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Ryan M Brewer joins Ben to talk Tottenham Hotspur, Manchester United, Jose vs Arsene. Then we comment on music. 

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Novels, Nowitzki, Songs and Scorpion Kicks: Transference of Creativity

This begins with a story of witnessing one of the best goals I’ve ever seen in my life, only to see it again, but better...

I’m watching Manchester United, my favorite team, winning, in the driver’s seat, and in the dying embers of the match, a ball flies into the box, as newcomer to the starting squad Henrikh Mkhitaryan rushes towards it....

Then he does this.

So, theres so much to say about it. First, I’d never seen one live. They call it a scorpion kick, and in my mind, its a little inconceivable. How does anybody rationally put their money where their mouth is and even TRY that? 

If you miss, everybody’s first comment is “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”. As a player you can be so embarrassed by any potential failure, purely because other options could have dispatched a score so effectively. 

But at the same time, Mkhitaryan places it perfectly, almost insuring this option as the BEST option, bizarre as it is. He puts the ball into the side netting, the keeper has no chance to save it. It caps the win, it insures Manchester United gain a full 3 points in the standings for that week.

Goal of the year? Goal of the week for sure. Goal of the month. Besides the fact that he’s CLEARLY OFFSIDES, AND IT SHOULDNT HAVE ACTUALLY COUNTED (alternative facts) its the best goal you’re going to see for ages.

And by ages, I mean maybe a week, which is when Olivier Giroud does this in Arsenal’s match again Crystal Palace:

Ok....so elements of this that I love. 1) Off the cross bar. That’s a goal scoring slam dunk, it should count as 1.5 goals. 2) Leaving the goalkeeper on his ass. 

3) AND ANOTHER SCORPION. Wtf. How have I watched soccer so long, never seen one of these, and then two happen in such close proximity. Also, 4) Giroud is OBVIOUSLY on side. So he wins the quality battle. If Mkhitaryan’s goal for United would have been officiated properly, I wouldn’t even be writing this blog. 

BUT I’m glad I am, it made me think of Creativity, bayyybeh.

I read this book over the summer while I was on tour called Big Magic, by Elizabeth Gilbert, who you probably recognize as the author of super earth-shaking gigantic novel Eat, Pray, Love. The whole book is focused on creative living beyond fear, and I specifically thought of an anecdote she shares within it about the idea that creativity can liken itself to a virus, passing through people who come in contact with one another, fully realizing itself in different stages and places. 

It seems like a crazy deal, that ideas can bounce of you and the folks around you like sonar or something, but she even takes this so far as to suggest that she passed a novel idea to a friend who ended up publishing what she herself had conceived. This is from an article published in The Independent:

“In Gilbert's world, ideas are "disembodied energetic life-forms" which choose you as surely as you choose them. "I believe that our planet is inhabited not only by animals and plants and bacteria, but also by ideas," she writes in Big Magic. "They are capable of interacting with us – albeit strangely.

"Ideas have no material body, but they do have consciousness, and they most certainly have will. Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest. And the only way an idea can be made manifest in our world is through collaboration with a human partner."

If you don't believe her, ask Ann Patchett. As Gilbert explains in the new book, Patchett only got the idea for her 2011 novel State of Wonder, about an American drug company employee who ends up in the Amazon investigating murder and malaria, because Gilbert had "lost" it.”

I feel like the music industry has been in the spotlight frequently with law suit after law suit pertaining to people writing the same tune, or copyright battles over licks. “Ice Ice Baby” and “Under Pressure” essentially sharing a bass line, the family of Marvin Gaye suing Robin Thicke and Pharrell Williams for similarities identified in the hit single “Blurred Lines”, and I seem to remember tons of mouth-breathers on YouTube laying claim to Coldplays most recognizable contribution, “Clocks”.

I suppose after reading this book, this was the first time I considered, maybe all of the versions should exist? I could never trade “Ice Ice Baby” for “Under Pressure”, how could anyone do that? Hip hop has really become what it is because of collaborations between varying artists being so accessible  in this new millennium.  

Gilbert says ideas spend eternity “swirling around us”, and she says this applies to “all ideas...: artistic, scientific, industrial, commercial, ethical, religious, political”. I’m adding one more: SPORTS. MAAAAAN.

Dirk Norviktski is a beautiful example. This German giant started blowing up basketball in the United States in the early 2000′s, seen as one of the first 7-foot players who had a solid three-point shot (a player type still in its infancy in the NBA, but showing itself in players like Kevin Love, Kevin Durant, and Kristaps Porzingus among others.) 

But the really special thing Dirk figured out to do moving through his career was to develop a very specified fadeaway jumper. He scored non stop, and pretty much continues to do so today, with this turnaround jumper where he leeeeeans back, kicking a leg out to create space, eliminating any chance that a person could extend out to get near the ball, while he releases with a delicate touch to score. 

Its clockwork:

It was contagious though! It spread. And one has to wonder, sure, maybe it was Dirk’s idea, or, maybe thats where players arrived at this point in the evolution of the game. Maybe big men saw the light, and said “Why can’t I be a really legit shooter? I’m taller than everyone, in a game that focuses itself on height and strength. How far does that extend?” Basketball and sports of all kinds are a hive mind, coaches, trainers, agents, players. They are industries, and the industry of Dirk’s move spread to influence the careers of all sorts of players, like Kevin Durant (arguably the best player in the game next to Lebron James (who does the fade as well) and Steph Curry) Lamar Aldridge, Paul George, Tim Duncan, and probably a million other frickin guys in the years to come. Because that idea is totally airborne at this point, it’s anybody’s to use.

