Pearl Jam’s eco-friendly CD packaging for Vs.

With the holidays approaching and mid-life mental fog encroaching, I haven’t been writing or editing as much as I’d like of late, professionally or personally. That said, I did pen a couple of pieces for the publisher of my tiny tome on Pearl Jam’s Vs., which you can read on their 33 1/3 imprint’s blog. (I guess there is still such a thing.)

The first piece is something I’m really happy about, since it went from whim to reality in a matter of days, and sandwiched between was some unexpected interaction with PJ bassist Jeff Ament. He helped inform my fresh look at the cover art and photography for the band’s second record, which is no small thing given he snapped the images on the front and back. I hadn’t really thought about the outside of Vs. in depth for years, so it was a fulfilling exercise and his contribution validated a few of my hunches.

Bloomsbury, which recently (finally) launched an Instagram presence for its 33 1/3 series, leaned into a holiday music theme late in 2023 and asked me to pitch in. Long a fan of an idiosyncratic set of Christmas tunes, I jumped at the chance to write about about some of them—under a “bleak” guise of sorts. Because wrapped deepen within all the charm and warmth of the winter holidays there just might be a knotted ember of fear and regret, maybe? It’s okay to admit it. It can’t be perfectly ripe sugarplums 24/7.

Have a look at my not-exactly-joyless playlist and then give the songs a listen. Good chance you’ll feel seen.

I will never be known for decisiveness or conviction outside my professional dealings. Never have been. Even if I feel it, I’m probably going to stay quiet and question it. No, I don’t draw lines in proverbial sand. Gambles are not for me. Leaps of faith? More like falling dreams.

All of which is to say, I deal in self-doubt. I don’t even know why I’m typing this right now.

But hey! It’s a fresh year and baby steps and resolutions and blah blah blah.

* * * 

Uncle Neil and Promise of the Real performing “Field of Opportunity” in 2018.

Neil Young’s “Field of Opportunity” square-danced through my head on January 1, apropos of nothing. Rather than kindle feelings of promise for the new year, the man’s opening lyrics struck me as ironic. Amusing. As if he was resolved to—maybe at peace with—treading water. Which I could identify with.

Above all, I connected with the honesty of his lines:

I’ve been wrong before

And I’ll be there again

I don’t have any answers, my friend

Pretty fitting for the first day of a new year at a time when our societal bearings are not just loosening but threatening to zip off in disparate directions. I don’t know what direction I’m currently going, either—professionally, creatively—or where I might be headed as this year begins to tick along. Or if I should steer somewhere disparate myself. 

There’s a lot to second-guess on both the personal and the macro level. The former is nothing new (see above), but the latter’s anxiety-inducing state adds a new and complicating layer. Am I unsure about things because of latent COVID brain fog? Because our government is toppling in slow motion? Because my son is nearing teendom? Because I’m tiptoeing toward crisis-inducing midlife?

Or is it just because it’s how I’ve always operated and it’s getting more confounding with age?

That’s a lot to wonder about, so I’m focusing on the personal creative part for now. The writing part. The dream-day-job-writing part.

There’s that novel I’ve finished. It’s with people I trust. I know very little about what any of them think. May never know much more. Or they might all eventually tell me they didn’t get it, hated it, wished they hadn’t wasted time on it. (Hey, as long as it’s honest feedback, that’s okay.) 

But I don’t know how long to wait before just hopping to the if-you-thought-waiting-was-maddening-just-you-wait querying phase. Which would be a true gamble and leap of faith. Also likely stupid, but I argue it’s a better course of action than doing nothing at all for an indefinite amount of time, which could be, effectively, forever.

Right?

It seems Uncle Neil was happy to wait awhile as his fields invisibly germinated in “Opportunity”:  

There ain't no way of tellin'

Where these seeds will rise or when

I'll just wait around till springtime

And then I'll find a friend

In the field of opportunity

It's plowing time again

Shit, now that I’m re-reading those lines, I’m (half) convinced he’s right to allow himself time to ruminate on his “pile of old questions.” And now I see, as I never did when listening to the song, that, sure, he’s harvesting “seeds of sadness,” but he’s already looking ahead. He’s already partially over the heartbreak and seeing himself on the next rise. He’s optimistic amidst the uncertainty. 

