coolhandluke

[coolhandluke]

I tend to think of the Of Man album as falling in the latter days of Cool Hand Luke. (Although, as CHL keeps putting out music this gets more confusing.) But it actually began in 2005. For context, that was one year after the release of The Fires of Life and 6 years before Of Man was released. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote first or when the ideas started coming to me, but I know for sure the first recording for “His Eyes” started in Spring or Summer of 2005.

During 2005, Cool Hand Luke was on hiatus. I spent the better part of that year touring with The Chariot on drums. We were on tour with Underoath for three months that year. I had known the Underoath guys from playing shows and festivals with them before they blew up. But I got to know several of them a lot better being on the road with them for so long. Tim McTague and I talked a lot about music, life, and God together. Somewhere along the way, I shared my idea for a concept record that told stories about Jesus from eyewitnesses. 

Casey McBride was The Chariot’s merch guy/hype man/dude who would do anything if you dared him to. He and I became friends over the summer, and we started talking about possibly making music together. He would go on to play bass in Cool Hand Luke for a few years. 

The best I can remember, we had a few days off in Atlanta. Tim recommended we go rehearse at Matt Goldman’s studio and maybe record something. At the time, Matt was at his old setup in Little Five, if that means anything to you. All you need to know is it was one big room, and it apparently used to be a rehearsal space for The Rolling Stones…or something like that. Also, if you don’t know who Matt Goldman is, he is a.) one of my favorite humans b.) an incredible producer and engineer. You may know him for records he made with Copeland, Underoath, Anathallo, The Chariot, My Epic etc. I am pretty sure this was the first time I ever recorded anything with Matt.

I remember Tim (on guitar), Casey (on bass), and I (on drums) sat up and started working through the song. I think I tracked the piano first so it would be a map for us. I had the skeleton, I had a few specific parts I wanted them to play (like the weird descending part when the crowd is yelling “Crucify), and I knew which parts of the music were supposed to correspond with the parts of the narrative. But Tim and Casey largely made up their own parts and really helped flesh the song out and bring it to life. Some of it was exactly what I had envisioned. Some of it changed quite a bit, but I loved all of it. We left with a rough mix that included drums, bass, guitar, and keys. We were stoked to finish it. But it would be 5 years before I would return to finish it.

Anyway, In 2009 I returned to seriously finishing the songs for Of Man. I started tracking songs a little at a time at The Brown Owl in Nashville with Conrad Snyder. But I knew I wanted to get back down to Atlanta to finish “His Eyes” and do a few other songs. 

So, at some point, I ended up going to Atlanta to work with Matt Goldman again. When we originally tracked, I had not written all of the lyrics. I think I wrote them in 2008 from a composite of a few different accounts of Jesus’ trial and execution. I had plenty of time listen to the demo and think through what needed to happen to bring the song to completion.

The problem was that when I got to the studio in Atlanta, Matt could not find the hard drive he had the “His Eyes” tracks saved to. We searched high and low and only found some random scraps that weren’t any help. It was lost. You may think, “Well, just do it again.” But you’ve got to remember that Tim and Casey had played on it, and they were in other states. The likelihood of getting all of us back in the studio and remembering what in the world we did was pretty slim. 

All I had was the rough mix from when we had originally tracked. I really didn’t want to track on top of this because there were some things I really didn’t like about the mix—like missing guitar parts. There were some parts that we had thought of as background that were very loud. And some parts that we had thought of as prominent that were quiet. There was also an entire bass part that I had planned to change. 

Also, I wrote all of the songs as a chiasm—every song on the first half of the album had a song that corresponded on the second half. But “His Eyes” was the gate in the middle. I couldn’t just cut it from the album. The middle of a chiasm is the most important part.

So, we decided to just take this rough mix and track on top of it. There was one huge problem: at some point a click track came into the mix. No big deal if you’re listening to a demo, but this was going to be on the album. It sounded ridiculous. 

If you know the song, you might know all the layered percussion that starts to build right before everything drops out and you hear the people yelling, “Crucify.” Well, that wasn’t originally going to be there. We had to do that in order to cover up the click track. My good friend Phil Smith who had toured as our drummer came to the studio and we did some geeky drumline stuff together on toms. 

It took forever to track it a bunch of times and get it all clean, I wasn’t sure it would work. But Matt Goldman is really good at what he does, and God is really good at what He does, and all the percussion totally masked the click.  And now I can’t imagine the song without it.

For the crowd chanting “prophecy” and “crucify,” my friend David Kowalski invited a bunch of his friends to the studio. I knew a few of them and some of them I didn’t. At this point Goldman was in yet another studio, and the main tracking room was gigantic. So, he spread us out all over the room with mics in various places. I was the only one who had headphones to hear the track, so I stood in a corner and conducted everyone.

I had wanted Josh Scoggin (The Chariot, 68, etc.) to come do some vocals, including the “No!” screams. But he was tied up and couldn’t come to the studio. I decided to take a stab at the screams. I had done all of the clean vocals and that was all that was left. If you’ve listened to old CHL, you know I used to scream back in the day. But it had been a long time, and I didn’t know if I could do it with out my voice cracking and/or sounding lame. 

Recording vocals is a very vulnerable thing. I love Matt, but I always feel a bit insecure doing vocals with him because I’m not the greatest singer. He works with some really great singers. You hear my best takes after an engineer has worked all their magic. But Matt heard all my voice cracks, sour notes, bad timing, and weird annunciation. 

I went in a dark part of the studio and prayed. I tried to imagine that I was John, seeing the first nail being driven into the hand of my friend and my rabbi. I walked back up to the mic and went for it. Matt may have secretly thought it was garbage, but it felt right to me. (The photo on my Tumblr page is from that recording session)

I am still proud of the Of Man album, and I think “His Eyes” is an incredibly powerful song. I am honored to have been a part of it all. Every year people reach out and tell me that they listen to the album during Lent and Holy Week. Some of them I know and some I don’t. But it means more to me than I can express. Thank you for your kindness and encouragement. Soli Deo Gloria

[coolhandluke]

Have you ever had an old push lawnmower in a shed that has sat around for a year or two? Will it run again? Will it fire right up, or will you have to really work at it? Will it be more than you’re able to figure out on your own?

That’s where I am with music. I’m always writing music. That’s not the problem. The problem is the time it takes to finish songs, make them better, and record them. But all of that is the fun part. That’s not the lawnmower.

The lawnmower is communicating to you and getting music to you. Is anyone out there? Does anyone actually care about a new Cool Hand Luke song or album? And even if they do, will I know how to reach them?

Well, it’s time to lay aside the fear and insecurity and just start cranking, so to speak. I have more to say about fear and anxiety in regards to creating art, but that will have to wait for now. 

Here are a few things of note:

This year marked the 20th anniversary of Wake Up, O Sleeper. I’ve been trying to figure out ways to honor that. Brandon, Jason, and I have talked about it. I think I will do some sort of podcast to tell stories about the songs, the recording, and the general CHL happenings around that time. 

This year also marks the tenth anniversary of a side project I had with my friend Robbie Williamson. That side project was called Polyvalent. We released a couple of singles and an album called WANT. If you haven’t heard it, I think it’s worth a listen. I'm still proud of it. It’s got a bit more of rock swagger than CHL, but it’s still moody ole me. It was recorded and mixed by my good friend Steven Tracy, who you may remember as one of the guitarists in The Myriad. 

This year I’m also going to release some new Cool Hand Luke stuff. I have several songs that are completely finished, and I hope to finish some more. In the meantime, I’ll release a single here and there. I just filmed a music video for a new song called If You Keep. I’m happy with how it turned out, and I look forward to sharing it with you. 

Social media is a bit daunting to me. I’m a father, a husband, a full-time pastor, and a part-time mental health counselor. My time is mostly spoken for, and if I want to put energy into Cool Hand Luke, it’s usually not the promotion side of things. But, it’s time to get that lawnmower out, and see if I can get it running. If you’ve read this far, I am deeply grateful for your support. Whether you are interested in new CHL music or old, I hope that it is a blessing to you. It is a blessing to be able to share it with you. Talk to you soon. 

[coolhandluke]

Twenty Years Ago

Twenty years ago today, Cool Hand Luke played their very first show at Cafe Express in Mt. Juliet, TN. It was pretty dumb.

We had only been a band for maybe two or three months. We had only practiced a handful of times, and we had only written one or two finished songs. But Brandon and Jason knew the owner of Cafe Express, which was a Christian venue outside of Nashville. They had been telling the owner they had a punk band called Cool Hand Luke, even before they had found a drummer (me). The owner called Brandon up and said they had a last minute booking for Ghoti Hook and they needed an opener. Brandon told her we’d do it. 

There are a few things that you’ve got to understand about our adolescent minds at the time. First of all, I had not grown up listening to Christian music and I basically knew nothing about it. In fact, a year prior, I hadn’t even known that there was Christian punk or hard core or anything like that. So, I based everything off what Brandon and Jason told me. Punk wasn’t my favorite kind of music at the time, but I had been really into punk in high school. But I only knew the secular bands that I liked: The Descendents, NOFX, Bad Religions, etc. Since I was now in a Christian punk band, I started trying to get into the bands that Jason and Brandon liked: Squad Five-O, Slick Shoes, MXPX, etc. Most of the bands were on Tooth and Nail Records. Tooth and Nail was the pinnacle of what a Christian band doing undergroundish kind of music could do. At least that’s how we perceived it. 

So when we got the offer to open for a band on Tooth and Nail, we thought this was our ticket to the big time. I’m pretty sure we literally had conversations about how we’d open for Ghoti Hook, they would love us, and they would call Tooth and Nail up and say, “You’ve gotta sign Cool Hand Luke!” If you’ve been in a touring band, or if you’re not an idiot, you know that this is not how it works. Also, we imagined that any band on Tooth and Nail must be pretty huge and they were making a living doing music and living the rock and roll/Christian dream. Also a huge misconception. 

So, here were the facts: We were barely a band. We didn’t have close to enough songs to fill a set. We had a week to rehearse, write songs, and get in top form so that we could impress Ghoti Hook, get signed to Tooth and Nail, and head straight to our rock and roll destiny—you know, all for the glory of God. 

There were two problems. One was that I was working my first full time job. I was a temp at Toyota Motor Credit Corporation Lexus Financial Services. Yes, I had to say that every time I answered the phone. So, we could only practice at night. And I lived in Nashville, an hour away from Murfreesboro where Brandon and Jason lived and where we practiced. The other problem was that we needed to practice every single night for a week. But I had third row tickets to see Smashing Pumpkins at a rare acoustic performance at the Grand Ole Opry on August 5, two nights before our show. It was a dilemma: Do I go see one of my favorite bands at a cool venue from the third row? Or, do I forfeit those tickets so that I can take the step necessary to be the cool band that everyone wants to see? The answer was clear: we only had one shot to wow a Tooth and Nail band and live our dreams—I sold my ticket so that we could practice. And was it worth it? I’ll let you decide.