On discussing this idea after a gig last month, my friend Rob told me about two bluegrass writers, who after collaborating with each other for ages, each separately wrote songs at the same time called “Crooked Road”.

 Tim OBrien and Darrell Scott worked together on a record in 2000, and continued to play together, cutting a live record in 2006 cleverly titled We’re Usually A Lot Better Than This. Then some time after that, each one felt separately drawn to the same idea. 

OBriens version of “Crooked Road” appeared on his 2008 album Chameleon, as the second to last track. He picks vibrantly on a wide open 12 string guitar, talking about how every day he walks a crooked road, taking what he needs, listening to his heart. 

His buddy Darrell Scott took the theme and used it as a song title, and his whole record in 2010. A Crooked Road is the first thing we hear on his record of the same title. When Scott walks his crooked road, he moves at basically the same pace of beats per minute as his friend Tim O Brien, “to get where I’m goin’” and when he looks back, he sees the straight narrow. Hindsight’s 20/20 kinda deal. When all else is gone, he will always have his lonesome song.

Both tunes are rooted in finding resolve, they are self reflective, and really could be mashed together and work just fine in a narrative way. 

Would these guys have written these tunes without knowing each other? Did it stem from a jam that occurred one time late at night, had it been percolating in their friendship for years? Maybe the real shame of it is they didn’t write one “Crooked Road” song together...who knows...

Would the Giroud goal have happened without Mkhitaryan’s goal? If Mkhitaryan’s goal didn’t count, would Giroud’s goal be the only one anybody remembers? 

Who cares, really? Both goals happened, both songs were written, and all that stimuli gave me an appreciation for the game I already loved so so much, and my own life in music. 

And I learn this: Don’t be afraid of ideas drifting. Maybe you’re just the hotel the idea is staying in for awhile while it gets it’s shit together. And maybe Ed Sheeren is somewhere getting tired of one of his, and that’ll sneak up on me, or maybe Jeff Buckley left some ideas in his early pre-mortem days here in NYC that I can screw around with. 

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Expectation

I've been thinking a lot about the illusion/crutch/phenomena that is expectation. Right now, I added this blog to this website. I'm writing, and people are going to read it. But how many? When I decided my website should come locked and loaded with a blog of my dumb random thoughts, I had this really irrational vision, that all blog writers likely have. "A blog! That'll be great. People will think I'm funny, like high school, like MySpace, like I am when I'm with my best of friends." That's all weird, why have an expectation? So far, you're still with me. You can't do tricks to keep people's attention, you just have to do that truthful thing in the moment. I started cranking up the amount of gigs I take. You'll see it in the schedule, I want to play a lot. A lot. Why? I'm trying to figure it out. Things I know: I love music, I love MY music, and all the folks that play with me are seriously great as musicians and human beings alike. So in NYC, I was told a lot that the thing to do was play a gig, take two weeks, do another one. Space Em out, so your "fans" can make it and aren't coming out to see you all the time. (A frankly hilarious notion at this point, seeing as how I live in a city where every awesome performer I know lives here too.) When people share strategies like that, it creates an expectation, of fans. Which are very different. People who knew you in college? Not fans. Anybody who's seen you completely drunk multiple times, not a fan. People who know you just as well as they know your dog, not fans. They're your acquaintances and friends. Support system. They will believe in you, and fear telling you about how you could improve. (Checking in, by the way, I'm so happy. This all sounds kind of sad, I'm not. This is all good.) Fans are incredible people I've found. When they show up, I freak out, in my heart. I've had these few people see me, and come out to see me again. Me and the band, me solo, whatever. I just think it's nuts that there are people so connected with the actual world in 2016 that they seek to support, as a primary objective, a duty. I wish I supported as many true things as these few people who know my work at this point, that don't actually know me. So back to expectation. I don't really have fans, not a bunch. I don't think at least. It doesn't feel like it, but then again, what the hell is that supposed to feel like? What does it represent in the grand scheme of things? In sports (WHICH IM HOPELESSLY OBSESSED WITH) the teams that do best are the ones who play the best version of their own game, as opposed to teams who analyze exactly where they will succeed or come up short against any given opponent. There needs to be a constant awareness of strength, truth, and I guess, calling? Someone once described it to me as "believing your own bullshit". If I doubt my abilities, my stories, my context, the audience, my band, if I apologize for messing something up that no one would have noticed, then I'm losing. So, that being said, I'm ready for any gig anywhere. Always. The weird thing about when I don't enjoy myself is this: I played last month in Queens, solo. The group before me plays a set for the release of their record. They're a fine group, and they brought an army. So many folks. So they play, and they finish, and it's my turn, and the room gets so loud with the whole record release posse, as I, the lone white boy singing and playing guitar, try to compete with 40 millennials screaming about how their friends are going to be the next Mumford or whatever. Couldn't hear myself, started counting doing the minutes until it was over. And I get offstage, I grab my free beer, and the sound guy comes up and gives me $85. So then my thoughts change. For going through hell/the motions for 45 minutes, $85 is not bad at all. And it hits me. Just because some people suck and came into this world with an iPhone attached to their palm and don't get how a performance space works, doesn't mean everybody sucks. If they didn't think you were worth anything, the sound guy wouldn't have given you any money at all, because you're whole act would have been a lie, and everyone would have known. They know. They always know. So I'm done with expectation, and I'm relying on what I know, to the best of my ability. I know I work too friggin hard to let my emotion blow my cover. It makes me think of David Luis. David plays left back for Brazil international futbol. YALL call it soccer. And a lot of you probably don't give a shit about soccer, so I'll get to the point. 2014 saw Brazil hosting the FIFA World Cup, the grand daddy of all futbol, and Brazil's favorite sport. Their national passion. They weren't the favorite, Germany was. By a good bit...An interviewer asked David Luis what he thought about his teams chances in the cup. In Portuguese, he answered. He thought they had been destined by God to win. Brazil has won the World Cup five times. 58' 62' 70' (Pele Pele Pele) 94 and 02. All time, forever, they're considered the 3rd most consistent international side in history, according to  some weird rankings system I just found online that I basically agree with. It should be said however, Brazil hosted the World Cup in 1950, also. They did not win.... So when David Luis starts talking about destiny and GOD, I think, you're done, and not because I'm a nihilist. Did his team deserve to be there? Totally. It's Brazil, a GREAT team, and you're hosting the party. But just because you own the place doesn't mean some rude guests won't raid your fridge and eat all your Nutella. And all the guests at this party were very hungry. Brazil, for lack of a better description, survived the entire tournament. Until the semi final, four teams left. Brazil vs Germany. David Luis and his bros were beaten 7-1, which is a pounding, the worst defeat in their countries ENTIRE history. At home. On the biggest stage imaginable. I guess what I'm trying to say is, no one can secure anything on your behalf. Not God, yo mama, or your best friends, or your fans. If you set goals for your success, you have to gently accept the fact that it's ultimately your job to see it through. Destiny is fictional. Work is fact. Expectation is unnecessary. Life is beautiful. Your gift is yours and yours alone, respect it. At least that's what I've concluded for this last fifteen minutes.