That’s the key. Doubt is fine. Hesitation is natural. But don’t forget there’s a springtime ahead. That, at least, is as certain as anything can be. And that might be enough.

* * *

So maybe I wait on that query stuff. In the meantime, I’ve got seeds germinating, too. I have another novel in mind. Building an outline for it. Thinking a lot about it. 

Assuming I go through with that and finish a second long piece of fiction, it might provide a matching, underwhelming bookend to the first. I might not get anyone to read it. Or I could get some discouraging (but honest!) feedback. But no matter what, I’d have accomplished something.

And I can worry about its fate later. 

Thanks for listening to me think out loud. I believe I’ll just plow on now.

Winter, 2014. Unable to sleep and spontaneously inspired in the wee hours at an Ashland, Oregon crackerbox called the Timbers Motel, I jotted down notes for a story. Felt like a long story. Could it be a novel? I’d already spent years ineptly toiling on another novel and, in honest moments, knew it wasn’t worth any more time. This idea felt more complete, intriguing—and necessary. Repeatedly, I spilled the roughage in my head onto my phone screen, turned the device off, closed my eyes, and then more bullet points demanded to be described.

The compulsion lasted. I kept at the story, adding and deepening. Massaging and polishing. On good days, I truly believed that I was “writing a novel.” On those where self-doubt shouted louder, I thought it was likely just another multiple-year-sucking dead end.

Eventually I finished a draft, though. Edited it from start to finish. Let it sit. Read through and edited again.

Thirty-some seasons following those first potentially promising notes, I had written a novel.

Did I break out a special cellar beer to celebrate? You bet. But that’s where the self-congrats ended. The accomplishment is symbolic, really. It’s also a point beyond which things always seemed hazy (at best) and nightmarish (worst). What next? Why write a novel that will go unread? What are the odds anyone beyond my wife (also a terrific editor) and mom (super totally unbiased) would ever see a single page? Do I actually want to be in a position to try to get it published? Do I want to open myself to rejection, even the implied rejection of queries met with silence?

Sure, I wrote a little book about a record that’s out in the world. But this is much different, and it’s been a while since that 33 1/3 volume. I don’t have a literary agent. I have yet to ask a single industry person if they’d be interested. No one knows it exists.

* * *

In February 2018, I attended a Dave Eggers reading in Seattle. He and Mokhtar Alkhanshali, the subject of Eggers’ The Monk of Mokha, appeared together in support of the book. They spoke about Alkhanshali’s harrowing efforts to re-establish Yemeni farmers as world-class coffee producers, an adventure the author captured in the non-fiction tome that reads as a novel.

Seated not far from the stage in a cozy lecture hall, I delighted in Eggers’ enthusiasm for Alkhanshali’s story as well as their easy rapport, evidence of a friendship kindled through words—those of emails, letters, face-to-face dialogue, the multiplying pages of Mokha. I hadn’t attended an Eggers reading before, but had been inspired by his talent since A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius blew me away nearly two decades earlier. Directly hearing how he’d brought one of his ideas to fruition was a true joy.

Following their discussion of Eggers’ latest work, he and Alkhanshali amiably offered to sign books. They took places behind a long folding table in the building’s lobby. Those who wanted to share a moment or two with the writer and the entrepreneur began to queue up. 

I’m not one to fawn over celebrities. I’ve been fortunate to talk with a few well-known heroes, but haven’t gushed to anyone since I was a kid. I don’t really like the idea of asking for autographs. From baseball players, rock stars, actors, writers—whoever. I’d rather have a conversation with someone while sipping a beer or a coffee than dote on them. Live and let live.

But I had to thank Eggers for his inspiration. I didn’t need the autograph, didn’t need to compliment him; I just wanted to share my gratitude. So I got in line.

When I reached the table, I was surprised by the men’s friendliness and candor. Eggers was especially present. Pleasantly engaged, I told him that he’d long been an inspiration. He asked what I wrote and I admitted I had completed a draft of a novel. That was true, but the work was jagged and flabby. I was sprinting/staggering through a then-miserable editing process.

Eggers next asked if anyone had read the book I’d written. “Just my wife,” I answered.

Unsolicited, the author offered some advice: “Have at least five people read it. Five people you trust. If there’s a consensus among them that things need fixing, address them.” I’m paraphrasing a lengthier exchanged because my memory sucks, but that was the gist. Five or more trustworthy people. Get their thoughts. Edit things that a majority of them call out.