If you know anything about touring, you know that booking a headline show a week or two in advance is never going to be that good of a situation, unless you happen to be in U2 or something like that. (So, U2, if you’re reading this, it doesn’t apply to you.) In the 1998 pre-social media days and the infantile days of internet there weren’t many ways to promote a show with only a week. So, the turnout was less than stellar. And by that I mean, I think literally everyone at the show was our friends and family. So, probably about 25 people, none of which were actually there to see the headliner. And Cafe Express, at the time, was in a big ole warehouse. So 25 people felt like 5 people. 

We were the only opener, so all our gear was on stage. We had set up hours before and “soundchecked.” I put that in quotes because we had no idea what we were doing. We thought playing on stage would sound exactly like it did in our small practice space when we were all facing each other. So when the sound guy asked, “Do you need anything in your monitor?” I said no. I’m not sure I even knew what a monitor was. This fact would be crucial later. 

We took the stage at around 7 and started our set. I think we probably played 5 songs. One or two of them were songs we had worked on prior to our marathon rehearsal sessions, so they sounded sort of like real songs with words. In those days, Brandon played bass and sang, Jason played guitar, and I played drums. I sang harmonies on a few songs but Brandon was the front man. What I didn’t realize until later when I saw the VHS tape of the show (which I still have) was that Brandon had not had time to write lyrics for the new songs…or melodies. So, he just kind of yelled nonsense for most of them. I mean, it was pretty punk rock, but it wasn’t good. We were definitely not tight. We had only played together a handful of times, we were playing songs we barely knew, and we couldn’t hear each other. Also, our “stage presence” was a bit awkward. I looked like a dork trying to be cool. Jason, stood with his legs far apart and did not move the entire set. Brandon actually looked the coolest of us (after all he had a lip ring, which was super punk), but it was diminished by the fact that he was yelling nonsense syllables. 

The highlight of the show was our cover of The Beach Boys’ “Kokomo.” Yes, that was my idea. And I know what you’re wondering, “Did you speed it up and make it a ska version?” Yes. Yes, we did. If you recall, there is a glorious saxophone solo in “Kokomo,” so we thought it would be a good idea to have our friend Robin do a kazoo solo. So, yeah, that happened. Try to hear it in your head: “Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take ya,” but sped up with upbeats on guitar and of course I lifted the hi-hat on those upbeats. Never had there been such a perfect melding of genres, such creativity, song craft, and pure punk good times. 

Then the unthinkable happened: Brandon broke a bass string. He later told us he had never broken a string before. So, he didn’t know what to do. Naturally, he quit playing. When Jason realized that Brandon had quit playing, he quit playing also. Remember how I didn’t ask for anything in my monitor and I couldn’t hear anything except for the sound of my own drums bouncing all around this warehouse? Well, when Brandon and Jason quit playing, it sounded exactly the same to me. So, I finished the last double chorus of “Kokomo” all by myself. Just those dumb upbeats and my spirited high harmonies carried us through to the end. 

Afterward, Ghoti Hook was so impressed by our inventiveness and my perseverance that they immediately called Brandon Ebel (on a pay phone because no one had cell phones back then) and said, “You’ve gotta sign Cool Hand Luke!” Nope. I feel confident that we may have been the worst band they ever played with and that may have been the worst show they ever played. I’m not exaggerating. Years later we were touring through California and we stayed with the bass player of Ghoti Hook. He said he remembered that show and remember us because we were so terrible. Later, we’d come to know what nights like those were like from the perspective of a touring band. Lord, bless them for not just packing up and driving off right after our first song. 

So, am I glad I chose to arrange a ska cover of “Kokomo” rather than see Smashing Pumpkins? Not at all. But I am so thankful that God let me cross paths with Brandon and Jason and that we had some kind of fire under us for a week to start writing together. I have no idea what the trajectory of Cool Hand Luke would have been if we hadn’t chosen to play a show way before we were actually ready. But, I know the trajectory it sent us on. For a few years, it became our collective passion and our sense of purpose. Cool Hand Luke is how I met many of my best friends. It’s how I met my wife and how Jason met his. It’s how I learned who Jesus really is and how I learned to communicate the gospel. It’s how I learned to sing. It’s how I learned to play piano. It’s how I learned some painful, painful lessons about my pride, my idols, and my weaknesses. I’m still honored to be a part of it. I consider it a privilege every time I get to play music. I consider it a profound compliment if you’ve ever listened to it. Life is complex, and I have many plates to spin, but I am so glad that twenty years later Cool Hand Luke is still one of them. It has always been a complete labor of love. Soli Deo Gloria. 

[coolhandluke]

A Brief History of Parafonic

Several years ago, a band called Seeker & Servant reached out to me and told me that they would be recording in Orlando. They wanted to know if I would do a guest vocal on their record. To be honest, I had never heard of them. But I was impressed because they told me why they write, record, and perform music—namely to share the hope of the gospel through doing what they love. They didn’t try to sell me on all the awesome stuff they’ve done and tell me their street cred. I didn’t even really know what their music sounded like. I think they told me it was something like a mix between Mumford & Sons and M83, which honestly sounded confusing and horrible to me. But I really liked these guys and their hearts, so I said I’d do it.

But by the time they were in town to record, my father had just died, I had just started my second masters degree, and I was overwhelmed. I told them it was not going to work out. They were very understanding. Months later, I received the finished CD for Into Your Love, I Go, and a hand written letter. Again, I was really impressed by their sincerity, and I put the CD in my car. It didn’t leave my CD player for weeks.

Seeker & Servant are a worship band. That’s a broad category, and it probably brings to mind Hillsong or something like that. They are definitely not that. I’m not sure they would classify it this way, but I think they write songs that are meant to be contemplative rather than corporate worship songs for the big, white screen on Sundays. I could really connect with them on my own as I was driving around. Their lyrics were sparse, simple, and earnest. There was a minimalism that I could really latch on to. I found myself singing along a lot. In so many ways it was what I needed right then.

To be honest, I don’t listen to worship music very often. It’s just not my thing. But this was different to me. And knowing the story and the hearts behind these songs made it real to me. This wasn’t some guy in Nashville cranking out songs that he could demo and play in front of some record executive. These were young guys, fumbling through their faith, compelled by the ridiculous grace of God through Christ, and singing about it as they figured it out. That’s something I can relate to. (Oddly, that album does sound something like Mumford meets M83. I didn’t think that would work, or that I would like it, but it does and I do.)

Several months later they were coming through Orlando on a short tour. They didn’t play in Orlando, but I met up with them at a coffee shop. (Those dudes are serious about their coffee.) It turns out they were in Orlando staying with Brandon Shattuck, the guy who produced their record. They said he was also from Nashville and that I should meet up with him.

The next week I met up with Brandon for coffee. It turns out he’s from the same small town my dad is from. He went to college in Nashville and worked at different studios in Nashville. We had mutual friends, but somehow we had never crossed paths. He moved to Orlando because his wife, Elissa, had taken a job leading worship at a church down here. I really liked Brandon because he was super played back and far less pretentious than a lot of producers and engineers that I’ve known and worked with. We talked openly about faith, marriage, music, and the restaurants we missed in Nashville. Over the next several months we met periodically. I was thinking, “Man, it would be cool if I could work with him.” Then one day he asked me about joining him as a producer at a studio he was opening.

I’m skipping a lot of details, but in June of 2014 Parafonic Recording Studio opened. It’s a little house from the 1920’s that Brandon worked hard to convert into a studio. So, for the past two and a half years or so, Parafonic is where all of my gear has lived. I teach drum lessons out of there one day a week. When I want to write on piano, I go there. Brandon still does a lot of editing and mixing for people back in Nashville who he has maintained relationships with. It’s a full time job for him. For me, I get to work there periodically when I’m producing a record for a band or artist. In that scenario, Brandon is engineering and I’m producing.

The cool thing is that Brandon and I had the honor of being able to work on the next Seeker & Servant record at Parafonic together. It sort of came full circle. And now I really think of the Seeker & Servant guys as friends and brothers. That record is called You Alone Forever. Then they recently recorded at Parafonic again for an EP called Sojourner. I didn’t produce it, but I did get to play drums on it.

Brandon and I have worked on a lot of cool records together that we’re really proud of. Rachel Cohen, The Quiet Science, Pathos Pathos, and Reverist, to name a few. We have learned how to work together, learned our strengths and weaknesses, and become a really good team. In Greek, para means “alongside of” and phon means “sound, noise, or voice.” We called the studio Parafonic because we want to come alongside others’ sound and help them fulfill their vision.

I’ve worked with a lot of engineers over the years, and Brandon is by far my favorite. He is the perfect mix of artist and geek. What I mean is, he understands the science behind his gear, the physics of sound, the theory behind why a certain chord does or doesn’t work, and all the stuff that is over my head. But he’s also a really talented guitar player who knows a cool sound when he hears one. So, he knows the “right way” to mic a tom and the “right” way to EQ a bass. But he also knows how to dial in a nasty fuzz tone that just sounds amazing. And he humors me me when I say, “MORE DELAY! MORE REVERB!” He has never told me, “No, that’s not the ‘right’ way to do that.” He’s always willing to experiment, and he usually knows a better way to get to a sound than I do.

For well over a year, Brandon has recorded my songs when we’ve had spare time. He has done it just to help me out. And he has put a lot of time and energy into it. Brandon played all the bass and guitars on the new record. He also engineered it, and he’s mixing it right now. I can say he has done a killer job on every single part he has contributed.

When I finally sat down and said, “Okay, I think I’m making a record here. I think it’s going to be a new Cool Hand Luke record.” He was onboard and has given a lot to help me see it through. For the majority of the time that we were working on the record, Brandon’s wife Elissa was pregnant with their first child.

We finished tracking on December 5th. The next day, Cora Rowe Shattuck was born. She is beautiful. As soon as Brandon sent me the first picture of her, I knew that the album had to be called Cora. So, now the album has a name, and I’ll refer to it by that name henceforth. I’m excited for you to meet Cora.

http://www.seekerandservantmusic.com/#our-story

http://www.parafonicrecordingstudio.com

[coolhandluke]

“I THOUGHT COOL HAND LUKE WAS OVER?!?!?!”

So did I. I mean, it was. In 2011, Of Man was released, and Cool Hand Luke embarked on a farewell tour. The line-up was in flux for the final shows, but it was mostly friends from the bands Standing Small, Keep Quiet, Civilian, and Sons. Ironically, none of them actually played on Of Man, which meant they had a lot of hard work learning parts. I’m so grateful to them for their dedication in helping me pull it all off, and more than that, for their friendship.

We played our final show in June of 2011 at a club in Nashville called The End. Poetic, I know. In July of 2011, my wife Brandy and I moved from Nashville (where I had lived my whole life) to Orlando, FL, where we both attended seminary at Reformed Theological Seminary. (If you supported CHL in those days, you may remember that ALL proceeds from Of Man went toward helping me go to seminary. And it really did, and you have no idea how much it helped. That junk is expensive! So, thank you.)

My life, obviously, changed drastically. I went from being dude in a rock band who worked at a coffee shop to dude who wakes up at 5am to study Greek paradigms. It was hard in more ways than I knew to even expect. I never knew how much of my identity was wrapped up in Cool Hand Luke until it wasn’t there anymore. 99% of people I encountered at RTS had no idea who CHL was. It was like, “Oh neat, you were in a band? Never heard of it. Anyway, what did you get on your Hermeneutics paper?” I had an identity crisis. An existential crisis. But I’m getting off the subject. You just want to know the deal with Cool Hand Luke.