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Katsumoto Would Have Handed Off

Rooting for the Seattle Seahawks. That's what I was actively doing. I hate the Seahawks, typically. I saw them play my beloved Colts a few years back, and after being down 16 points, Andrew Luck (God's quarterback) pulled Indy back to win in the fourth quarter, handing Seattle its first loss of the season, at 9-1. They went on to win the Super Bowl. I was rooting for Seattle this night because they were playing Tom Brady (Satan's quarterback) and New England. If you know nothing about this blog, I hope you something about Harry Potter, because New England is Voldemort. That is a fact in my life. And this blog is about/related to my life. So that's a fact. 

 You could have been SURE Seattle would be able to convert from a half yard out, to win a second consecutive Super Bowl on February 1st. They've been there, they've won it before. It's a half yard. Your running back refers to himself as "Beast Mode". Marshawn Lynch, an Oakland-raised muscle factory. Children could do this math, and score this touchdown. Then they threw it, and it got picked off. And every American who knows ANYTHING about football was stumped. It's a rare instance I attribute to artistry, a flaw of sorts, but all too common. Humans are complex, and we think too hard sometimes. I always quote the movie The Last Samurai, when Samurai master dude Katsumoto says "Too many mind". I say it in my mind to myself more than other folks. I constantly put myself in a hole when recording vocals for my music, because I start to think about being GOOD at singing. I think about how good I am, compared to others, compared to other days when I felt better about what I was doing. And that's stupid, and now Pete Carroll, Russell Wilson, Marshawn Lynch, and every tu-tu wearing, giant flag bearing Seattle fan knows that.

 The excuse I heard was "we were trying to throw the ball to waste time." False. The ball was picked IN the end zone. Your not burning clock unless your guy is tackled in field of play. What time? 38 seconds? Tom Brady is Satan's quarterback, but he is not that scary. 38 seconds for your superior defense to just....play defense. It was maybe the easiest assignment of the year. Assuming of course....you score....like a normal football team who enjoys winning Super Bowls... But I guess the Seahawks also made a mistake in that they ASSUMED they would score. If you're throwing the ball in this situation, you're going willy nilly with your offense. Against a VERY good D. Which is something I do avoid in music. Don't go willy nilly, but don't go too soft. My other movie quote is Yoda, do or do not. There is no try. A huge majority of those players were wearing Nike shoes, JUST DO IT. RUN THE BALL. My voice has been gone so many times after recording, and I have to ask myself "Why are you approaching this take from an element of doing something impressive, as opposed to just doing it?" I write lyrics that build, music that builds, tells a story, and a put that in the garbage sometimes. Just like Pete Carroll took the best team in the NFL, and erased the every quality moment they created in their season with one VERY not-quality decision. Worst of all, maybe, wide receiver Jerome Kearse. Caught a ball in the most comical way I've ever seen (Besides Antonio Freeman from Brett Favre at Lambeau on Monday Night Football in the late 90s) to get them in scoring position. And nobody is talking about it, because what happened just afterward was not comical, it was a complete joke. 

(Here's Antonio's catch:)

 The collaboration stopped. They didn't give it to Beast Mode. Why? There is not a good answer to that broad question. I have some strengths. Some things in life, and music, I'm very good at. Others, not so much. I am lucky in the regard that I have good friends and collaborators (one in the same) to help me with those things, and I let them take the reigns. There is seldom more powerful gestures than letting someone have control within a trust you share. 