Eggers said that had been his process all along and it was clear he believed it was necessary. It was also clear that he gave a shit about what I’d told him. I felt heard by him, and his hearing checked a box that I hadn’t acknowledged had long yawned open before me. I’d needed direction. I’d been floundering, mired in self-doubt and fear. 

Dave Eggers signed my copy of his book this way: “To Clint—with gratitude and hope.” I like to think the second noun was aimed at my attempts to do what he did. To find success with words.

* * *

Four years or so later, I’m still a would-be novelist. My lengthy work of fiction remains unread by anyone but my wife-cum-editor.

Though not for long. I’m ready to buck up and ask a handful of people to read the work.

I’m afraid of criticism. I’m afraid of praise. I’m afraid of both failure and success. I’m straight-up afraid.

I am not going to be the guy with an unseen novel in a dusty box somewhere, though. Nope. If people think it sucks, I’m going to hear that and make it better. If they say it’s good, I’m going to hear that, too. 

Gratitude and hope. I’m feeling both.

On April 27, 2009, I met Chris Cornell in his downtown Seattle Four Seasons suite. His decidedly non-rock record Scream had recently been released and I was there to talk with him about artistry and expectations.

The meeting was a big deal; the publication was small and Cornell was famous. Timbaland had produced him. Trent Reznor had publicly dissed him. Millions had opinions on his chest and his past hairstyles. He had a beefy bodyguard who met me in the well-appointed hotel lobby. He had a handler who hashed out the logistics with me by phone. (This was, endearingly and surprisingly, his wife.)  

Cornell was a bona fide rock star, a one percenter even among his elite peers.  

And, yes, I was a fan.

Soundgarden and Singles and Euphoria Morning (the known spelling of the time) fandom didn't factor into my experience or interview with Cornell, though. He was one of my musical heroes, yes, but I didn't want to be that guy. I doubt he or his wife or bodyguard would have appreciated it, either.

So his muscle and his spouse stepped out and Cornell and I sat, me facing a wide expanse of Puget Sound mirroring a mostly clear sky, he facing the room perpendicular to me, and talked. He wore a t-shirt and jeans and black, loose-topped boots. He ran a hand through his (again long) hair occasionally. He cordially offered me a bottled water, answered questions, and let his eyes continually sink to the floor.

I was boring the guy. My agreed-upon time allotment was shrinking. Aside from personal, mind-blown awe at the circumstances, I wasn't getting much juice. I hadn't asked anything to elicit a thoughtful, sincere, weighty response from an artist whose gravitas and voice alone had helped change the world.

Not exactly diverging from my planned questions but jumping forward without a graceful segue, I said something about how Scream and Euphoria Morning were alike in that they took you somewhere you didn't expect Chris Cornell to take you. He looked up. He leaned forward from his reclined (disinterested?) pose on the sofa. His eyes widened and locked on mine. The energy in the big, quiet room suddenly zagged like a gull—many of which circled and darted beyond the long wall of windows—spotting a potential snack.  

Cornell was engaged.

We talked. He had a lot to say then, and all of it, as far as I could tell, was thoughtful and sincere.

My allotted time vaporized and we continued talking. His bodyguard returned from a side door and we continued talking. Finally, his wife stepped in from an adjoining room and, after we talked for a minute or two longer, she politely sent me on my way. But not before noting that she knew we'd had a good conversation simply because I was still there.

I gathered my notes and things. I shared my gratitude. I left the suite after shooting a last surreptitious look back through the door at Cornell, whom I'd not asked to sign anything, whom I'd not admitted any allegiance to. He was already face-down in his phone, on to the next thing, or maybe just seeking.  

When Cornell died in 2017, I couldn't help but think about my 75 minutes or so with the man. How he was clearly driven to create and expand. How he hadn't aimed for surprise but for enrichment, hadn't been trying to prove anything to anyone other than himself. How acknowledging that allowed for a solid, albeit brief, connection to the artist. For precious few moments, we'd seen each other.

The music Chris Cornell left behind—all of it—is timeless. The impression he left on me, not so much. Though that's only because I have an eventual end date just like he did. In the meantime, I'll think about him often. Not just when I hear his voice napalming from a speaker, but whenever I consider the act of creation itself. Whenever I talk with my son about being true to himself.