In the spring of 2015, I graduated from RTS with two masters degrees. That was more than I had planned on, and I honestly still don’t know how in the world I got through it. Obviously God’s grace and provision sustained Brandy and me through a very time-consuming, expensive process. I’m so thankful that we got to do it. Seminary was very formative for me and Brandy and our marriage. So, now I have a Master of Divinity and a Master of Arts in Counseling. My main job is that I am a mental health counselor at a practice called Journeys Counseling Center in Maitland, FL. (I also practice at Christ Community Church PCA in Titusville, FL one day a week.) I love being able to come alongside people who are hurting and trying to navigate through this broken world. It is a profound honor.

In addition to counseling, I teach drum lessons, and I am a producer at Parafonic Recording Studio. Both of those are fairly part time. It’s feast or famine. But I absolutely LOVE getting to help other people play music and see their vision come to fruition. It’s one of the most life-giving things I have ever experienced. At some point, I’ll tell you the story of Parafonic and my good friend Brandon Shattuck who started it. It’s a good story, but again, it’s off topic.

Over the past two years, I’ve been writing and demoing music. Sometimes it has been with a very clear intention, and sometimes it has just been humming something into a voice memo, not knowing if I’ll ever even listen to it again. I never thought, “I’m working on a new record.” I just wrote because that is what I will always do. I am always thinking of a riff, a bass line, a melody, a weird beat, etc. Sometimes it’s a pretty piano part, sometimes it’s a crushing doom guitar riff in drop C. (Maybe I’ll tell you more about those sometime, too.)

Since I work at a recording studio now, and since Brandon who runs the studio is awesome, he said “Hey, when we don’t have anything going on, we can record some of your stuff.” So we did. Kind of just for fun. I didn’t know if I’d ever do anything with it. But once I started recording, I kept coming up with more and more and more and more song ideas. But, I’m very good at writing half of a song, demoing it, and then forgetting about it. Or getting distracted with new song ideas. Or recording all the music for a song but not writing any lyrics. In other words, I start a lot of things and don’t finish them.

Personally, God has been working on my heart and my character. I am a stereotypical passive, codependent, people-pleaser. It drives me crazy. I mean, I’m a counselor for crying out loud! I know what’s going on, but I still do this stuff. I know that God has changed me and redeemed a lot of those tendencies, but I’m still a work in process. Anyway, I read a book, thinking, “This could be good for some of my clients,” and it ended up being really good for me. It kicked my butt. One of the challenges in the book was not to start any new projects until you finish the ones you’re working on. So, I decided to start with this album.

I talked it over with Brandon, and we made a game plan. So for the past several months, I’ve been chipping away at a record. Usually one day a week, and sometimes not even for a whole day. Once I was about half way done, I realized that I needed to call this thing something.

I thought about releasing it under my name, Mark Nicks. But there are a few problems: 1) Mark Nicks doesn’t sound all that cool 2) No one knows who in the world Mark Nicks is 3) I don’t know about you, but when I just hear a dude’s name as a recording artist or whatever, I imagine that it’s going to be acoustic, singer songwriter kind of music. Nothing wrong with that if that’s you’re thing, but that is decidedly not what this record sounds like. I wanted to avoid the perception that this is coffee shop music.

I also kicked around the idea of just calling it by some new moniker. I had thought I might call it The Balancing Act, since that’s a CHL song and it sort of fits the theme of a one man band. But it turns out there was a band called that in the 80’s. Which leads to the second problem: ALL GOOD BAND NAMES ARE TAKEN. I have lists of names on my phone and somewhere someone has a Facebook page, a Bandcamp page, or a Spotify single under that name. Besides that, if I picked a random band name, no one would know who it was. It would just be one more record floating around on iTunes that no one ever pays any attention to. I don’t have the time and resources to “break” a new band. (I’m not sure I’d have any idea how to do that anyway.)

So, I kept coming back to the idea of putting out a new Cool Hand Luke record. I had three main reasons not to. 1) I said Cool Hand Luke was over. Wouldn’t this be lying?  2) Most of CHL’s fans were listening when they were in high school and college 12 years ago. Now they have kids and mortgages. Will they even care anymore? 3) I have never wanted to give the impression that Cool Hand Luke is just me. It was always a band. For Of Man, there was no official line-up and I wrote all the songs, but I had a bunch of friends play on it. There is no way I could have pulled that off on my own. So the dilemma has been, “Is it arrogant to release my ‘solo’ music under the band moniker Cool Hand Luke? Will people perceive that I’m just trying to milk whatever CHL fanbase still exists?”

Well, I’ll address all three issues. 1) Cool Hand Luke was over. This is very true. I never had any intention of doing a reunion tour or relaunching the band or anything like that. But as I discussed this with a few of my good friends they all encouraged me to just call it Cool Hand Luke. Aaron Stone, who you may know from the almighty My Epic, said “Who cares? Bands do that all the time.” (Just in the past year LCD Soundsystem started headlining festivals and working on new music after doing a publicized farewell show at Madison Square Garden and putting out a documentary about it.) And my friend Tim Inman who I play with some and who fronts The Separate said, “Well, if they are a fan of Cool Hand Luke, they’ll probably just be excited. And if they’re not, they won’t care anyway.” I thought that was a good point. Recently I realized that the last song on Of Man is called Not the End, Not the End. We all should have seen this coming.

2) CHL’s old fanbase won’t care anymore. Well, maybe they won’t. That’s a fear of mine. I think about bands that I liked in college. If most of them made a new record after years of nothing, I probably wouldn’t care much. I may not even bother to listen. In fact, that has happened. But I am hoping that there are still some old fans who will be curious to see what CHL in the modern age sounds like. If I was trying to rehash early 2000’s emo, I’d understand if no one bothered with it. But, I think I’ve got something new to offer. And if people don’t care to check it out, that’s okay. I know it has been worthwhile, and I think people will care about it if they give it a chance. As I’ve grown more aware of my people-pleasing tendencies, I’ve realized that a lot of decisions that I have made in my life, especially as they pertain to CHL, have been driven by fear. But, I want to live out of the freedom of the gospel, driven by truth. I want to risk in the hopes that I might be a blessing for the sake of the gospel. Fear will always leave us second-guessing and trying to eliminate all the variables. It cripples us. I’m tired of that narrative. There is a bigger story to step into. So, here’s step one: a new CHL record. BAM!

3) Mark Nicks does not = Cool Hand Luke. This was probably the biggest hurdle for me to get past. But my good friend Chris McMurtry (from one of my favorite bands ever—Aireline) explained it like this: “It’s a family name. If I say I am a McMurtry, I’m not saying I’m the only McMurtry. But I am in the family, so I can use the name.” This made all the difference in the world to me. I think about Brandon Morgan and Jason Hammil and the other guys who I have had the honor of making records with, and they are Cool Hand Luke, too. My saying that this new music is Cool Hand Luke is not my saying that those guys are not Cool Hand Luke. Does that make sense? It did to me. (Not to get your hopes up, but I have talked to Jason and Brandon—the two other original members of CHL— recently about the possibility of doing some new music. It’s logistically complicated, but we’re all open to it.) And besides that, I definitely did not do this on my own. Brandon Shattuck engineered the whole thing, which he is awesome at. Beyond that he played guitar and bass on the record.

So, now I bring it back to your comment and the title of this blog: “I thought Cool Hand Luke was over.” Well, it was. But in another way, it never will be. I still get emails and hear stories from people about how God has used and continues to use the music of CHL in the lives of people who chose to embrace it for more than just entertainment. Sometimes my life feels so far removed from touring the country and rehearsing for hours at a time that I forget it was even real. But these stories matter. I really believe that Cool Hand Luke mattered to a lot of you. And I think it’s still a fitting name and vehicle for the music that I’m making. I’ll tell you more about the themes of this record and what went into the writing/recording process shortly. But just know that I am proud of it, and I want people to hear it. I think calling this music Cool Hand Luke is the best way to do that, and I have peace about putting that name on it. I don’t take it lightly at all. It has always been a privilege and an honor to be a part of Cool Hand Luke, and I still view it that way—maybe now more than ever.

[coolhandluke]

The Last Days: Bittersweet Part 3

Today marks the first anniversary of my Father’s death, and this is the account of his last days. It is the third and final part of a series of blogs I have posted over the past year. It may be helpful to read those first.