 Maybe in music, it's more clear cut. My friend Joe just moved to NYC, he and my main dude Nick and I have a new apartment in Brooklyn. We always play on each others stuff, for five years now its been that way. Joe and I went to a performance potluck of sorts one of the first nights he was in. He's the kind of musician who knows his role in bands, his place in pieces. Plays five instruments (proficiently, in my opinion) and he decided to bring his guitar this particular night. I played a brand new piece from a new musical Im writing, and when we started going, Joe put me in a place where the piece was rediscovered. He had heard it a few times, but never played on it. But no one could tell. Our second piece was more of the same, and our performance was very well received. After we put our guitars back in cases, I thought, well, I didn't think too hard there. I didn't think at ALL. I just did, as I have so many times. So did Joe, and we both reaped the benefits. We weren't playing for applause, who does? At this point, we were just doing our job. My producer Sean always says "you put the right people in the room and get the Hell out of the way." Joes always going to be the right guy for my stuff, for a million reasons, and I give him his space to make what I've built better than it was. And that's why I feel so much for Marshawn Lynch. You pay him millions of dollars to run the ball, and you didn't let him do it on the most simple and important play of the season. No benefits were reaped, (unless you cheer for Satan's team) hopes of a repeat championship were dashed, and no one was "bout that action, boss". I'm sure Marshawn had never wanted to say nothing at all during a press conference more than that moment. He was helpless, but you know he was ready to make a difference. I don't think his coaches had a lack of trust in his abilities, they just thought too hard.

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Me You Peyton and Andrew

I have 5% battery left to write about what I’m feeling about the game that just happened.

When I was nineteen years old, my dad texted me about tickets to a game between the Indianapolis Colts and the Baltimore Ravens. I had rehearsal, I was a musical theatre major at Ball State just an hour up the road from Lucas Oil Stadium, the home of the Colts. Wasn’t there another game he could exchange tickets for? After my show ran, I could see games on a weekend. That was two weeks from now, can’t we see them play in two weeks or something?

Dad was insistent. These seats were awesome, it has to be this week. We’ll have to leave at halftime, are you sure? Totally, we’ll leave at halftime. We’ll get you to rehearsal. So I bust it down to Indy in my semi-functional Honda Accord and meet Dad at a bank, closed for the weekend, and we’ll ride together to the game in his car.

There was an exchange at the bank, my dad took me over to the sidewalk, and we sat down and talked. He told me that he and my mother were getting divorced, and it was a complete shock. I had no idea anything was wrong, I had always taken pride in the bonded household I was raised in. The whole thing kind of made me feel like I was out of my body, like I was looking down on myself with my dad. It was harder on him to tell me than it was for me to hear, and that’s saying something. A lot of emotional stuff, blah blah blah, five minutes later, we had steadied ourselves.

So, there’s this game, now.

The Colts. The Ravens.

Are we REALLY GOING to a fucking football game right now. We just start life up again? This is life now? I’m gonna watch the Colts with my Dad in a world where my family is broken? What’s up with Mom? Where is my sister? We’re in the car. We’re going to the game. Me and Dad.

It was incredibly interesting, because we both love football. But nothing really mattered, this was happening. A divorce. But we had these tickets, and we love football, and we’d never been to Lucas Oil Stadium. The brand new stadium in Downtown Indy.

We pull in and things just take shape like they usually do. This is not the first sporting event we’ve navigated in tandem. Dad is rapidly scouring areas around the stadium to park, being overly passionate about the timing by which he could catch somebody pulling out. We park, and start walking, and talking.

The game is a good one in the bloodlines of NFL history. Baltimore is the home of the Ravens in today’s league, but it used to be the home of the Colts. Johnny Unitas played for the Baltimore Colts, not Indianapolis. The team was sold unexpectedly overnight in the seventies, and when Indiana got a team for the first time, Baltimore was left without a team until the nineties, when the Cleveland Browns franchise moved to Baltimore, and became the Ravens.

So, it’s kind of a South Park-esque “YOU TERK OUR JERRRBS!” Complex. “You took our team, now we have a new one, grudge, prepare to die.”

Star players being Peyton Manning, and Ray Lewis. Peyton already a living legend, Super Bowl Champ, multi-MVP, forehead you could land a plane on. Ray Lewis a brutal defensive presence for the Ravens, involved in a murder trial once, ominous personality, etc. Not to say Rays a bad dude, I don’t think he is, he’s pretty cool on ESPN. He’s not the worst Raven ever (cough Ray Rice cough) but he is the face of the Ravens mentality, the poster boy. Man. Poster man. Imagine a cross between Mr. T and the animated super-athletic police man from Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs.

We’re approaching this massive place. It always reminds me of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, or a military fortress. Except with a bunch of Central Indiana advertising plastered all over it. And overly blue. Stadium architecture is clever to me. In the NFL, the walls go high so you can’t see inside at all, and you eventually see it laid out like artwork. They lead you to a sight you can’t forget.

I remember the security being tight, the magnetic wands of the police, and walking in and seeing huge ceiling fans rotating slowly above us. A huge escalator, we rode upward, and then you see the whole field, looking onto a concourse with glass separating the horizon and the building. The roof is open, and the sunlight pours into the middle of the place, like the Globe Theatre or something. Except with AC/DC John Mellencamp ZZ Top and Central Indiana radio advertising blaring.