Whenever I write.

When Pearl Jam’s second album was released, I was just starting college and had no idea what I was going to do with my life—or, more fundamentally, who I was or what I wanted to be.

Twenty-seven years later, I have a pretty solid feel for those things. Still haven’t woken up one morning to realize I was living the life I'd been aiming for, but how often does that really happen? I’m not doing nearly as much writing as I’d like at the day job, and not doing enough on my own time, either, but I’m still steering my ship. Still harboring dreams. Still able to string a few words together when I get the chance (and thankful for every opportunity). And as of today, this little book exists that proves it.

Feels weird, but I guess I can call myself an author now.

I’ve also written a few supplemental pieces that publisher Bloomsbury is posting on their blog next week. They may be right up your alley if you’re a glutton for PJ-related punishment, and the blog is a good place to start if you’re curious what the 33 1/3 series is all about.

With this work now in the rearview, I hope to forge ahead on other extracurricular writing this year. Right now, I’m feeling fiction, but we’ll see. One day I may wake with an urge to do something else larger-scale around music. There’s so much there I’d happily dive into. And if I do start to feel the ship turning of its own accord, or stalling out, or listing, I’ll read the latest of my son’s works. Kid’s already got the writing bug.

I won’t change direction, and I won’t change my mind.

I haven’t written much lately. Not for work, not for myself. My son’s few paragraph-long stories for school have eclipsed my output of the last month, probably. Aside from a freelance gig and proofing my 33 1/3 book, I just haven’t been feeling it. Despite being home all the time, despite staring at the computer much of the time. And with each passing day, the not-feeling-it feeling has grown stronger.

This stalling out is a byproduct of the current state of things—all the things—without question. I’ve allowed myself that excuse for some time. But that permission hasn’t made my lack of interest any less frustrating... or pervasive. I cut myself slack, I feel guilty, I rinse and repeat. And I’m sure I’m not alone.

Yesterday, though, something changed. It was as sudden as it was unexpected. It was Jason Isbell talking about what his and Amanda Shires’ life looks like these days during an NPR Tiny Desk (Home) Concert.

“It’s been a little difficult,” Isbell said of staying at home through this pandemic. “We haven’t gotten to do the thing that we feel like we were born to do.”

Whoa. I paused the video at that point and let the performer’s words sink in. On the surface, Isbell’s statement was simple and straightforward. He and his wife (Shires) haven’t been playing with fellow musicians or performing for live audiences. For people who do that kind of thing for a living, that must indeed be difficult. It also isn’t unlike millions of other peoples’ situations right now—they’re out of work, or can’t work, or just can’t focus on any single thing for more than two minutes. (Raise your hand if you’re like me and two or three of those cases apply.) I get it.

But Isbell’s sentiment went much deeper than that, went far beyond not being able to take a stage outside of he and his wife’s barn or in an empty auditorium. He said that they can’t do what “we were born to do.” They can’t do the one thing they believe they are on this planet to do. They can’t fulfill their purpose. (Not counting parenting, of course.)

Right! He put words to the creeping, tide-like malaise I’ve felt through these months of epic weirdness and isolation. The one thing I do well, the one thing I love to do, the one thing I can contribute to the world—can’t do it. For different reasons, of course, but the bottom line is the same: the audience isn’t there. (In my case, that’s an employer, its brand, its audience.)

Isbell went on to say that one thing he’s doing regularly instead of performing before crowds is sitting on the floor and playing guitar. “It makes me happy,” he said. “It keeps me sane.”

That honest statement illuminated our divergent paths. Isbell and Shires have kept at their crafts (with the latter even learning how to record using Pro Tools); I’ve found other things to do. (Thank you, MLB TV.) They’ve continued to play instruments, to sing, to write songs; I’ve ignored the complete novel that needs another read-through. They’re doing regular streaming performances, releasing sets digitally, actively putting work out there. (Shires’ latest song, “The Problem,” is a philanthropic effort. Proceeds from purchasing the track, a difficult and touching exchange—with Isbell—about abortion, benefit reproductive justice organization The Yellowhammer Fund.) I’m indulging every distraction. They’re creating. I’m not.

Well. Isbell’s words jarred me awake.