I was in Florida for less than a week, and then I flew back up to Nashville. Dad’s condition worsened, and mom just couldn’t take care of him on her own. We took shifts staying up, giving pain meds every hour, giving Dad water, rolling him over, changing his diaper. All of these were things I just didn’t think I could do before I got up there. You find when you love someone that much that you don’t think about yourself. You just do what needs to be done. The scary thing for me was how fragile Dad was, and how much pain he was in. I just didn’t want to hurt him. As the days dragged on, my mom and I were both exhausted. Neither of us was sleeping very much because we were splitting up the night shift. Honestly, even when I was in bed, I couldn’t sleep. I had so much on my mind, and I was constantly ready for Mom to rush in and tell me something was wrong. Dad had quit eating solid foods, and it seemed like the end was near. Eventually, we decided that we needed to have Dad taken to a hospice facility because we just couldn’t take care of him the way he needed. The paramedics came to take Dad in an ambulance. They were very friendly, but they weren’t as gentle with Dad as Mom and I were. I wanted to micro-manage and tell them, “It hurts when he bends that way. Try not to bend his back.” As they moved him from the bed to the stretcher, he cried out in pain. It was awful seeing them slide him into the ambulance. I still have dreams about following behind it in my car on the way to hospice. The last couple of weeks there at hospice are kind of a blur. We just hung out in Dad’s room, and we were glad that he was taken care of--yet, I was sad that I wasn’t the one taking care of him anymore. He would talk from time to time, but it was usually to tell us that he needed water or that he wasn’t feeling good. We’d have short conversations, but he was so loopy I rarely knew what he was trying to tell me. One night he woke up, and someone had left the TV on in his room. There was a show on Animal Planet with a bunch of Australian people talking. Dad said he couldn’t make out the TV and he just heard the voices, and he thought he had died. He was laughing as he told us that. On July 2nd my nephew Austin was born, just down the street from Dad. We were really hoping and praying that Dad would get to see Austin before he died, and he did. We have pictures of him lying in his bed with baby Austin next to him. Dad was aware enough to know what was going on, and he was very proud. It was a sweet moment for all of us. At the same time, it just pierced my heart because I knew that he would never get to see my children or hold them. I think that’s still what hurts the worst. After we had been there with Dad over a week, I had a tough decision. I was starting the counseling program at RTS the next week. My professors knew what was going on, and they told me to do what I needed to do. However, they told me that if I missed the first week of class, I would have to put off the program for a year. We talked to the doctor at hospice, and she told us that Dad could live for another month or two. He had started eating some, and they had his pain meds regulated so that he was more comfortable. Mom told me to go back, so we did. I actually drove my Dad’s truck back from Nashville to Orlando because he wanted me to have it. A few days later, hospice told my Mom that since Dad’s health had stabilized, they couldn’t keep him any longer unless we paid a ridiculous amount of money. It’s strange that the hospitals don’t want their patients dying there and hospice doesn’t want their patients living there. It was heart breaking for Mom. She was so exhausted, and I wasn’t there to help. Honestly, she just didn’t want Dad to die at home. He had only been home two days when his condition got a lot worse. His mouth started to draw up and he quit eating. An elder from my parents’ church got on the phone with hospice and insisted that they take him back, and they did. I thought I’d be there when Dad died. I really wanted to be. I’m not sure what difference it would have made, but I just wanted to be there. The lady at hospice told me they’d be able to give me a 48 hour window so I could get back up there. I had just finished my first week of the counseling program. I literally remember nothing about it. I was in a daze, and I felt like I was being rude to my classmates. That Saturday night, there was a welcome party for our whole class and the entire counseling faculty. I just couldn’t go. I told Brandy I just couldn’t do it. We went to dinner that night, and we didn’t talk much. It was heavy knowing that Dad was going back to hospice. That night, I decided I was going to try to fly back to Nashville the next day. At about 1:30am on July 14th, my phone rang, and I knew what it would be. My Aunt Ruth called from Mom’s phone to tell me that my father was dead. Mom told me that when they got to his room, the nurses were checking on him and telling her there wasn’t much time. As his breathing started to decline, everyone left the room except for Mom. She said that they were holding hands, and she was kissing his face. She told Dad how much we all loved him. A single tear rolled down his face and then he stopped breathing. Last week, I went home to Nashville for a few days before all the chaos of trying to take summer classes for two different degrees ensued. I got to celebrate Austin’s first birthday with Mom, Brad, and his family. It wasn’t a sad trip. It was actually a great trip. I had good talks with Mom, I shot the BB gun with Braden, and I recorded a song with Tori. But it’s weird being in that house. My only memories so far are of Dad withering away in that bedroom. One year later, I can say that I have more good memories of Dad’s life than I do the memories of him dying. My friend Tim lost his dad, too. He told me that you don’t get used to him being gone, but you get used to the hole in your life. I’ve found that to be true so far. I miss my dad, and I still catch myself thinking, “Oh, I need to ask Dad why the birds hang out next to the cattle. He’ll know.” Then I remember I won’t be able to talk to him for a while. It has been a hard year, but it hasn’t been a bad one. Brandy has been amazing and patient and understanding. My classmates and professors have been so loving and supportive. They have known how to let me talk about Dad, and they have known how to just have fun with me when I needed to not feel sad for a while. I’ve grown a lot and learned a lot. The last few months Dad was alive, he kept telling me, “Stress will kill you.” He just wanted me not to carry so much, and not to let it crush me. I’ve been learning how to do that while I juggle two masters degrees and a bunch of random part time jobs. I am still doing my best to honor my father even though he isn’t here anymore. I just wish that more people could have known him. He was not a perfect man, and he left this life still carrying a lot of regret. But my Dad loved Jesus, and he loved his family. He never stopped learning, and he never stopped being changed by Scripture. I miss him dearly.

[coolhandluke]

The Next Day: Bittersweet Part 2

Six months ago today, my dad died. There are moments of my last days with him that I think about every day. I have thought about writing them down, but for some reason I have just kept putting it off until now. I believe our stories are important because they are part of one massive, beautiful story that God has been revealing through the ages. Though I have a lot more memories of my living, vibrant father, it seems significant that I remember my dying father also. This is a hard story. It’s not all of the story by any means, but it is my story. I don’t expect many of you to read this, but it is a story that I need to tell. It will probably make more sense if you read my previous entry, “Bittersweet to Say the Least.” The morning of June 17, the morning after we finished the record, I woke up feeling heavy and sad. Steven had left for Arizona at 5am, so we had said our goodbyes the night before. The studio was empty. Robbie and I silently loaded all our gear into his car, and then he took me to the bus station downtown. We said a quick goodbye, and then I was alone. My bus was two hours late arriving.  I was riding a Mega Bus, so my wait was outside on a sidewalk in the sun. My bus ride to Nashville was lonely. I sat on a row all by myself. I tried to read but I couldn’t. I dozed a few times. Mostly I just stared out the window and thought. I had made the drive from Atlanta to Nashville probably hundreds of times in my touring days, but this one seemed to drag. I just wanted to be home, to face whatever was next. My cousin, Lori, picked me up and took me to my parents’ house. I was really quiet on the drive home. I was scared I seemed rude, but I just didn’t really know what to make of everything. It didn’t feel like going home because my parents had moved into a condo since the last time I had been home. When Dad’s health started getting really bad, they moved out of our old house so there wouldn’t be a yard to worry about. They moved to a part of town I was not really familiar with. I will never forget what I am about to write. There was something horrible and profound and poignant about what happened. I walked up to the front steps of my parents’ new condo. The big, wooden door was open so that I could see in, but the glass door was shut. I looked through the glass door and I could see through the living room to the back porch. My dad was sitting there at the table. He was hunched over and frail. He had an old t-shirt on that looked three sizes too big for him. I cannot get that picture out of my head. I see it all the time, and it brings tears to my eyes. I tried to open the glass door, but it was locked. My mom, hearing it, ran to the door with a huge smile on her face. As she got a few feet away from me, she tripped and fell. I saw her land on her knees and her head almost hit the ground. I cried out, “Oh, mom!”  I struggled with the door, but it wouldn’t budge. I didn’t know if my mom was hurt or if she could stand up. I thought, “Oh, God, I can’t handle anything else.” I stood there, helpless on the front porch. My mom on the ground with her head down. My dad, so frail, so weak, sitting by himself, unaware that any of this was happening. It was horrible. It was as if God was saying, “You are helpless to save your parents.” After a few seconds, Mom got up, clearly embarrassed, and laughed at herself. We hugged for a long time. I wanted to run out to dad, and I wanted to run away all at the same time. Mom opened the door to the back porch and let me out to him. She left us alone. When Dad saw me, he started to weep in a way that I’ve never heard anyone cry. It was pitiful and horrible and full. I stood there with my arms around him. His hair was so thin and fuzzy from all the chemo. I could see the bones in his arms. I just wanted to hold him and make things better somehow. It’s odd that after all those years, the son should feel that for the father. Mom made Dad and me some food. He said he’d like to eat on the front porch so he could feel the sun. He struggled to push himself up with his cane. That was the last time he ever stood up on his own.  The next few weeks would be filled with last times. We sat on the front porch and ate our cheese and crackers and fruit. Dad ate very little because he had very little appetite anymore. He told me that he missed the garden at the old house, and that they couldn’t really grow anything at the condo unless it was in a pot. He showed me some thyme growing in a pot next to us. He had brought it from his old herb garden and planted it. I thought how sad it was that it was all that was left of his garden. That was the last time he ever sat outside. Those next few days blurred together. I did a lot to help my mom unpack and do things around the house. In the evenings we just sat and watched TV. Dad dozed a lot. Occasionally, he made comments about something on American Pickers or chuckled at Turtle Man. Brandy came up a few days after I did, and she was amazing for me. I really don’t know how I could have gone through everything without her. I kept it together most of the day, but at night when we got in bed, I would cry and she’d hold me. The days slipped by, and I saw dad slowly get worse. We decided to go back home because we needed to work and Brandy needed to see her clients in the clinic. Dad was in hospice at home, so there were nurses coming by periodically to check on him and help him with baths. They said that it was near the end but since he was still eating and getting around a little bit, he may still have a couple months. I didn’t want to leave. Not at all. I just wanted to stay and help Mom take care of Dad, but I had to go. Mom and Dad both told me that I should. That last day, Dad told me he needed to use the bathroom. To get him up, I had to lean down and he’d put an arm around my neck and push up with his cane. That time I did most of the work. Just a couple days before he could walk on his own. Now, I had to hold him as he walked. He told me he didn’t think he could sit on the toilet on his own, so I helped him down and pulled his pants down for him. He sat there weeping, humiliated. I wish he could have known in that moment how much dignity I saw in him and how honored I was to serve him. It had been well over a week since I had mailed his letter to him, and it still had not arrived. I was waiting for my aunt to come pick Brandy and me up to take us to the airport. Brandy and Mom left me alone to say goodbye to Dad. I decided that since he hadn’t read his letter, I should tell him what I wanted him to know. I told him how much I loved him. How proud I was of him. I told him that if he had ever done anything wrong to me, I had forgiven him and so had Jesus. As he lay on the couch, I put my head on his chest and we wept. The goodbye was all wrong. The phone kept ringing. Brandy kept knocking on the door to let me know our ride was there. It wasn’t like the movies. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it’s all I had. I told Dad, “It’s okay to let go.” He wept so hard that he couldn’t speak. I don’t know anything more that I could have told him. I don’t know what I would have changed, but I just wanted more time. I wanted a long goodbye, but I’m thankful I had what I got. It wouldn���t be the last time I’d talk to him, but it was the last time he was that aware.

[coolhandluke]