When we were in the midst of all that, the reality of the day kind of disappeared. I saw an episode of Into the Wormhole with Morgan Freeman this year about the “God Complex”, the idea that your sub conscience makes up a God-like belief in order to lessen the realities of life, the brutal animal way things happen sometimes. I always compare that with the Colts. A lot of people think of football as a primarily brutal experience, which I understand. But I also think some of those people can’t free themselves up enough to appreciate the necessity for speed and strategy in modern football. The Colts haven’t been regarded as a brutal team as far as I can remember. But strategy is always involved in our offense. A big reason for that is Peyton Manning. A strategist, perfectionist. A prepared, studied, good natured, dominator.

We settled into our seats, the defense picked Joe Flaccos first possession, Peyton scores easily. With 30 yards in front of him, I always thought he was most dangerous. He could loft the ball, allow it to arc and drop quickly, and he could kill you from thirty yards out all day. In any direction. He continued to do just that, and proceeded to have a hell of a first half. The one throw I remember was long, I don’t know to who, I can’t remember if it was a TD. But I remember the ball soaring through the air, climbing from the shadows of the south end of the field, hitting the light from the open roof, and dropping into the receivers arms. The pace of the pass was in perfect timing with how quickly the receiver was running, he didn’t have to lunge, or wait for it. It was just on the fucking money. It blew me away, it doesn’t look like that on TV. It’s just different when you’re in the building.

I clung to Peyton on that day. My father did too. We got lost in the wonderment of the whole thing. It was over by halftime, and we left satisfied. He was dismantling Baltimore’s juggernaut defense. He would change plays on the fly, act like he was changing plays, fake it, pump it, gun it, zip it. Any pass you wanted to anybody. In terms of standings, “need a win” is a common phrase in the NFL. To gain rank in your division, or conference, in pursuit of a playoff spot. I needed a win in life, Peyton delivered.

As the divorce saga set in, football continued. The Colts and Peyton himself continued to be a common link between me and my dad, a regular topic of conversation while I was in college. I became sort of a mini-scholar on the guy. I knew when he was bluffing, I could call bad passes (though rare they were) when he would throw against his body, I knew when a deep ball was coming. It was his dojo, playing quarterback. I argued so many times on his behalf when the topic of “who’s the best ever?” came up.

I loved Peyton as a guy, still do. He’s earnest, and knows what he means to so many. I cried when I watched his press conference the day he was released by the Colts, I’ll spill my guts on that fact. An aging Manning required a spinal fusion surgery in 2011, sat out an entire season, and the Colts struggled on route to a 2 win, 14 loss campaign without him.

It was crazy. No Peyton meant no Colts. No winning, no chance. Curtis Painter was the quarterback who tripped and got busted again and again that season, my senior year of undergrad at Ball State. It was a painful reminder that to Peyton, QB was second nature. And to think you could find another like him is impossible.

And then there was Andrew Luck.

Heading into the 2012 season, due to their 2-14 record, the Colts had first pick in the NFL draft. 2012 was a most unique draft class, featuring other stand outs like Robert Griffin III and Russell Wilson. The Colts made it clear they would take a quarterback. But the issue was, after sitting out last season recovering from spinal fusion surgery, Peyton Manning was ready to play again, so he said. But so was Andrew Luck, the incoming projected #1 pick from Stanford.

A huge, brainiac, bearded, calculated gun slinger. But mobile, quick on his feet for a big pocket passer. I remember watching him my senior year, against Oregon and Southern California. I said, yeah, but….he’s just not Peyton.

What to do? The rookie could start, but no one sits Peyton. What about the money they both deserve? Manning has never been injured, not like this. Is he really ready to go? What if he isn’t ready? How can you know? Even if he’s ready, Manning couldn’t have more than five seasons left in the game, he’s getting older. The choice was a matter of surviving in the present, or investing in the future.

What happened from the end of the season to draft day in April has never been spoken articulately, but long story short, the veteran coming off injury was let go, and the new era, all weight, was placed on the new king of Indiana, Andrew Luck.

I’ll never forget Peyton leaving. Addressing the fans, tell Indianapolis he was honored to have been our quarterback for all these years. He won the first Indianapolis Colts Superbowl, the ONLY one still. The front office, some would suggest, gave up on a guy who never gave up. He had a children’s hospital named after him, he captured our hearts, and we LET him go.

Actually, we let EVERYONE go.

Three fourths of the new Indianapolis Colts had never played a season with our team. Can you call it a team? Peyton was gone, it was like Lucky Charms with no leprechaun. Or hearts stars horseshoes or balloons.

My mom made clear, she went where Peyton went. So did my youth minister. Rival fans laughed in my face. “You just got rid of the best quarterback to ever play! What are they DOING?!” Sure, NOW he’s the best.

I hated that he was the best now that he wasn’t in Indy. And you know what, teams are about places. Thats why you root, root, root, for the home team. I’ve always felt, you cheer for where your from. But then again I support Manchester United Football Club, and Portland Timbers, so what do I know. The Colts were a part of the last piece of my original home life. I couldn’t abandon them. And then there’s the new guy, the Luke Skywalker of Quarterbacking, Andrew Luck.

