbing his remnants into my body.  While he lay dying and briefly after, I had wanted to wear Daniel’s clothes, read his books at night and sleep in his bed — the one on which he breathed his last gasps — in an effort to connect with him. The impulse to wear and consume Daniel’s ashes, though macabre, felt like a logical extension of getting as close as possible to him and perhaps merging with his “being” on some molecular level.

We drove for hours on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula looking for the perfect place to scatter Daniel’s ashes. Jennifer suggested the U. P. because it was the last place she had seen Daniel happy after a refreshing swim on the way from N.Y. to Minnesota. In fact, he may have said to Jennifer cryptically that he wanted his ashes to end up in that very spot. In my mind’s eye the “final resting place” I was looking for had a dock and the bottom was invisible. Daniel’s mother had different ideas; she insisted we paddle out via canoe and toss the ashes in the “middle” of the lake. She had scoured the U.P. for outfitters and secured a canoe but Victoria’s and the girls’ fear of capsizing on the mammoth lake altered plans to a walk-in-the-lake sort of reverse baptism idea.

We found a placid, pine-flanked white sandy public beach and took off shoes and socks and carried the heavy charcoal powdery bag while we waded into the lake. The sky was an electric blue, with wisps of cirrus clouds and a hot mid-June sun slicing through the omnipresent Great Lakes breeze. The day and scene couldn’t have been more picturesque. We exchanged few words and slowly treaded into the brisk water looking for the perfect place to commence what we drove some 500 miles to do.

The four of us fanned out with 10 or so yards between us, like an unspoken kinesthetic response, each of us looking for a semblance of privacy in what felt like a profound final parting moment.

My sense is that most people want to be as far away from death as possible. Something changed dramatically in me shortly after Daniel’s death. The change was imperceptible at first. Many across cultures and through time have expressed a lack of desire to live following the death of loved ones.  It is the stuff of romantic poetry and hyperbolic songs around the world expressing the absolute desolation and hopelessness of losing a loved one. I might argue it’s not specifically human but a fairly broad mammalian trait.

I’ve had some trouble pinpointing the significance in my shift in personal weltanschauung: is it simply a desire to be closer to my son since I miss him so completely? Is it that now that I have experienced death so intimately that it no longer frightens me? Is it something else? Regardless, I know this to be a fact of my psychology now: I no longer fear flying. I no longer have more than a healthy fear of car accidents. I no longer have a shred of fear random violence or muggings. I do not have anxiety about cancer. I do not worry about finishing my “masterpiece” — the notion that there is some great artwork for me to complete before my time is done. Oh, I worry about how my music career is developing.  I worry about taxes. I’m troubled by issues around world peace and economic stability. I worry moment-to-moment about my children’s health and well-being. But my fear of death
is gone. Absolutely gone. I worry about how my children would fare in the world without me. I know many would be sad and would feel profound aching loss, maybe some even as profoundly as I feel for my son.  But of the brute reality of the moment of crossing the threshold from living consciousness to the mysterious abyss of who-knows-what, there exists curiosity minus the gnawing panic I recall pre-Daniel’s death. And so here I stood in the middle of Lake Michigan on June 16th, 2012 at about 2:30pm, yards away from the few people in the world who knew and loved him the most, me holding a bag of Daniel trying to figure out where was the right place to lay his last particulate remnants for eternity.

Confessions of a Musical Polyamorist

Dear Abby,

I have a problem. I like a lot of music. Different styles. And every time I get an idea, I start a new band. It is starting to affect every aspect of my life. The band I have been a singer-songwriter in for nearly 20 years has allowed me to explore lots of territory. But it’s fun to form bands with new groupings of musicians, and to push myself to create in different ways. It’s a lot of music in my head…and it doesn’t always bring in lots of money, but the camaraderie, creative possibilities and occasional transcendent moments make it worthwhile.
Am I crazy?


A Musical Polyamorist

Dear A Musical Polyamorist,

You need help. I can only provide some basic suggestions. We’ll get to the “crazy” part later. What I’m going to tell you now will likely hurt your fragile musician’s ego and perhaps send you back to the symphonic drawing board.

Let’s start with economics:

You can’t make a living doing too many things. Have you paid attention to Burger King’s diversification product strategies over the last 20 years? They’re called Burger King but they thought making burritos, pizzas and rib sandwiches might help boost sales. Instead of focusing on improving the fake grilled burgers that customers think taste like sucking on creosote-soaked railroad spikes, they branched out.

The lesson is — do something well. Master it.

My advice is to study songwriters like Jennifer Warnes. Four simple words: “All the Right Moves.” Hits. These experts write hooks. You don’t. I’ve heard your music. Where do I start? Long instrumental electronic meanderings in Liminal Phase, lyrics about war and ugly facts about human behavior in the Honeydogs, laconic vocal delivery, too many chords for bandmates to remember without charts…I have news for you: no one knows what an Amygdala is or cares. Why not re-write that “Laughing Lips” song or just re-release it on your next record? The third time is a charm.

Imitate vocalists like the last guy that won American Idol, whatever his name is. That’s talent. These people get record deals and have a high number of hits on YouTube. They dress well, have nice hair and smile a lot. Work on that and things will turn around for you.

I have been doing some research on the worldwide web and Googled-searched “cover bands.” It looks like starting a hair metal ballad band is a lucrative career route. Some of these guys pull in 6 figures. Live karaoke is a wild west of revenue-generation. I always thought someone should start a Pablo Cruise cover band. Yeah, I know you have a couple cover bands already—Hookers $ Blow and Rose Room. Do yourself a favor and add “What You Gonna Do When She says Goodbye” to both of those bands’ repertoires — you can dance to it and it has fancy chords.

Your AND THE PROFESSORS orchestral pop project coming out this fall could use some more Celine Dion shimmer-oomph and Gypsy Kings rattling Spanish guitar flair. At least have Ray Lamontagne or that guy from Fun to sing on it. Soooo sexy. Why didn’t you get John Williams to do the orchestrations? He’s busy and pricey but well-worth it. And before I forget, Mr. Wordsmith, hasn’t anyone told you starting with an article does not a band name make?

Recorded music doesn’t really make money for many musicians anymore. It’s like water. Wallpaper. What’s the last record you listened to for over a month? Do yourself and the world a favor, don’t keep making records that only add to the epic landfill problem we’re experiencing.

Channel your creative energies into helping Burger King turn that briquette into something edible. There’s gold in them hills!

Lastly, there have been a few studies on your ilk and communicable illnesses. Be careful playing with so many musicians.Wash your hands often.

Stay positive and seize the day. Rome wasn’t built in a day.




Welcome to my blog.

In it I will post about music and musical archaeology, politics, books, my own creative process, mourning my son’s death, and family life.

This will also serve as a home base for show information and updates on what I like to call my musical polyamory–life with The Honeydogs, And The Professors, Liminal Phase, Hookers $ Blow, Bunny Clogs, Rose Room and other solo endeavors.
I want this to be an online conversation with folks about art and life.
I’m hoping you’ll join me for a weekly posting and see this site as a place for dialogue and a way to keep up with developments in my musical world.