Writing makes me happy. Writing keeps me sane. (Or at least I hope it will. Because things aren’t going to morph, suddenly or gradually, into some semblance of what they were anytime soon.) Why the hell am I not doing the one thing I can with that kind of steadying, restorative power? Why have I wallowed in despair—that’s an overstatement, but I haven’t exactly been surfing a rising tide of optimism—and repeatedly ignored or quashed a low-level urge to return to the page?

Well, no more. I was born to do this. Not doing it won’t help me improve. Not doing it won’t keep me sane.

Thanks for the motivation, Jason and Amanda. Keep the music coming. People need it.

I don’t typically air private stuff or participate in self-promotion, but it’s a bizarro world. Norms are out the window. I have a couple of significant professional/personal developments to report—one not so good, one way better—so I’m going to temporarily step outside of my comfort zone and report them.

The first is hardly unique in this epic disaster of a year: I’ve been furloughed from my role at Health Perspectives Group. Perhaps all too predictably, the patient engagement business has slowed due to the fact that people aren’t exactly able to engage in person these days. Budget cuts, business shifts—it’s the atonal yet catchy chorus of 2020. I may get the job back (and that would be wonderful; I’ve really enjoyed my time there), but I’m not holding my breath.

What I am doing is considering a serious run at freelance work. I’ve done a lot of it in past years, of course, but not previously pressed fully into the effort, pitched for work, etc. Now it may be time to look through/beyond my immediate colleagues and contacts and pursue work through a platform like Upwork. Maybe.

I’m methodically feeling it out, as that’s my nature. I’m open to suggestion, persuasion, cautionary tales, all of the above.

The second piece of news is about as far away on the Crap <—> Kick-Ass spectrum as you can get: my book on Pearl Jam’s Vs., a volume in Bloomsbury’s 33 1/3 series, has a publish date. Yes, on March 11, 2021, you too can pore over the fiery, pointed, brilliant record that I’ve pored over for the last 18 months or so.

Or is it more like 25+ years? Back then, my enthusiasm for the Pacific Northwest-carved guitar-rock style labeled “grunge” struck people as odd. My long hair, my flannel, my thermal underwear under shorts. It was arid California, after all. And I didn’t play a guitar (or anything else). Didn’t even know anyone who did. Well! The era (and my hair) may be long gone, but my appreciation of the music (and flannel) continues. And you can pre-order the proof from Bloomsbury and Amazon. (Up yours, Imposter Syndrome.)

Here’s hoping we’re all still around in spring of 2021 and have a few hours to spare for pleasure reading.

In the meantime, I’ve got more writing to do. Let me know if I can do any for you.

… I’ve typically tended to write. Because I’m much better with words than anything else, and because I’m a wimp. I’m not one to stick my neck out, put myself out there, draw attention, take charge, command the spotlight. You name the extrovert quality, I don’t exhibit it. You name the action, I’ve got words to substitute. And until 2020, I’ve been pretty okay with that, if not downright comfortable.

The truth is, I’ve always thought Isn’t it enough to just be a good person? Isn’t that what everyone should strive to be? I had the blessing of spending most of my life witnessing what that looked like on a daily basis, because my dad was good to his core. He could lift someone’s spirits with just an expression or exchange. There was a lot more to his character than words and gestures, of course. But for some reason, I’ve been as averse to actively considering his compassionate actions as I have to taking my own. Which is some seriously wimpy shit.

It took the killing of George Floyd—and the resulting, rightful, righteous demand for justice and equality and respect and fundamental change—for me to acknowledge my character flaw, apparently. To see it as in a mirror. To see it expressed in my passive silence, which might as well be lazy complicity.

Well, my eyes are open. I’m listening, too. Reading. Learning. Aiming to not just be good, but to do good.

I’m never going to lead a public charge or cultivate any platform, and I’m fine with that. I’m still going to use words as my primary tool, too. But I vow that they will no longer be my only tool.

“A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.” – Jackie Robinson

Clever graphic made here.

That pretty much says it all, but I feel compelled to go on a bit—because I can’t be the only 40-something that was perfectly happy to put the Star Wars universe on the Nostalgia shelf in late 1983, for occasional future passing perusal. Can I?

There must be a sizable swath of my generation that isn’t interested in these movies (and shows and games and endless seas of merchandise), right? Maybe you’re out there, and like me, have responded to the trilogies and series and everything else by not responding at all? Or maybe—and this is perhaps more likely—you’ve been frightened to voice your dissent because it would be unpopular with friends, family, Twitter followers? I have to admit that I’ve refrained from outright honesty on the topic in the past for that very reason.