Pretty cool, we’re the same age. He graduated when I did. And he was so different. Sure, great ball player. But a total nerd, awkward in commercials. Peyton certainly wasn’t that, he hosted Saturday Night Live, and successfully! But from the start, I enjoyed Andrews lack of socialite status. He spoke beautifully, used huge words, was eternally humble, and wasn’t concerned with what happened before him. No twitter, Facebook, IG, smart phone. He wasn’t here to act great, he was here to be great.

I remember ESPN picking the Colts to be in the bottom three in the league Andrews rookie season. “Duck! Hit the dirt” was Chris Mortenson’s advice to young Andy. Our offensive line was weak, inexperienced. He would not have time to throw, he would get hit, he would be sacked. That was all true, but then, it wasn’t. At all.

It wasn’t pretty, but Andrew led a wonderful rookie campaign all things considered. More yardage than any other rookie, we made the playoffs, and lost (Ravens, who went onto shock the world and win the Super Bowl) He turned the ball over a lot. Always trying to hard to force the tough pass, or extend to play, and fumble. Defenses were faster. He never tucked in time, blah blah blah. But we had a winning record. We won 11 games…..out of sixteen. After winning 2 the previous season. Andrew Luck made himself generally comfortable in the drivers seat. There were last second wins, comeback wins. Excitement, potential. And there were plenty of good teams who would have died for a season like ours.

Next season, more milestones. Colts made the playoffs, and won a playoff game. Indianapolis was down 28 points at home to the Kansas City Chiefs, and rallied back to win in the dying moments of the game. The biggest single game comeback in playoff history. Andrew and I were 24 at the time.

I was in a drivers seat of my own. My first year in New York City had concluded. I learned a lot. But not a lot. I was love-sick, ambitious, slightly organized. My musical I wrote in college was being produced in the fall of 2014, and I felt a lot like I was “going pro” in the same way Andrew was. But football talk was in the back of my creative mind.

I remember having a conversation over beers with friends about “name the top five quarterbacks active in the game right now”. I was the only one who said Andrew’s name, and I was even bashful to do so. Sure, the guy looks good, but is he really? The real question was, will he pan out? Is Luck really just, lucky? Is he good, but not good enough? What if this is all the better he can be?

A look at Peyton Manning’s season didn’t help to lessen the sting of imperfections. He set the NFL single season yards record. And touchdowns. In his second season as a Bronco, he scored more and moved the ball through the air more effectively than anyone in history. His offense was perhaps the most productive offense ever. He was 37.

His Broncos went to the Super Bowl, as predicted. I was excited for him, he would be coming to NYC, to win his second Super Bowl. Finally.

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43-8. I’ll never forget that score. Manning could do nothing to stop the onslaught coming his way. The best defense in modern football made him feel their presence.

I recognized his face like a painting of Colts past. Peyton was now 1 win, two losses in Super Bowls. He looked like he was aging before our eyes. It doesn’t really make sense to Manning when he’s losing, like “this can’t be happening…” Even in the final stages, he looked like he was trying to do the math, how to score 35 point in two minutes…..it hurt the kid inside me, honestly. I cheer for Peyton every time he plays. Except against Indy. I had a chance to support him like I used to, and that experience was a sour one.

After the massive playoff comeback against the Chiefs, the Colts were dismantled in Boston by the rival New England Patriots. Andrew threw four interceptions, and we never looked like we were in the game. I was embarrassed, and wondered if it was all hype.

I wondered if I was all hype. In New York City, among thousands of aspiring artists, that happens to everyone. I know I have talents, I’m a good musician. A good writer, but what’s a foot in the door if you trip and fall over upon entering the room? What’s the appeal in a multitude of small accomplishments if you can’t hit the biggest goal, the one people will really take stock in? How much of a musician, an artist, are you REALLY if you spend the majority of your time running coffee to people doing real things with their day? I hated the juxtaposition of having my career take off, only to be reminded that it means nothing to so many. I probably felt a lot like Andrew did. Biggest playoff comeback in history, highlights all week, people whispering great things, then Tom Brady blows you out of the stadium, and it’s all. Over. You go home, and you’re not on the field anymore. You’re so far away from it. It’s not funny, it’s not inspiring.

Last year in 2014 a feeling I shared with Andrew Luck is the urgency. Needing a win, once again, was on my mind. The Circus In Winter, the musical I compose and provide lyrics for, ran five weeks at Goodspeed Musicals in Connecticut. It was a success, I got noticed a little. Interviewed with papers, people who kind of understood what I did, asked about my process, made me feel unique. Essentially, I felt I had won my playoff game. But it was a team win. Like Andrew, I was surrounded by a team who believed in what we were doing, and believed in my role in that process. That’s vital to any success, respect and support, all around.

Andrew’s third season started against Peyton in Denver. 0-1. Manning had officially tallied a win against every franchise in the NFL. Andrew led a Colts team this season that grew in a lot of ways, 11-5 again, despite huge losses in multiple games. They were 1-4 against teams who made the playoffs, not a lot of encouraging feelings to draw from statistics like that. And yet, Luck is now talked about with immense respect. He won when he was supposed to, but had trouble starting games. When all was said and done, he, not Peyton, led the league in yards per game. He throw for more yardage in his third season than any other Colts QB, breaking a record Peyton Manning set in his 13th season wearing blue and white. He’d thrown for more yards and touchdowns in his first three seasons than anyone in the NFL had tallied to date.