Bittersweet to Say the Least: My time in the studio

Robbie and I got to the studio late Friday, June 7th. We tracked drums all day Saturday and Sunday. On Monday, we began bass. That day I called home to see how my dad’s appointment with the oncologist went. I could tell immediately from my mom’s voice that it wasn’t good news. It was worse than any of us thought, although in some ways it was the news I had been expecting to hear for a few months. The doctors had done all they could do for Dad. They could do another round of chemo, but it would only be to extend his life a little longer—maybe a month. We had a decision to make. I sat on the steps outside the studio in the hot, Atlanta sun as Mom told me about the options. They had more or less decided not to do anymore chemo. It just made Dad feel sick, and they reasoned that a prolonged life of pain didn’t make much sense. The only option left was hospice. No more treatments—just pain management. Mom asked me if I felt okay with that, and I told her I did. It didn’t seem real. For the past six weeks or so, Dad had felt so bad that I usually didn’t get to talk to him when I called home. But that day, I did. His voice sounded so weak and quiet. He began asking how I was doing, how Brandy was doing, how recording was going. He never liked talking about his health. He didn’t want me to worry. I asked him how he was doing. He said, “Well, do you mean how am I feeling or how am I doing with what the doctor said? “ I said both. He said he was okay. I think he had expected it more than any of us. He had been telling me for months that he felt like he was dying—even when the doctor gave us hope that there were “still more options.” Even so, Dad didn’t sound okay. He started to cry. I had never really told him how his sickness had affected me because I didn’t want to upset him. But I started to cry, too. I told him it was really hard to know what to think. I told him it was hard being away. He started sobbing loudly, and I could hardly understand him. He told me that I didn’t need to think about him. He said he didn’t want to upset me, and he would let me go so I could work. Being in Atlanta recording with Steven had been something to look forward to for well over a year. It almost didn’t happen for a number of reasons. Money, time, seminary, the Kickstarter, logistics. But it all worked out, finally. I remember tracking drums and thinking, “I can still do this! This is what I was created to do.” As I tracked drums to the last song, I looked in the control room at Steven and Robbie. My eyes started to tear up. I said, “Guys, what if this is the last time I get to do this?” There was no place I would rather be than in the studio with two good friends recording music that I was passionate about. And yet, part of my heart was back in Orlando with Brandy. Part of my heart was in Nashville with my parents. There was no way that this new information could not deeply affect the recording process and the record itself. The next days were very difficult. We laughed a lot. We told a lot of stories. We worked long hours. I slept very little. We’d get in bed at 1 or 2 am, but I would lie there for hours, thinking. That is how I carry stress. That is what I am literally doing right now at 3:22am. I was up before the sun every morning. I’d read a little. Pray a little. Work on finishing lyrics. There were so many things going through my head that I wanted my dad to know, but I didn’t want to tell him parting words prematurely. I didn’t want to give him the impression that I had given up on him. The following Sunday was going to be Father’s Day. Father’s Day. The worst one I could imagine. What do you get for a father who is dying? I decided to send him a letter. On Thursday morning, I woke up early, brewed some coffee, and sat down with a yellow legal pad. I’m not sure how long it took me to write that letter. I had to stop every few lines to blow my nose and blot my eyes. It was all I could do not to get tears on the paper. In that letter, I told Dad literally everything I wanted to tell him. I told him what he meant to me. I told him how hard being in Orlando away from him had been. I told him how badly I wish he could have felt well enough to come visit. I told him about all the things I wish I could have done with him: to see the seminary, to meet my professors, to meet all of our great friends, to play with our cat Luna, to go to the Farmer’s Market, to get sandwiches from Cavalari’s—to see our life in Florida. I told him that the hardest thing for me was that he would never get to meet my children. I asked him if he could write them a letter if he ever had a day that he felt up to it. The end of the letter was the most important. I told him what a great dad he was and that I was proud of him. I told him I had long since forgiven him for anything and everything he had ever done to hurt me. I told him that more than that Jesus had forgiven him, and that he has the very righteousness of Christ. On our lunch break that day, I took the letter to the post office. I got the postal worker to weigh the letter so that I knew I had the appropriate postage. He assured me that the letter would arrive before Father’s Day. On Father’s Day, I called home in the afternoon. Mom told me that Dad was having a better day than he had had in a few weeks. That is exactly what I had prayed for. She said he even walked in the backyard with Tori, my niece. I only got to talk to him for a moment, and it was nothing profound. He was already tired by then, so we didn’t say much. I asked Mom if he had gotten anything in the mail from me, and she said he hadn’t. I had written a song for Dad. It was not so much a song about him as it was a song to him, much like my letter. Upon discovering that he had not gotten my letter, I changed some lyrics and added some lines. I thought it would be a good way to say some of the things I had said in the letter. Tracking vocals for that song was something that we had put off for a bit, and I think we all secretly dreaded it. Steven and Robbie had seen me cry a lot. We talked about Dad and hospice and goodbyes. I knew Steven from touring with his band the Myriad. They were all good friends of mine. Their drummer, Randy, had died of cancer a few years prior. In fact, he died while I was in Atlanta at the same studio recording the final Cool Hand Luke record—and Robbie played bass on some of it. Steven told me stories about his final days and conversations with Randy. We anticipated what it might be like with my Dad. It was really good to just sit with Robbie and Steven and allow them to share my grief. The vocals for Dad’s song, Woke Up on a Highway, didn’t take as long as I had imagined they would, but it was a difficult process. I sang until my words were inaudible from crying. Then I’d stop, we’d back up and start where I had lost it. Steven wept with me as we waded through that song. We didn’t get the perfect takes or anything like that. When I sang a line that was in the ballpark and my voice didn’t waver too much, we moved on. If I had to lose my father, I was really glad that I got to process it in such a unique way. It was a very odd, profound thing to have such a distinct snapshot of that moment of my life. I felt like I got to honor Dad while he was still alive. And I got to acknowledge the deep longing and the deep loss that I was feeling. Most of us don’t have time to sit and think, “How do I feel about what is happening?” I consider not only that song, but also the whole recording process as a gift and privilege. The days in the studio are kind of a blur now. I wish I had kept a journal, but I’ve never been good at things like that. I was writing lyrics in the morning, sitting with Robbie as he tracked guitars, and recording vocals intermittently. But that night, Robbie, Steven and I got into a conversation about ghosts and aliens and all the dorky stuff that guys secretly love sitting around and talking about. We decided that we would knock out one more vocal and then pop popcorn and watch a documentary on UFO’s. I think after the heaviness of singing Dad’s song, Robbie and Steven just wanted me to have fun. That meant a lot to me. To fuel our boyish adventure, we went to CVS to get energy drinks. Yes, I know that energy drinks are horrible for you, but sometimes you’ve just got to embrace the moment. So we were in CVS, standing in front of the coolers, overwhelmed by the amount of options. We were all giddy with excitement, and Steven and I just started running up and down the aisles acting like we were the singer for Converge. I don’t remember why. And you have to understand that Steven is freaking tall, and we are both grown men. I mean, we both round up to 40. I’m sure the lady at CVS was thinking, “These dudes do not need energy drinks.” We went back to the studio, tracked the song, popped the popcorn, and fell asleep within the first twenty minutes of watching the movie. That’s how it goes. There were lots of sober moments in the studio when it hit me, “I’m not 22 and on tour any more. I’m getting old and I’m feeling it.” I felt a sense of sadness and dread come over me as our brief time in the studio slowly came to an end. I was really excited about how the songs were turning out. Everything had come pretty easily and naturally. The three of us worked really well together. We had worked hard, but it felt like we had time to have good conversations, too. Plus, I got to see a lot of friends that I don’t normally see. It had been an overwhelmingly good experience. Yet, my Dad grew worse, and I had decided instead of returning home to Orlando, to take a bus to Nashville to be with my parents. I knew that all the fun would end abruptly and I would walk into something very, very painful. We wrapped up on Sunday, June 16. The next day, Robbie would drive to Orlando, Steven would drive to Arizona, and I would take a bus to Nashville. We had made it a goal to finish by dinner on that day so that we could spend our last night together eating, watching a movie, praying, and being friends. To our delight, we met our goal and I finished the last vocal around 5. But when we were deciding where to pick up dinner, some people showed up and wanted to go to dinner with us also. That, of course, changed the dynamic of our evening. It changed the shape of our conversations. It frankly, disappointed the three of us. Our evening together ended up being a few minutes at the end of the night when we were exhausted. That was the beginning of a peculiar lesson that God would teach me over the next few weeks. Until Christ returns and redeems all things, we live in a broken world and even goodbyes are broken. I always envision cinematic endings with montages of meaningful times flashing by as great music plays. But this side of heaven, it rarely happens that way. The phone rings, a stranger walks in, the flight is delayed, it’s so noisy you can’t hear, and on and on. Those little annoyances are indicators that things are not what they are supposed to be. People die. Guitars won’t stay in tune. And the long goodbye is truncated to, “See you later.” But it’s not the end, friends. Some of you played a part in helping Robbie and me get to the studio to make a record. Some of you will support us once it is out. I can’t thank you enough. Making this record was one of the most meaningful, life-giving things I have ever done. I hope the end result will be that to many of you. Dad never got to hear his song. He never got to read his letter. The last time I talked to him, I had no idea it was going to be the last time I talked to him. Goodbyes are broken. But praise God that it is not a goodbye, but a “see you later.”

[coolhandluke]

A Hard Week

[I wrote this in the airport yesterday. It is quite long, and I would understand if you don't want to read all of it. The most important parts are probably the beginning and the end. It was mostly for me, but I wanted to share what's going on.]

