My Life In Records

My folks used to take me and my brother up to this little town called Taos, new Mexico. A famous painter lived up there and so we'd go out for a few weeks during the summer to putter round the town and spend time with this genius painter. And so, on the way up, every damn single time, I can still see and hear my father putting this record in. it had rhymes and reasons, this old guitar, the eagle and the hawk, leaving on a jet airplane, follow me, just striking song after striking song. He’d turn the volume up full blast, roll down the windows, and the Hinson family could be seen tearing through small mountain passes with Mr. Denver singing his heart out to us.

My folks went out of town for a weekend and left me and my brother with some co-workers of theirs. The husband was this towering individual that had a striking resemblance to the singer of queen. That Saturday morning, I was watching cartoons, and he walks right into the living room, turns off the TV, turns on his stereo and starts playing, ‘I’ll be your mirror’ and he turned to me and said, "this is better than cartoons, little man." and he was right.

My grandmother on my pop's side was always in pretty bitter health. She had some complications in her life, which i can understand, that lead her down some interesting paths. I’m not sure she was a very happy woman. I’m not sure life really gave her a good hand, either that, or she didn't play her cards right. but I remember, so well, heading out to her house in the country, near trinity, Texas, where my pop's was raised. The last right we turned onto that at the end, sat her house, I hear Mr. Smith singing that opening track. The strangeness of the recording to such young ears was fascinating to me. The immense sadness in his voice and in the music. Something during those days broke inside of me. I now knew the sound of sadness. And this would be a sound I would carry with me, unknowingly then, for the rest of my days.

It was high time in my life to show my ears something new. This is when I asked my brother, "you have something new? Something strange?" he said, "yes, I surely do," reached inside his tape case, yes tapes, pulled out this tape with the strangest cover. it was dark and full of shadows and violence. And within that record, you will find, as i found, some of the darkest shadows and most unsettling violence a record can bear to hold. Screams used for the beat. Shattering panes of glass for the melody. i still hold this record in complete high regard. There is a striking, unmistakable beauty that lies behind the madness, which, in my mind, very much resembles life. Simply stunning.

This is one of the first tapes I ever bought. Back when I was young, even though I’m not that old, we used to copy tapes just like the kids now are burning cds. It took much longer and was much more of pain in the ass. But just as it is now, it was cheaper, and not so talked about, so none of us thought any harm in it. So I saved my money, and went out in search of an album. I felt, back then, that the cover of a record would say so much about the music that was inside. I saw the title of the band. I saw the title of the album. The artwork was a painting of this "special" fellow in the middle of the road with a gun in his belt and a run-over cat in the road. What else could a kid want? So i take the tape home, take the plastic off, put the bastard in, push play, ready at any moment to push the fast-forward, but low and behold, I never had to. I was in shock! Song after song was unfolded in such brilliance and light that i basked there in it shining out of those small speakers. I was floored. I was lucky to never have to view music the same ever again. It gave me new ears. new eyes. a new understanding.

I spent a very large amount of my teenage years held up in my room, being that I was almost always "grounded" cause I smoking dope, skipping school, smoking fags and lying to my folks about it. My parents hated, despised, lying. So during these days and weeks of boarding, I would sit in my room, earphones on, listening to almost all the 4AD bands, but this record stood out far more than any other. Each track was a heavy fuck and after each heavy fuck was through, another heavy fuck was just right behind ready to kick me in the soft stuff. And I remember sitting on my dirty couch, glaring into the 4AD symbol, thinking, "one day i will be on this label. One day", knowing full well I was lying to myself. But just over roughly 10 years later, i was on 4AD, making records for them. Beautiful.

I was just getting out of high school and heading straight into university when i heard for the first time Mr. Will Johnson. This was the first proper Centro-Matic record, but Mr. Johnson was the only musician on the bastard. all the drums, guitars, vocals, piano, everything... was played perfectly and stunningly by this wild, small Texas holy man. I had heard a lot of music up to that point, but nothing as so bitterly honest. it was still the sadness I had heard in Mr. Smith's voice, but it was different: it was local sadness. A Texas sadness. The songs on this record are cunning, heavy-handed, bleak, and most importantly passionate beyond all repair. Now I am lucky enough to say that Mr. Johnson is a dear friend of mine. And I find this to be an honor.

I was down on my luck, living in a small town in north Texas called Wichita falls. I was still following around this dumb broad that had me uncomfortably wrapped around her finger. I was working at a framing company called Michael’s custom frames, a Christian hobby store, and every day after my shift, I would walk across the parking lot to a used cd store. In this store, I found this record. I clearly knew and adored all of Mr. Bazan's material, but when I found this LP, it was a surprise. And what was on the cd was even more a surprise. so there was me, at least five days a week, walking into this place, asking the fella behind the counter for the cd, and I would listen to it on some players they had in the back. After a good solid month or so of this, one day, the guy behind the counter says, "if you don't buy this record today, you can't listen to it." So I pulled out my last and only five bucks, bought the bastard, and never went into the record shop again. i had what I needed. Or I had what needed me.

This record has played a few different parts in my life. When I first heard it, I was blown clear over. The wailing guitars. The building and the clash of sheer beauty. The whine of his voice. The sincerity in his songs. Then later in life, I was out with my wife and band, and we were in Stockholm, just for this one gig, with a woman I will not name. We were on a double headlining show, which means no one is really more important that the others. No support band, etc. so after this person and her band play a 3 hour soundcheck, and doors are any minute, me and my band were trying to get onstage and get a quick line check done. Here’s where the problems started. I asked their TM to move a keyboard just over a bit on stage. He refused. I told him nicely, to please move it as we had come all this way to get a job done. Well, I went from nice to calling him all sorts of interesting. Then my wife starts getting into it with this lady we are supposed to be playing with. It was amazing. Words were flying. There was no respect in the room and it was quite amusing. Nevertheless, after a bit, the TM decides that he and the band refuse to share a stage with us. I tell him to get bent and glance over at the promoter to see what he says. He says we are off the gig. And I reply, "we getting fucking paid?" He said, "yes" and I told them all to fuck themselves, and as we packed up my wife kept in on everyone like the perfectly amazingly violent creature she can be. So we packed up, knowing coming to the country was a total waste as playing music, for me, is about simply playing music, not just the pay. But the promoter gave us tickets for a show across the street. It was Built To Spill and they were playing Perfect From Now On from beginning to end. Victory, my friends.

Mrs. Cline was a ghost to me until I met my wife, Ashley Bryn. Of course, I had heard the name, but I knew not the power. The things she sang of. The timber of her goddess voice. Such a moving sound. Such passion and sadness and happiness and failure and heartache. She moves me in a way no other can. In the midst of a new band a minute world, it is comforting to know we can always rely and rest upon the glory and grace of all those who have come before us.