We made the playoffs. We beat the Cincinnati Bengals in the Wild Card game, and then confronted my worst nightmare.

Indianapolis at Denver. Winner goes to the AFC Championship.

I would have never bet you any money that the Colts would win this game. It was away from home, it was Peyton, it was the playoffs, it was so far fetched.

But the fact is, it wasn’t much of a contest. The Colts won this game, 24-13. Peyton didn’t throw any interceptions, he fumbled once, he was rushed. His passes were off, long, short, in the dirt, overhead. Andrew had to grind for his scores, but score he did. Convert 3rd downs, he did. Eat clock he did. Manage a win, he did. With a pretty low level of stress.

So here’s how I feel.

I saw Peyton look more vulnerable than I ever had before. I learned later he had played the entire game with a torn quad. I saw him frustrated. I saw that second Super Bowl elude him again, at the hands of his “replacement”. At least that’s how it probably felt. The reality to me, however, is this. He wasn’t on the field with Andrew. Peyton played his game, Luck played his own. Peyton’s team was beaten by another team that appeared ready for what he was going to give them. And Andrew Luck didn’t win in order to show he was the best, he just did his job. It wasn’t about Indy, or Denver, or Manning, or stats. It was just about doing the job. And he was able to rejoice in that simplicity.

"Expect to win" was the phrase multiple Colts used after the game. That’s not cocky, it’s more so fact. Take your best guess at what you are about to do, and have faith collectively with your team that it will work. That together you have the ability to exceed expectations. Where and when doesn’t matter. Why and how do, belief helps.

My musical will have a new venue in 2015, and I look at it in two ways. Good, it’s a bigger stage, more opportunity to succeed in huge ways. Bad, it could just, be over. I may not make it. The season will end.

But I’m going to choose instead not to think about my career when I play or write. I’m not thinking about “what if”. There are a million outcomes in art besides a win loss or draw. There are positives and negatives always. There are multiple moments stacked upon each other, they all need interpreting, they all need attention. Art requires constant care, like a play book or game tape. It requires second nature, a soft focus. Andrew and I are 25, he’s headed to New England, where he’s been dismantled twice, embarrassed, twice. I’ve seen Andrew do that math in New England, how do I score that much in so little time? But those games are over, the clocks all hit zeros. This is a new game, a new chance to succeed. We’ve all lost things, blown it. We all need wins from time to time, we’ve thrown our four picks and been proved wrong. We’ve felt like old news, we’ve felt inadequate, we’ve felt plainly, simply, just not good enough. Me you Andrew and Peyton. The reason we’re all okay is because somewhere within success and failure, there are causes and effects we are accountable for. Theres always way to improve your game. You can expect to win, you can prepare, you can do your best to perfect your craft. But no one ever goes undefeated or achieves perfection on their own, and if it is truly perfection, it is fleeting in its nature.

[quintetblog-blog]

The Click Track

My new and old friend, the clickSome call it a metronome. I remember sitting with Tim, my long lost drummer. He passed away when I was eighteen in a car crash. He was a very seasoned drummer before he died, 19, we were both younger when he was asking about whether I'd played with a click before. Just now, I'm realizing, that was probably a nice way of saying 'You should play with a click'. A common request from drummers. They always compete to name the BPM (beats per minute) of any tune on the radio, set the tempo for the group, shit like that. Which is important. But I've always been the kind of dude who thinks music is more beautiful, specified, when it moves, breathes, doesn't stay concrete in its pace. But methods are always to be changed. And I'm still young. My method got knocked upside its head yesterday. My voice is feeling like shit. So it's gonna be a guitar fest this next couple weeks recording for my next album, Time and Miles Apart. 'Thug' is a track which will jump off this record, and it is also the most complicated one on the album. The verses take turns in 5/8 and 6/8. It's Nicks favorite that way. But with our recording setup, we have committed to the click this time around. It's our first time really MAKING a record. Primarily, just us two. So, this was the time I knew Id have to be rehearsed and ready. We always go through a process. We set the tempo, and then switch it until its comfortable and appropriate. So, same old, I tap it out on the iPad, Nick does the same thing, we agree, and I go in and see how I feels. It's an adjustments game that exhausts me just writing about it. Adjust the guitar in the monitor, click volume, click type, pre-roll, count in, height of my seat, pick type. Every time. Just for options. So we're rolling along, I've taken the track four times with varied success, and I take fifteen to relax before pounding it out again. The tempo is quick, right, and Im trying to balance staying relaxed, playing with dynamic, getting the most out of the 1960 Gibson in my hands. Too many mind. (That's a line I've carried with me since I saw The Last Samurai in junior high.) I exhaled, cut off the track, and told Nick to start again. I'm reading Phil Jackson's book, Eleven Rings. He talks in this book about Michael Jordan (obviously, much to tell. Talk about prodigy.) He had a theory of playing ball with soft focus. And you could see it. I remember being a kid and watching MJ, and he stood out in the way that his demeanor and gameplay were both balanced. The mental and physical both in check, he would knock down a difficult shot, and turn around like he just put something in a mailbox to be delivered. No big deal, on to the next one. 