Last Wednesday night, I was driving home from Polyvalent practice at about 10:30pm when I listened to a voicemail from my parents. My dad’s solemn voice told me that my four-year-old nephew, Braden, had been attacked by a dog, that he was in Vanderbilt hospital, and that it was serious. I immediately called my mom, and she wept while explaining to me that the neighbor’s dog had attacked Braden, and bitten him repeatedly in the face. He had been rushed to Summit Hospital and then upon seeing the severity of the damage, he was rushed to Vanderbilt. My mom went to pick up my niece, Tori, who had witnessed the whole thing. My mom saw Braden just prior to him being taken away. She said there was so much blood that she couldn’t tell what the damage was. I immediately felt anger. I don’t know why that was the first emotion. I didn’t know what kind of dog it was or whom it belonged to, but I hated the dog. I hated its owners. I imagined what the dog looked like and imagined punching it over and over again. I imagined yelling at his negligent, imaginary owners. I wanted someone to blame, but there was no one. I was home by the time I got off the phone. Brandy could tell something was wrong. I told Brandy what happened and she hugged me as we sat on the couch. I shouted, “LEAVE MY FAMILY ALONE!”  But I don’t know who I was saying it to. The next morning they prepped Braden for surgery, and I got the first flight to Nashville that I could. My best friend, Bryan, picked me up and took me to my parents’ house. They were waiting outside for me when we pulled up. When my mom saw me she immediately started crying. My dad was not feeling well but he was waiting, too. Tori had spent the night with my parents and stayed home from school. Tori bombarded me with hugs as soon as I stepped out of the car. Braden was still in surgery. We didn’t know what was going to happen at that point, but things went about as well as they could. The dog had bitten through Braden’s cheek in several places and also bitten his eye. They had to stitch his cheeks as best as they could and assess the damage to his eye. The bite had destroyed one of his tear ducts, which they repaired, and it had basically destroyed his eyelid. They did their best to repair it, but there was muscle missing from it, and they will probably have to repair more of the damage later. The good news is that they don’t think his vision will be affected. His eye is still swollen shut at this point, so we don’t know for sure. A few hours after the surgery, they released Braden and he went home. Mom, Tori, and I went to my brother, Brad’s house. Mom and I teared up when we walked in the living room. Little Braden was lying on the couch next to Brad, and he looked every bit as bad as you would fear. I was nervous to see him. I thought I might be grossed out or something. When I saw him, my heart was just filled with compassion. He didn’t talk very much, and he kept a pacifier in his mouth because it was so sore. He looked pitiful. My brother started crying and kept saying, “I just can’t believe this happened.”  Amanda, his seven-month-pregnant wife, rubbed his arm. She said they had taken turns being strong. They had been awake all night in the hospital and no one came to sit with them. While we were there, the next-door neighbor came over. She was holding an infant and her five-year-old daughter tagged along behind her. The little girl is one of Braden’s playmates. She gave Braden some toys and a card, and she also cried as soon as she saw him. I didn’t know who she was, but I could tell that Brad and Amanda were good friends with her. Over the course of conversation I realized that she was the owner of the dog who had bitten Braden. She had called animal control and they had euthanized the dog that morning. I expected Brad and Amanda to be cold and angry toward this woman, but they weren’t. She looked nothing like the soulless owner’s that I had conjured up in my mind. She was a very real, very heartbroken single mother who hated what her dog did every bit as much as we did. My brother and his wife were bigger than I was. I just wanted to blame someone. Brad and Amanda had to give Braden antibiotics, apply ointment to his wounds, and put a patch over his eye before he went to bed. He was so scared and hurt that he started screaming if they even approached him. My mom tried to sit on the couch next to him and comfort him, but he freaked out. When Brad came toward him with the ointment he started punching and kicking and screaming. He pushed my mom down on the ground and she fell into a chair, bruising her ribs. Amanda and I struggled to help her up, and Braden never stopped screaming. It was horrible. There are no words for the range of emotions I felt. Tori was sitting there on the couch freaking out and adding to the chaos. I told her to go up to her room, and mom and I went in the kitchen where we couldn’t see Braden. But we still heard everything. Horrible. Horrible. The next afternoon, Brandy flew in and I picked her up. We went to see Braden again, and this time he seemed a bit more like himself. He was talking a little bit, but he didn’t want to leave Brad’s side. Tori went home with us to spend the night, and she was very excited that Brandy was there. At this point, it may be good to explain how many things were going on while we were in Nashville. On top of Braden’s injuries, Amanda, his mom is pregnant. Tori saw the dog attack, and she was the only one who could tell us what happened. She was turning 11 the following Monday. My dad has very advanced cancer, and his health keeps declining. It has gotten so bad that my parents just bought a condo on a different side of town. They are moving there so that my mom won’t have to keep up with a yard and home repairs. I was coming to help my brother, to see my nephew, to celebrate my niece’s birthday, to visit my sick father, and to tell my childhood home goodbye. Saturday, Brandy and I took Tori out for her birthday to give her parents and my parents a break. We took her to a place called Strike and Spare that has bowling, skating, bumper cars, bungee trampolines, and a bunch of other stuff. We did all of it. Brandy and Tori beat me at bowling. All three of us did back flips on the bungee trampoline. We laughed a lot, and for a bit, we forgot about all the bad stuff. We took Tori to McDonald’s, her pick, and then we took her to a cupcake shop to pick out cupcakes for everybody. That night we ordered pizza, sat around and watched a movie, while Tori stayed glued to her Nintendo DS. The next day, Brandy and I started packing things. For weeks, I’ve been offering to fly up and help my mom pack. She has told me that I don’t need to worry about it, that she has been working on things little by little and there were plenty of people to help. I was shocked to find that the house looked very much like it always has. Not a lot was gone. We spent the next several days going through rooms, deciding what to keep and what to get rid of. Boxing up things that were moving. Boxing up things that were going to Goodwill. Boxing up things to give to other people. The more time I spent going through old photos, old books, old record, old trinkets, the more the memories flooded back—the more it hit me what was going on. We came to Nashville to help my brother’s family, and we did. But we were there maybe even more to help my parents. My mom has been bearing so much on her own. She keeps the grandkids, she takes care of Dad, she cooks, she cleans, she packs, she gives, she gives, she gives. But no one is taking care of her. I can’t imagine how physically and emotionally exhausted she must be. I felt frustrated that there was so little packed for the move. But the more time I spent there, the more I understood. There was so much to do that she didn’t know where to start. And honestly, this isn’t a fun move to an exciting new place. It’s a necessary move that marks the end of a very long chapter in my parents’ lives. It is the huge, tangible reminder that my dad is sick. We moved into that house when I was one. All my memories of home and family are in that house. I thought I would feel sad leaving it. But honestly, there was so much to do, and so much meaning behind what had to be done, that I could hardly think about the house itself. I just want my parents to get out of that house and into their new condo so that they can rest. So that the stress of what to do will be behind them. So my dad can be at peace. He’s been selling the few assets they have acquired: stock he got from working for the railroad for over 40 years, the five acres they had bought in the 80s in hopes that they would some day build a home in the country. He has bought grave plots for he and mom and paid for his funeral arrangements. He is setting his affairs in order for mom and Brad and me. The condo is one of the final steps. And then what? I mowed the grass one last time. We have a very big front and back yard. During my entire adolescence and early college years, I mowed the grass almost every single week. It takes a couple of hours on a riding lawn mower and then an hour or so doing trim work with a push mower. It’s hard work, but it’s cathartic. I found that I enjoyed it more now than I did when I was a kid. Maybe because I wanted to help my parents so much. Maybe because there is a theological significance to bringing order to the grass, the thorns, and the thistles that I was unaware of when I was younger. At first, I didn’t think about anything in particular. The first laps, you focus on the pattern you’re making: dodging the tool shed, the fence, and the fig tree. After that, you don’t have to think a lot about where you’re going. So, you just think. I thought about school, songs, Braden. And then, I thought about all the times I had mowed the grass before. I found my ragged, adolescent voice on that lawn mower. I used to sing at the top of my lungs—mostly Nirvana and Pearl Jam songs. It was so loud on the mower that I thought no one could hear me. After doing that for months, maybe years, my parents informed me that they could hear me from the house. So, I stopped singing on the mower. But I still wrote songs in my head. I can’t even remember how many Cool Hand Luke songs were worked out while I was mowing the grass. I started to feel the old feeling of wanting to do a good job because I thought Dad might be watching. I was so scared of screwing something up when I was young. So scared that I would see Dad walk out and correct me or tell me a better way to do things. My dad and I haven’t always had the greatest relationship. He has always been a good father, and he loved and provided for us very well. But he had a way he wanted things done. It was often hard for me to know what that way was. And it was very hard for him when we didn’t get it right. In recent years, Dad has apologized more times than I can remember for being hard on Brad and me growing up. He laments not being more supportive and not letting us have more freedom. I’ve forgiven him for all of that, and I consider him a very good friend and mentor. But I guess the scars are still there. I was never scared that my dad would beat me or anything like that. I just knew he would correct me if it wasn’t the right way. I wanted him to be proud.  I felt that again, but this time I knew he wouldn’t scold me or correct me. I just wanted to do a good job so that my dad could have peace. I know that the hardest part of all of this for my dad isn’t his aching bones or his bloated stomach. It’s the fact that he can’t do what he has always done—what he was created to do. He had me to mow his entire garden down. You just can’t understand what that symbolized. My whole life, my dad spent hours working in his garden every single day. In the summer, my parents have always eaten almost entirely food that they grow. Tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, okra, asparagus, beans, corn, melons, peppers, rosemary, thyme, lemon balm, mint, cilantro. Slowly, my dad’s health has declined and rendered him unable to do the work of gardening. That’s his passion. And I was mowing it down. He will never sow in that garden again. Even if my parents weren’t moving, he just can’t do it. He gave me specific instructions on how he wanted it done. Raise the blade to 6 on the turnips, lower it to 2 on the edges. Don’t go over the asparagus because they’re still good. He stood and watched as I destroyed in minutes what he had spent 34 years perfecting. Maybe I’m being overly dramatic. I mean, he probably does this every spring—starts over. But he won’t be starting again. At the condo, he can only grow tomatoes if they’re in a pot. Brandy and I stayed very busy for three days straight. I went through the books and scraps of paper hidden in the old piano bench and found songs notated and lyrics scribbled. I found the original post it that I had written the beginning of Cinematic on. I pinged the detuned keys of that old upright piano, and then we put it on Craig’s List. We laughed at old pictures with my sullen expressions and bad hair. We found old drawings of Voltron I had done on the back of church bulletins. Sometimes, I’m glad Mom is a pack rat. We let a lot go, though. Moving will do that to you. We kept busy, and I kept from processing too much of it at a time. I kept focused on the next thing. Wash the car, go to the store, load the boxes, unload the boxes. I worked until I was exhausted. My good friend Jessie found out that her mother has breast cancer, so we prayed for them a lot. My friend Adam’s family is sick. My friend Danny’s family is sick. My friend Steve’s son is sick. I prayed for them all. I kept busy. I kept focused on other people. Then, last night—my last night home, when I was utterly fatigued—it all hit me as I lay down. I heard Brandy’s breathing slow down and become regular, and I stared at the wall of my old bedroom. I lay there, and I thought, and I worried. I was home almost a whole week. I had missed school, I had missed leading worship at church, I had missed classes, I hadn’t gotten work done for my Old Testament exegesis paper. I hadn’t done the work for Polyvalent’s Kickstarter that I needed to. I hadn’t figured out what classes I’m taking this summer. Then, I thought about Dad. And I cried. I cried and I cried and I cried. All night long until I heard the birds singing. As I lay there praying for my family, I was overcome with thankfulness for my wife. She puts up with so much, and I take her for granted. She loves me the way my mom loves my dad. She worries the same. She bears the load the same. She had put down work and clients and life, to be by my side—to help my family. I thanked God for her, and I asked that He would help me to remember what I was learning. The more I thought about my dad, the harder I cried. Finally, Brandy woke up and held me. I told her I don’t know who to be when I’m home now. It’s my home, but I’m not home. I want to help, but I don’t know what to do. I want to either be a kid or an adult, but I don’t feel like either. It really hit me that my dad is dying. He is setting things in order so that he can leave. My dad is in so much pain. It hurts him to even lie down and not even the morphine helps now. His hip hurts so bad he can hardly walk, and he winces just to cross his ankles. My dad got really sick right after Brandy and I moved to Florida for seminary. I have wanted Mom and Dad to be able to fly down and see us—to see our life and our friends and our cat and where we live and the seminary and the gardens and the restaurants and the farmers market and the gators. I want him to see our life, and most of all, I want him to be proud of me. It breaks my heart to think that he may never be well enough to do that. It breaks my heart to think that he may never get to hold our children. I told Brandy, I don’t want him to hurt anymore, but I’m not ready to let him go. I just want him to feel better and be able to enjoy their new condo. I want him to be able to walk down to the community garden and pick tomatoes. I want him to play with Brad’s little baby boy when he’s born. But I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to do those things. I’ve been studying theology for two years now. People sometimes say that theology is cold and academic, that it has no basis in real life. But today, I’m so thankful for my theology. I’ve been mad this week, but I haven’t been mad at God. I know that all of this pain and hurt is part of the curse that we all live under as a result of sin. I know that death and pain and suffering are unnatural, and they are not part of God’s final plan. I know that Christ, the Redeemer, is going to come and make all things new. He will give us new bodies that are incorruptible, and he will wipe the tears from our eyes. Lord, haste the day. I don’t know that I’ve ever longed for redemption so badly.

[coolhandluke]

Polyvalent?