It’s not that I care much what people think, though. (That ship sailed two paragraphs ago.) No, for me the root cause of my silence on the subject has been this: that loving Star Wars is some kind of inherent obligation, and that not doing so proves that there’s something wrong with me. Not admitting that I couldn’t care less about these events shielded my psyche from some brand of self-inflicted damage, I guess. It allowed me to feel that much more normal, culturally in tune, true to my place in human time and invention. It let me look people in the eye easier.

Well, screw that.

Were it not for my Twitter usage—and the inescapable Jedi-like power of marketing—I wouldn’t even know the title of the latest Star Wars movie. I haven’t watched the last two or three. I don’t know if Adam Driver plays a young Darth Vader or who the Mandalorian is. (Wasn’t there a character in one of the Matrix movies with the latter’s name?) I’m just not interested. And all the hype then pushes me beyond that passive state into negative emotion: I will not be interested.

I thought Old-ass Yoda was awesome; I don’t need Baby Yoda. I loved the Ewoks and the battle sequences in their forests. The battle sequences on Hoth. X-wing fighters. Princess Leia. Lightsabers. R2D2. The storytelling!

The first movies—they were everything when I was a kid, yes. I loved The Empire Strikes Back most of all. But by the time the next trilogy began, I was already out. Revisiting that world felt unnecessary. Felt opportunistic. Felt like a cash grab. No, it was a cash grab. (An ingenious one, at that.)

How can I say that? I worked at a mega-retailer at that time, and I ran the toy department. After receiving pallets and pallets of movie tie-in goods, I was tasked with replacing entire aisles with Star Wars items. Late at night. Behind yellow caution tape. While dozens of Christmas-morning-faced college-aged dudes (like me) gawked at the filling pegs and shelves with awe. As the clock ticked toward midnight, the crowd grew and the fanboys used their shoulders to gain better viewing positions.

At twelve a.m., I stepped back, pulled away the tape, and the guys fell upon the aisle like lions on a kill. It was incredible. It was ridiculous. It was gross.

It went on for days, weeks. And the ritual was repeated with each toy-segment street-date.

It turned me off. My positive associations with Star Wars shriveled, my fond memories retreated to the darkest corner of the Nostalgia shelf.

Also, those three movies were pretty lame.

Jar Jar Binks was way better as an action figure than a silver-screen reality.

In the years since, I’ve paid less and less attention to the Star Wars machine, while feeling more and more certain that my apathy made me ignorant. I increasingly believed I was missing something, that something necessary was missing from me. I actually lied to people about seeing the movies, about knowing how story elements were tying together. (You likely know who you are. Apologies.)

No more. I’ve finally come to terms with not caring. At the same time, I’ve decided to climb up and reach back to that shadowed part of the shelf and dust off the original positive Star Wars associations, and to share those epic opening strokes with my son. I’m opening that wondrous initial door of imagination to him, letting him decide if it’s cool or not. (Right now, he thinks anything on the television screen is awesome, so it will be a while.)

It’s entirely possible that one day my kid, when he’s no longer a kid at all, will think that I was a strange contrarian indeed for leaving the Star Wars world after Return of the Jedi. And well before then, the majority of the three readers of this piece will agree. Well, I’m fine with that.

To each their own Yoda. It feels good to finally, publicly, readily admit it. Who’s with me?

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Inside the vinyl gatefold of Sturgill Simpson’s Sound & Fury, above several other records discussed here.

Could my twenty-five-year-old self hear my favorite albums of 2019, he would say something like, “What have you become, dude?” Yes, my tastes have changed more this year than in the last twenty combined. It’s my personal equivalent of global warming reaching its irreversible tipping point, American democracy suddenly galloping toward history, Christians knee-jerking from—well, you get it. It’s been a strange year for my listening habits. Never before have I been so taken by such varying acts and albums. Not since my childhood have I spent so many hours with country music. And not since ever have I been so concerned about the direction of this country, which also influenced what I listened to in 2019. That doesn’t mean I was drawn solely to music with a message; vocals actually proved the least necessary musical ingredient, with so many of my favorite albums heavy on atmosphere and ambiance rather than words and verses. If these trends continue, well, I don't know what I'll be into five years from now. And that lack of predictability is refreshing. (An uncertain American future, however, is not.) Dude, indeed.

