Lantern fly blues
An observation about flow state, a love letter to NYC, a visit to Sleepy Hollow and more.
What a whirlwind of a week that was. Check out this routing:
Nashville, TN
Fairmont, WV
Ranson, WV
Brooklyn, NY
White Plains, NY
Sleepy Hollow, NY
Philadelphia, PA
Frederick, MD
My travels began with a four-day stay in Nashville to work on a record with my friend William Matheny (and a bunch of other talented pals). I really enjoy the flow state of recording. Studios are almost like a sensory deprivation tank for real life—your only focus is on the material, shaping the songs, perfecting your parts. There is no room for the worries of the daily grind within those walls. It was a real honor to track at Ronnie’s Place, the historic studio once owned by both Roy Orbison and Ronnie Milsap at different times. Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, and Emmylou Harris are just a few of the juggernauts who recorded there over the years. I think we made something special.
I have an interesting relationship with the ideas of flow state and what I call “soul work.” Soul work is what happens when I black out on stage in a good way, my body and spirit fully connected to the music, my bandmates, the crowd. It also happens after a good reading where I feel genuine support. This began happening a lot earlier this year when I was traveling and doing readings to promote my new book. I remember reading at WordPlay in Wardensville, WV in my home county, being surrounded by family and friends, sharing a meal afterwards with all of these people from different parts of my life brought together by my poetry. I did the late night drive to Harrisonburg, VA after dinner, tears streaming down my face as I felt an emotional overload from all of the love and support.
Flow state, for me, is that highly productive lightning-in-a-bottle process that creates the raw materials for soul work. I’ll be the first to admit that I have very bad writing habits. Almost every song I’ve ever written has been completed in 5-10 minutes—music and words. Poetry is more of a slow process, but still sparked by intense periods of inspiration. I have been trying to incorporate a nightly writing practice to help generate more material and I am seeing a little return on that investment. The version of flow state I experience in the studio is more focused and mindful. I become fully present with the material and the players. It’s a nice way to block everything else out and create.
During the Tucker Riggleman & The Cheap Dates portion of my travels, we played NYC for the first time. My old band The Demon Beat went a couple years of playing NYC nearly once a month. I forgot how much I missed it. We played in a particularly happening part of Bushwick where we went for a pre-show stroll with our old friend Fletcher C. Johnson (who has a great podcast all about the city, music, fashion, etc.). The city always feels so alive to me—so much happening on every corner, in every direction. I am also always blown away by the quality and quantity of food options. We hit up a grab-and-go Japanese spot where I enjoyed a pork katsu sandwich and matcha soft serve ice cream. Both were heavenly. Don’t worry, I also partook in a true NYC slice after the gig (how could I not?).
Post-show, we made the drive 45 minutes north to stay with a couple of fans in White Plains. The idea of complete strangers finding my music or poetry and enjoying it enough to travel and support it is so wild to me, but that is how I came to know this couple. They had previously traveled to see us in Morgantown, Lexington, and Harrisonburg—our best towns. When they saw we were playing NYC, they were excited to go to the show and offer us a comfortable place to stay. Their high-rise apartment was very nice, with sleeping spots for everyone and NY bagels in the morning (why are they SO good?). I claimed a spot in their library room and fell asleep in a window nook overlooking the White Plains skyline with NYC just beyond. I was flooded with nostalgia. That feeling of being a young adult, so certain I was going to “make it” in music, the pull of the big city.
In the city and throughout the trip (especially in Sleepy Hollow!), I saw several spotted lantern flies. This terribly invasive species is taking over the Northeast. We are all told to kill them on sight, but it always catches me off guard because they are an especially beautiful insect. While falling asleep in my city window sleeping space, I scribbled this out:
A spotted lantern fly lands on the Bushwick sidewalk in front of the venue we will play tonight. I press my boot onto its speckled wings, watch the amber inside paint the asphalt. We have driven a collective eight hours to play for 30 minutes. The monitors don't really work at sound check. I learned a long time ago to roll with the punches. When the time comes, and it always does despite my daydream counting of seconds, I will plug a cable into my faithful guitar, hit the right notes, sing the only way I know how. Tonight we are staying just outside of the city with some fans who have become friends. I am a nearly 40-year-old man carrying an unrolled sleeping bag into a condo. On the way in, I see another beautiful, invasive pair of flightless wings streaked across the ground. We can't escape it. Death is death. How do I make this life work? How do I continue in a world lonely beyond repair? The city flexes its labored lungs out the window while I ease into rest, my bandmates sleeping softly, dreaming of bright lights and strong coffee. I let my own dreams and anxieties drown in the white noise of a city constantly building, forever fighting for space to put more people and things for them to buy. I think about my grandmother shaping zucchini bread batter into a bundt pan, the late summer sun spilling through the kitchen. Can she see me now from this apartment? Am I close enough?
Great post, man! Loved the window into your travels, but I thought the poem at the end was particularly beautiful and a lovely read!