I am almost done with my third semester of seminary (which is to say half way through the Master of Divinity program) at Reformed Theological Seminary in Orlando, Florida. I'd like to tell you more about that, and perhaps I will at some point, but for now I want to focus on music. Cool Hand Luke played its final show in June of 2011, and in July of 2011 Brandy and I made the move from Nashville to Orlando. I started class in August. I thought that I would be able to "turn off" my music side and "turn on" my student side, as if I were flipping a switch. I thought that school would simply displace music. In a sense it did. I had no idea how time consuming and academically rigorous my program would be. I thought seminary would be one of the things that I do. Instead, it became my whole life. I thought I would keep playing music in my free time, but I immediately found that I had no free time. At any moment, there were four or five things that I "needed" to be working on, and if I chose to work on music I felt guilty. Finally, I realized that God was teaching me there is more to what He calls us to than sacrifice. I could say a lot about this, but for now I will say that, I believe God created me to create music, among other things. I am not saying that I will be a famous musician and make a living playing music. I'm simply saying that music is a part of what God uniquely wove into my character in order to bring glory to Himself and His Son. We all have things like that, and I hope that you are aware of what some of those things are in your life. I really believe that it is more virtuous to use our gifts and passions than to sacrifice them. There is nothing inherently virtuous about sacrifice--a misconception I have carried for a long time. All that to say, I have committed to make music a priority in my life again. It isn't the top priority, but it is a priority. God is radically reorienting my life, and I am learning to value Him and my marriage more than I ever have. I am committed not to let anything trump either of those things again. (Because I definitely have let my priorities become confused in the past.) Now, I set aside one night a week to write music. There's the prologue. I listen to a broad spectrum of music. My wife tells me I'm a music snob, but I don't limit my snobbery to one type of music. Cool Hand Luke changed a lot over the years, but it was a gradual change with boundaries. There were only certain types of music that I was allowed to incorporate into Cool Hand Luke. Now that I am not writing Cool Hand Luke songs, the boundaries are lifted. This is both freeing and crippling at times. I have a bucket full of songs that I have written or started on piano that sound like what you would expect another Cool Hand Luke record to sound like. I have very intentionally set those songs aside for now. I am focusing on songs that are more guitar-driven, more immediate, and for the most part, faster. I have been writing with my friend Robbie Williamson. I met Robbie from touring with his band, Quiet Science. Robbie and Nathan from QS played with me on several tracks from "Of Man". I like their musical sensibility, and we have fun together. Initially, I had planned on writing with both Nathan and Robbie, but Nathan and I have had opposite schedules so that it just didn't work out that way. So, Robbie and I have been working on lots and lots of songs. I'm really excited about the shape that they are taking. The music sounds different from Cool Hand Luke, but I think it still sounds like me. I'm drawn to darkness and dynamics, musically speaking, and these are still very present. Of course, my voice and my drumming will sound familiar, too. I specifically wanted to write with Robbie because of what he brings musically. He is bolder than me at times, so it pushes me to dare to try things that I was afraid to before. It is very life-giving to get to write music again. I think I appreciate it more than I ever have now that I've experienced life without it. I don't get to play as much as I'd like, but it makes the nights that Robbie and I play that much better. I am able to let go of the control a bit and just enjoy the process. So, Robbie and I are Polyvalent. More on that soon.

[coolhandluke]

Home: 3/31/12

My parents have lived in Nashville, TN in the same house since I was one. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. It’s still what I think of as home. In fact, if you were to call “Home” on my cell phone, you would get my parents’ landline. I’m sitting in my parents’ house right now, and it’s 12:30am. Brandy and I have been here for our Spring Break visiting my family, and we fly back tomorrow. I can’t sleep because I just had one of the most bizarre conversations I’ve ever had.   If you don’t know, Brandy and I moved to Orlando, FL last July so that I could start the M. Div program at Reformed Theological Seminary. Shortly after we moved, my dad got pretty sick. He has had prostate cancer for a long time, but it got worse back in the summer. This past January he was in the hospital for about a week. They discovered that he also has cancer in his bladder and there are traces of cancer in a lot of other places. It’s spreading. To be honest, none of this has been very real to me because I haven’t been here to see it. I don’t know what your dad is like, but my dad is the kind of guy who just knows about things. If something needs to be built, fixed, planted, or taken care of, my dad is the first person I go to for help. He has always been strong, hard working, and active. In light of this, it hasn’t seemed possible that anything very bad could happen to my dad.   It got harder when we got to Nashville on Monday. My dad is very skinny and he doesn’t have much energy. He told me he just doesn’t feel well anymore, and he can’t tell he’s getting any better even though the doctors tell him he is. My poor mom is the family cheerleader. She always puts on a smile and tells me not to worry and just to focus on studying. I can tell she is taking all of this really hard.   Tonight, Dad got out deeds to their property. He inherited some land in Dickson, where he grew up, when his father died. He and my mom had bought some land out in the country twenty years ago thinking maybe they’d build on it someday. Now, we’re talking about how to sell the land. We’re talking about how to get rid of things so there is less to deal with.   We were talking about how we will have to go through all my mom’s antiques and all my dad’s old tools and “get rid” of stuff. We’ll have to do this so that my parents can move into a smaller place—a place where there is less house to clean and no yard to worry about. A place for my mom—in case something happens to my dad.   It just doesn’t seem real to me that I’m having this conversation with my dad. My dad isn’t old. Dads are supposed to be granddads and great granddads and die when they are 90.  They’re supposed to go when they’re so old and out of it that it’s really not even that sad because they’ve lived such a long, full life.   Well, my dad is not going yet, and I hope and pray that he won’t go for many years. (I know that some of you pray the same thing, and I am very grateful for that.) I pray that he will play with my kids long before he goes to be with Jesus. But, we just don’t know what’s going to happen.   I was talking to an old friend from South Carolina today. He was telling me that he has realized that Christian songwriters don’t have to write songs with a happy, redemptive ending every time. Sometimes life is messy and there are some loose ends, and it would do no one any good to put a smile on and ignore the pain of it all. I think that’s where I am tonight. I don’t know what this all means or what I’m supposed to do. I’ve never bought or sold land, and I definitely don’t want to be the one responsible for selling my parents’ land. I don’t want to think about losing my dad, let alone have a conversation with my parents about it.   We can’t escape the fall. It hurts so badly. No amount of security, insurance, money, medicine or anything else can get us past the results of our fallen condition. I don’t know what to say redemption looks like in this story, but I know that the Redeemer of my dad is the Redeemer of us all. I know this makes sense that I’m just not able to see. I know that we are being woven into one amazing redemptive story, and that thought is about the only thing that keeps me from being bitter and cynical sometimes.

[coolhandluke]

25 Things I realized On the Last Cool Hand Luke Tour

1. I'm getting old. 2. Being in a band all this time has kept me from growing up. It's good in some ways, but very bad in other ways. 3. I don't know how to do anything but be in a band. That is to say, I have no marketable skills outside of music. This, honestly, scares me to death. 4. Most guys my age have at least some athletic ability and desire to play sports for fun. I don't have that, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm no good, so I don't want to play with people who are. That then starts a spiral--I don't play because I'm not good but I'm no good because I don't play. This is a source of insecurity for me. It also makes me wonder what I missed when I was growing up. It also makes me want to start keep up with sports so that I can at least have something to talk about with guys who don't care about Radiohead and books. We'll see if that actually happens. 5. I am really, really going to miss touring. 6. Any future songs I write may not ever be heard by anyone else, and I have to be okay with that. 7. Cool Hand Luke was never a very big band, but that is more true now than it ever has been. 8. Cool Hand Luke has some of the kindest, most encouraging fans one could ever hope to encounter. I am overwhelmed and thankful for the kindness I have been shown. 9. I like playing with a band a lot more than playing by myself. 10. At the end of the day, I kind of like to rock. 11. Touring as an adult is not as exciting since I don't do all the crazy stuff I used to do.  Conversely, there is way less drama. 12. I think I spent a few years trying to re-capture an earlier time--like I wanted it to be 2002 again or something. Of course I could never do that, so I was always frustrated. I have learned that recreating that time isn't possible and even if it was, I'm not the same person anymore. That time is gone and it's okay. Now is good, too. On the last tour, I just tried to enjoy my time, and I had a blast. 13. It wasn't as sad as I thought it would be. It was just mostly fun and at times surreal. It didn't feel like the end. 14. When we started touring, none of us had cell phones, and we used actual maps to get to places. Our webpage had a URL that was impossible to remember. It was like www.tripod.com/punkrock/jesus.1234_coolhandluke/tennessee-fv9nr2_duckduckgoose or something ridiculous like that. I had just gotten my first ever email account through my college. There was no myspace, Twitter, or Facebook. We used AOL instant messenger to find people (back when they would send you a disc in the mail for 20,000 minutes of free internet!),  and we actually called people  on their land lines to book shows. If you wanted our merch, you had to write what you wanted on a piece of paper and mail it to us with a check. We got "fan mail". We recorded our first EP to ADAT and then released it on cassette. We had a glossy promo pic in which I had a goatee. We thought Jinco's were cool (though I could never afford them) and we all had chain wallets. For this tour, I was the only who didn't have an iPhone and we used GPS to get to shows. We don't even have a webpage anymore. I booked the shows using texts and emails. We released the new record online only. Skinny jeans are cool. Times have changed. 15. It never was perfect, and nothing ever will be. 16. I've been extremely blessed to get to do this for so long. 17. I got to do what I dreamed of doing as a kid. 18. It was nothing like I thought it would be. 19. I feel like music is something I'm really good at and I feel frustrated that I can't make a living doing it. 20. Something about riding in a van all day makes me tired no matter how much rest I've had. 21. The food I bring with me in order to save money is never as appetizing as the food that everyone else is eating from a restaurant. 22. I never need everything I pack--especially books. Every time, I bring three or four books. I end up having time to read three or four chapters. I never did learn that lesson. 23. I'll probably never know what it's like to have someone else set up my stuff and not walk out on stage until the house music stops and the lights go out. I'm okay with that, but, man, wouldn't that be cool? 24. I miss playing drums a whole, whole lot. 25. I will never stop coming up with new song ideas even if there is no way to see them come to fruition. It's just a part of who I am.

[coolhandluke]

Civil War, Part 4

In all seriousness, I did finish The Killer Angels that day. I was fighting back tears as I read the epilogue detailing what each of the generals went on to accomplish—if they lived on. I could not get my mind out of the book even when the lunch rush came and the book was finished. I really did feel like I was bracing for battle. I just wanted peace to process this huge part of our country’s history, but I was bombarded with bankers wanting soup and a half sandwich. It hit me then how trivial my job is; how trivial cups of coffee and pastries are. Everyday somewhere people are fighting and dying and everyday someone gets upset with me because we’re all out of orange croissants. I’ve prayed and I’ve asked God what it all means? Not just that day. Many days.  Why are some jobs so important and others aren’t. Why do some people get paid for things they are passionate about while others get paid hardly anything for doing a hard job so they can afford to do the thing they are passionate about? Why do some people’s lives consist of survival and others’ consist of achieving a greater level of comfort? Where do I actually fall in that spectrum? And His answer?  I think it goes something like this: “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.”  I don’t think God cares as much about our vocation as we do. Some of us will be generals, some of us will be slaves, and some of us will serve coffee and pastries. Whatever our lot in life, the best thing we can do is serve as if we are serving the Lord and not men. If we can help improve someone else’s lot in life, I think we should.   Does that mean we go to war for them? I really don’t know. Our war is not against flesh and blood, right? All I do know is that it’s hard enough for me to abide in Christ without solving someone else’s problems. A man can’t bear to wait two minutes for his skinny latte. I can’t bear to be torn away from my book. Somewhere people are being killed for something they believe in. Somewhere else people are dying for something their nation’s leaders believe in. It’s so hard for us to see beyond our limited perspective. At the end of the day, if I can think about Jesus and how Jesus would treat you while I’m serving you your pastry, I see that as a victory. That’s more powerful than the Union battery.   When I’m out of my current situation and God has moved Brandy and I onto the next thing, we’ll be able to see more of God’s hand in all of this. Just like we understand wars better twenty years, or a hundred and fifty years after they were fought.  I’m learning. How did I get from a road trip, to a novel, to a coffee shop, to the pondering of life’s deepest questions? Well, I think everything is always pointing that way to begin with. Rather, everything is always pointing to the answer of life’s deepest questions. The Way, the Truth, and the Life. The Answer. The Reason. The End.