Executing, simple as that. So I went soft on the next take. I got two quick measures of five before I come in. About three seconds of count in. 'If you want four measures I can give it to you,' 'Nah, Im good.' Sometimes I like it complicated. It comes in, swift, annoying, but that doesn't matter this time. I drop in on the downbeat, and I'm soft. I'm rotating my focus, like the ball moving around the perimeter. But my primary focus is on the beats in between. I have the luxury of working with this click. It is constant, and perfect. It will not lie to me, and I have to trust it. And work with it. So I did. The take became an adventure, every section, two to four beats were special outliers I could moor onto. And before I knew it, the take was out, and Nick and I agreed that we were set. He could track drums over my scratch take, and Id do it again over his drums. But this was big. Moral of the story, everything takes practice. Everything. Michael had to practice being Michael in essentially every facet of his life, on and off the court. Balance the hype, balance the execution. Balance the ego and mind simultaneously. I don't have a lot of his problems, which leads me to think, I should get this. I should use every day to the fullest. There is always something to be doing. Until I can look my audience in their faces and blast these tunes, and land them at any dynamic, I should continue to work. I'll be better for it.

[quintetblog-blog]

Why.

In my profession it's considered a strange thing to find another person who really appreciates sports. I'm a singer/songwriter, and an actor, along with those, a composer of a musical that is in production for the first time professionally this Spring in Tennessee. I'm 24, I live in New York City. 

I love music. It is truly something I've have understood at a very intimate level since it has entered my life. It came in waves, first I was amused, and it captured my attention, then it took me over when I heard the things I really enjoyed. I obsessed over the new artists that taught me how to play the instruments I play today, I understood how they organized music with more clarity as I continued to listen and know them as people. Since I was 14, I have been on a pursuit to better myself through my experiences creating music, and learning from it. 

But BEFORE that, I knew sports. First. Before I wanted to be on stage, I wanted to be a shooting guard. And quarterback. And halfback. And tight end. And head coach. And a commentator. 

The entire drama around it began when I was young. It was Indiana basketball. My mom, dad, and now sister went to Indiana. I went to Ball State University, an establishment I am very proud to call my alma mater, which directly affected my development in my own career. 

But there was never a chance that any college experience could detach me from my passion for IU basketball. I could probably have counted the number of games I missed during the Bob Knight era on my hands when I was 12. I still have an almanac of school record holders, alumni NBA coaches, hometowns of players, graduating class years, and sequences of starting lineups in my brain from my childhood. Not necessarily because I was meant to be a basketball genius, but it was the first thing I ever found truly exciting. You never knew what would happen. We'd win a bunch, lose sometimes, sometimes it was our fault, sometimes the ref's, sometimes we'd get whooped. And this is where I start referring to my favored teams as "we". 

But "we" is where is all gets juicy. It's where a bunch of people get behind one idea, one specified universal bond. The first version of that "collaboration" I knew was IU sports, and the idea of how teams worked best. 

I got older, and smarter, and saw game situations prove better or worse than others. I started playing music, and I think it all made sense to me in the same way. If you're playing in an orchestra, a string orchestra, like I did in high school and elementary school, you learn basic concepts of music. Like, the orchestra has four main components, violin, viola, cello, bass. And the violins have two sections, or skill sets, and so do the violas. At a basic level, the cellos and basses just kind of do what they do best.

Violins are point guards.

The violin carries the melody, most assuredly, during the most important parts of the piece, which most likely, comes in four movements, or two acts. The point guard is the guy who brings the ball up the floor, and the rest of the players work off whatever he does. He always has the ball when something has to get going. He's a scorer, so he's in the game a lot. 

His average minutes will vary based on whether he's collegiate or pro, difference between four quarters and two halves. 

I imagine harmony between the violin sections as special skills, different abilities in different players, or pieces. Derrick Rose is a very different point guard than James Harden. Just as the role of the violin is very differently manipulated in Mahler vs. Copeland. They came from different backgrounds, they just wire their game differently. And it's obvious by the look and sound, if you're familiar.

The viola is a shooting guard. More specifically, a two guard.

This is an instrument with range. It's dependable, and smart. It blends the sections. The violin and cello would be tonal distances apart without the viola there to blend colors. Just as an offense without a facilitator, with speed who can attack when called upon, will be limited in its movement of the ball. 

But how do you classify a cello? And how do certain players fit in? Lebron has got to be some crazy capable version of Yo Yo Ma, and Michael Jordan might have been a style in music that changed it immediately. Maybe Michael is Jazz. Kevin Durant is fusion. 

Great cellos to me, as a standard, include players like Luol Deng, Serge Ibaka, Kevin Love, Dirk Norwitski, and though it pains me to say it, Metta World Peace has been an effective cello in his day. A presence in the swell of the music. Always working, underestimated at times compared to the flashy roles of the lead instruments. But when the cello pulls something truly spectacular, offensive rebounds, interior pump fakes, the Dirk signature fade, nobody wants to see anything else all night. Its too fun to watch over and over again.

Basses are obviously big men, in every aspect of their sound, Shaq can be imagined. Ewing. Wilt Chamberlain. Dikembe friggin Mutumbo. Its about protection. And domination. If called upon, the bass can change the tone of the music like no other instrument in the ensemble. Rejections. Rebounds, dunks. It can come in many forms of character...especially when you plug it in.      

I didn't know how deep I wanted to go with this first blog. I could go for days. But this is basically how I think, and hopefully this blog will be interesting. Think of it as the blending of two passions. Football is coming soon, and soccer as well. Thanks for reading, more to come.