[coolhandluke]

Civil War, Part 3

In that two to two and a half hour lull (hereafter referred to as “The Lull”) at Petite, it gets boring. So, I started bringing books to work. I realize that this probably isn’t the most professional thing to do, but hardly anyone at all comes during The Lull. I have found if I stand behind the counter with my book on top of the cash register, I can see when a customer is approaching and it gives me enough time to put the book away before they get to the counter. To them, it just looks like I’m doing something important on the cash register.

I read most of The Killer Angels at home, but the last few chapters were read at Provence in the aforementioned Lull. I got down to the point that I only had two chapters left in the book. It was the night before the final showdown at Gettysburg. I had disciplined myself to not venture to Wikipedia to find out what happened on that last day of battle. I wanted the story to unfold before me from the perspectives of Generals Lee, Longstreet, and Chamberlain. So, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew who “won”, but I knew no details. And by this point, I was very attached to the Generals on both sides of the field. This is not to say that I supported their causes (namely slavery), but as human beings, I had grown attached to them.

It’s probably important for you to know that I am the sort of person who gets lost in a book and lives vicariously through the protagonist. It started early on for me when I read The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. I also do the same thing with movies. This is not a voluntary exercise on my part but rather how I am wired.  I come out of a movie feeling exhilarated or depressed depending on the sort of movie I saw. For this very reason I saw each of the Lord of the Rings movies by myself in the theater because I knew I would be in no state to have conversations about where to eat after living in Middle Earth for three hours.

I was no different while I was reading The Killer Angels, which got confusing emotionally since the protagonist was constantly changing. One minute I’m General Longstreet, the next I’m shooting at General Longstreet. All the while, I’m not down with slavery. Confusing.

So, it came down to my last day of The Killer Angels and the last day of the battle. I could sense the end was near. Neither side could hold out much longer. Losses on both sides were great, and the soldiers were weary. Some of the men had marched all night, fought all day, and were preparing to fight again. Weary. Disheartened. No, this battle wouldn’t last much longer. Plus, there weren’t many pages left.

I had resisted the urge to finish the book at home the night before. I was saving it for The Lull.  The Battle of the Lull will live on in my memory for years to come. As the weary Union braced to repel one final attack atop Little Round Top and the Confederate soldiers lined up to race across Cemetery Ridge in waves, I stood my ground behind the cash register, ready for any banker or underwriter who may need coffee at 10:30 in the morning.

The Union cannons were lined up with what little ammunition was left, the wounded far behind the lines. The overly formal ,”Good luck out there” had been exchanged among the Generals, knowing that it may be the last time they spoke to one another in this life. I had two extra pots of coffee brewed for an unforeseen rush. All was in place.

As the first wave of Confederates filed out across the field, not yet in sight of the Union battery, I could see the enemy in the distance—ascending the escalator.  I sized my foe up quickly. Woman, late thirties, business casual.  This is no stranger from off the street who happened upon Petite Provence. She works here. In this building. She is highly trained and has done this many times before.

You can always tell a vet by the way they carry themselves. Confident, head high but not too high, slow, even pace toward the register. She did not look at the menu on the wall or survey the pastry case—she knew exactly what she had come for. My guess was coffee. I braced myself, typing in the manager code and arming the register for whatever transaction was necessary.

As the gap between the businesswoman and me closed, she gazed straight at me and gave me a knowing smile, as if to say, “Bring it on, barista.” There was only one question now—What size of coffee was she going to order?

My guess was a small. She was rather petite herself, and plus it was already 10:30am. This only needed to get her through to lunch when she could get reinforcement.

“Hey there.” (That’s almost always how I greet them.)

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.”  (Alright, missy, let’s keep this short and to the point.)

“Pretty slow this morning?” (Was she taunting me? Did she really just say that? She thinks I'm inexperienced. Calm down, Nicks. Don’t let her get the best of you. Stay focused. )

“Well, we had a rush about an hour ago, but I’ve kind of hit a lull now.”  (I can’t hide the fact that there are no other customers, but I’ve got to let her know that I’m experienced. This is not my first transaction. Enough small talk. Let’s do this.)

“What can I get for you?”

“I’m just going to get a small coffee…” (I knew it! My finger was already on the button. Bam!) “…and I’ll also get a blueberry muffin.”

(I was blindsided. I didn’t see the muffin coming. Why wasn’t I ready for that? Oldest trick in the book. She didn’t need to look in the pastry case because she’s a regular. She already knew what pastry she wanted. She does not care about spoiling her appetite. She’s going straight for the muffin. A muffin! Coffee I can handle because it’s self-serve. I don’t even have to hand her the cup. But for a muffin, I’ve got to get tongs, open the pastry case, tong the muffin, and then get it into an itty-bitty bag without touching the muffin. If there were another customer behind her, this could slow me down enough that I wouldn’t have time to finish my book before the lunch rush. These seemingly small events are what win or lose the battle. Not only the battle—the WHOLE WAR!)

“Anything else? “

“Nope that’s it.”

She paid me and then retreated back to her office. She had fought bravely, but she was unable to get through my dense line of coffee and pastries. I knew she would be back, though. Maybe next shift. Maybe next week. Who knows, next time she may try to flank me with some complicated latte order. For now I would regroup and see to my pastries. I had to make sure they were ready for the imminent next wave.

And so began the Battle of the Lull. TO BE CONTINUED

[coolhandluke]

Civil War, Part 2

If you don’t know, I work at a café called Provence in Nashville. (Pronounced /pro-vonce/) It’s a French café that serves really good bread, pastries and food.  And, of course, we have really good Intelligentsia coffee.  If you’re in the area, you should check it out. The one in Hillsboro Village is the best—plus, I may be the one plating your food or making your drink. (Or washing your dishes.) I worked a full-time job at the print shop of an insurance company for over a year. It was really a blessing for a time. It was pretty good pay and really good benefits. It’s just what Brandy and I needed then, but I had no time to play music or tour.  I started to lose myself, and I felt like I was living for a job that I had no passion for.  Maybe you’ve been there?

In March of 2010, we decided to step out in faith and try music again. The plan was to tour as much as I could and get a part time job to supplement my income. That’s how I ended up at Provence. It has been good for the most part. I don’t get paid much and I don’t have benefits, but I do get a lot of free bread and pastries and my boss is amazing about letting me off for shows. Now we don’t trust in my paychecks and benefits. We pray a lot more for provision, and I think that’s good—to remember where it’s really coming from. A few months ago when I got to work I discovered that the store I was working at was being closed in two days. Bummer. I really liked working at that store and I was comfortable there. I’m a creature of habit and I don’t necessarily adapt to change all that well. Ironically enough, I’ve always enjoyed touring, which consists of constant change and no routine whatsoever. But that’s not what we were talking about was it? My store closed. So, they moved me to the main Provence in Hillsboro Village. It’s a lot busier and the clientele and co-workers are not nearly as friendly. To be honest, I’m still not quite adjusted to it yet but it’s fine. The problem is that I’m not getting many hours there.   Since I’ve been recording the new record [if you don’t know, I’ve been recording a new record], I haven’t been playing any. That means my only income has been Provence. It’s getting tight financially, so I asked my boss for more hours. He has started giving me some hours at yet another location.   This location is called Petite Provence because it’s little. It’s in a nook on the first floor of an office building downtown. Our only customers are people who work in or around the building. I usually have a big rush of people wanting coffee in the morning and then a big lunch rush. Other than that it’s pretty slow. I work by myself and I usually have a lot of down time from 9-11:30am. So, what does this have to do with The Civil War??? Well, I’ll tell you…later. TO BE CONTINUED

[coolhandluke]

Civil War, Part 1

I recently finished one of the best books I’ve ever read. It’s called The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara.  I know it sounds strange if you don’t know what it is, so I’ll tell you. It’s a historical novel about the Battle of Gettysburg. Now it just sounds boring or a bit dorky, right? What if I told you that it won the Pulitzer Prize? Shaara spent seven years writing the book and studying not just the facts of the battle, but also the lives of the men themselves.

Whether you’re interested in history and war or not, The Killer Angels is a compelling read because it is so human. Shaara highlights the internal struggles of a man at war—especially a war that is in essence being fought over foreign slaves.  He also draws emphasis to the small, seemingly arbitrary details that lead to winning or losing a battle. I am a slow reader in general, but I think I read this book faster than any other book I’ve ever read. Not so much because it was easy to read but because I read it non-stop.

My good friend John Schofield turned me onto the book. You may know John because of his formidable bass prowess with the band The Myriad. He came all the way from Seattle to Tennessee to visit me last summer and his only request was that we visit some Civil War battlefields.

I have to admit that I have completely taken for granted the history that is all around me. I think I went to a couple Civil War battlefields with the family when I was smaller, but I didn’t care about it (except when they were firing cannons.) We played in Gettysburg a couple of times and it didn’t even occur to me to go check out the battlefield. It wouldn’t have meant much then.

Now that I’m older, I wish I had paid more attention in history class and taken advantage of all the amazing things that are within driving distance from my home. [I’ll be moving away soon—but I’ll leave that tale for another Tumbl.] Now I am interested in learning about these things, but I find I have so little time to learn it on my own. Again—slow reader.

John’s zeal for history is contagious. I joined him in the quest for experiential knowledge. We literally drove the width of TN in search of waterfalls, battlefields, and a Mastodon show. (That was historical in itself. Baroness + Mastodon + two wussy dudes who get stoked on well-executed metal = geekfest) We managed to make it to Stones River Battlefield and to Shiloh Battlefield. Both were amazing experiences.

Brandy joined us at Stones River because it’s only about 45 minutes away and she didn’t have to take off work. Together the three of us read the graves at Hell’s Half Acre, had a picnic, and frolicked in the treeline, where men fought and died, running from mosquitoes and shouting what we imagined the Rebel Yell probably sounded like. 

Shiloh was a long drive almost to Mississippi. John and I listened to sermons and had deep conversations. I’m glad we went to Stones River first because while it was pretty interesting, Shiloh was massive—and impressive. There were monuments and cannons everywhere.

John and I walked in the hot sun, seeing sight after sight of what is left of one of the bloodiest battles the world, and certainly America, has ever seen. John could see it all in his head. He would take me up on a hill and show me where the Union would have been and where they were coming from. I learned so much that day. It was really moving and inspiring. John’s knowledge and passion for the subject sparked something in me.

I was hooked. I wanted to learn more. I wanted to know what all these men fought for and why they died. I wanted to know more than the basics that I knew in fourth grade. John bought me a copy of The Killer Angels in the battlefield souvenir shop. I’m so glad he did.

TO BE CONTINUED

[coolhandluke]

Here's a song I recorded in my friend Bryan Raitt's closet a couple of years ago when I couldn't afford Christmas gifts. I only gave it to close friends and family, so most of you probably haven't heard it. I meant to post this earlier, but it's been a busy week. You know how that goes. Merry Christmas everyone.  Soli Deo Gloria.

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