10. Not Waving & Dark Mark - Downwelling

I eagerly seek out everything Mark Lanegan does. The frequent, eclectic collaborator strays perhaps as far as ever from his psych-rock Screaming Trees beginnings with this effort pairing him with electronic producer Not Waving (Alessio Natalizia). Here the eminently stoic "Dark Mark" actually sounds vulnerable at times, lending his stormy, poetic, authentic lyrics to equally moody, yet synthetic, soundscapes. Think industrial rhythms, chains dragging on pavement. The mashup is haunting, and because it's so different, stands apart from this year's also quite good (but more typical of his recent solo work) Somebody's Knocking.

9. Fangclub - Vulture Culture

I don't know if this Irish rock trio (Steven King, Kevin Keane, Dara Coleman) was inspired by early Silverchair and Nirvana and other notable bands of the grunge era, but it sure sounds that way. There's a raw nostalgia at play in the crunchy guitar-centricity of these songs, as well as a wry, dystopian point of view that echoes some of the best music of that time. But that's not to say Vulture Culture is derivative; it's a wholly successful, fresh set of songs that reflects a longing for human connection, as well as the pessimism and urgency of civilization's current troubled times. It's anthemic, emotive rock at its best.

8. clipping. - There Existed an Addiction to Blood

I've listened to this album just five times. While it may seem ridiculous to put something on this list that I haven't spent many hours with, I urge you to give this a listen. It's such a critical, heavy, avant-smart creation (by Daveed Diggs, Jonathan Snipes, and William Hutson) that you don't need to have it on repeat to feel its impact… and yet, with each listen, more depth, more lyrical wizardry, is revealed, as with slowly turning a kaleidoscope. With its cinematic horror-genre atmospherics and verses, intermittent harsh noise, and varied, melodic refrains, Addiction to Blood quickly seeps into your psyche, then lingers like a grisly nightmare (even if you don't tune in for the somehow entrancing 17-minute closer, "Piano Burning," which is solely the creepy sounds of apparently just that). In the best possible way. No doubt the sixth listen will be even more powerful.

7. The Unauthorized Bash Brothers Experience

And now for something just a bit lighter. The Lonely Island's members (Andy Samberg, Jorma Taccone, Akiva Schaffer) established themselves as comedic musical geniuses years ago, but unlike some humor-based artists, their intelligence and shtick continue to resonate with each record. This effort marries the act's slick beats and raunchy rhymes with baseball—specifically, 1980s Oakland A's baseball. Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire baseball. Steroid-era baseball. This album (accompanied by an equally hilarious short film) is an entertaining treat for anyone who appreciates hip hop and pop constructions, and in typical Lonely Island fashion, is better than much of the actual music of those genres. But for long-time baseball fans? It's pure gold.

6. The Highwomen - The Highwomen

Once upon a time, I was into country music. Around that time, four male legends of the genre released their first Highwaymen record. It was memorable. This is more so. The voices (of Brandi Carlile, Amanda Shires, Natalie Hemby, and Maren Morris) are striking, poignant. The pointedly female-framed storytelling resonates authentically (without losing a sense of humor). The song "My Only Child" is an instantly timeless ode that requires repeat listening (for this parent of an only child, anyway). The Highwomen is something of a double-edged sword; it's so good that you can't passively listen. Find something else to fill your ears at work and in the car, and put this on when you have 45 minutes to digest every word and chord.

Not to play favorites with this accomplished quartet, but the record got me listening to Shires' solo work, and it is simply fantastic. I just may have played her 2018 effort, To the Sunset, a few more times than this record.

5. Duff McKagan - Tenderness

I wasn't won over by McKagan's front-and-center role in his band Loaded. His bass playing is of rock legend, but I didn't love his vocals. Well, maybe he just hadn't found the right genre. With Tenderness, he rides a rusted rail between old-school country and sincere folk delivery, covering a host of present-day societal concerns. The record feels like the most honest thing McKagan has created… perhaps ever. The faded-outlaw Shooter Jennings production suits the Guns N' Roses icon. As do the simple constructions. And the topical themes—homelessness, addiction, domestic violence. For a storied artist who's written much about "being a man" in recent years, this solo effort captures him living his definition. Taking a stand. Being vulnerable. Feeling emotion. Being responsible. It's a convincing, affecting sound for McKagan, and I hope he'll explore the dusty, barbed-wire tones further.

4. Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross - Bird Box

These two visionaries can seemingly do no wrong. There's Nine Inch Nails. There's one effective, immersive soundtrack after another. Then there's this accompaniment to the blindfold-centered Netflix suspense flick… and it's far superior, in the pulse-pounding and terrifying departments. You need not watch the movie more than once, but this world-building instrumental score begs for one play after another, despite pushing you to the edge of your seat, tensing your shoulders into an uncomfortable hunch, each time. The track titles ("Sleep Deprivation," "And It Keeps Coming") enhance the dangers-in-the-dark feel of the record, and the long-ish running times (up to nearly 13 minutes) generate inescapable dread that you'll welcome again and again. The original "abridged" score was incredible, but then Reznor & Ross released a supersized Bird Box vinyl box set (and stream) that imprints on the psyche—in all its sparse piano-y, whale song-y, deadly glory—for over two hours.

3. Billy Strings - Home

How does a 27-year-old dude write songs that authentically speak to the wistful, fearful mid-life mindset? How does he play country guitar as if his songs were speed metal? How does bluegrass even rise to this level for me? I don't have any of these answers, (though I think my gateway artists were likely Steve Martin and Neil Young). And so what? Strings' second solo record builds on the themes of his Turmoil and Tinfoil, reflecting on loss and mortality in a sincere, beautiful fashion that belies his years. Home also bears poetic commentary on our backward-sliding society, which feels a necessary ingredient for relevance these days, fair or not. This set of songs are alternately melancholic and fiery—and a couple of them at an epic seven-plus minutes—which also aligns with the general feeling of 2019. (Sample lyric: "We can turn this old familiar nightmare into a song.") Home is at once a warning message of what our species is destroying, a testament to Strings' irrepressible drive to create, and a love letter to human connection… all wrapped up in a blanket of interwoven traditional and modern bluegrass sounds (or at least my guess at what both are).

Strings and his band are a treasure. Now how about a pairing with Amanda Shires?

2. Tool - Fear Inoculum

I had no doubt that I'd like Tool's first record in 13 years. This band just makes music that I connect with. (Their records have always been go-tos when I'm feeling angry/driven.) But I also expected to be at least slightly disappointed, as is typically inevitable after so much waiting and hype and waiting some more. Well, Fear Inoculum induced zero disappointment. It's monolithic. It's a majestic tapestry. It's somehow the sum of the band's previous musical parts—and yet more, an evolution of its sound and exploration of its intensely calculated-jamming tendencies. The proper songs run 10–15 minutes and create their own worlds of space and time. The guitars are seemingly sentient, the drums galactic. I don't know crap about time signatures and the like, so the technical stuff all goes over my head, but this record just uniquely, incomparably rocks. Even when it doesn't. Even when it's pensive, spare, silly, and opaque. How will Tool evolve next? I can't wait to find out, but I'm sure I'll have to do just that.

1. Sturgill Simpson - Sound & Fury

Of all the curveballs on this list, my first pick is also the most difficult to categorize. Its seamless blend of hard rock, electronic, classic country and other elements makes for one unique, cathartic, and mind-blowing record. The fiery, retro-futuristic cover is a fitting image for what's packaged inside: a concept album of sorts, conveying a story of bad deeds, destruction, cronyism, cynicism, and macho ineffectuality. Maybe. Despite scores of listens, I'm not yet sure what Simpson is saying with his spacey and samurai metaphors, other than that art is a noble pursuit and people tend to suck. Perhaps a slanted take, but it feels partially right.

An animated Netflix film accompanied this record, and is worth watching (especially if anime is your thing), but the music and Simpson's inimitable drawl are the stars here. From the heavy instrumental beat of first track "Ronin" to the massive, fuzzy rock of closer "Fastest Horse In Town," Sound & Fury is an essential effort made by an artist clearly uninterested in straight-ahead genre work. Based on the trajectory of his three efforts to date, spanning a spectrum of solidly old-school country to whatever the hell this record is, Simpson will unabashedly continue pursuing his chameleonic art, which is unlike anything else I heard this year—or any year prior. It’s truly awesome.

But what about…?

Sleater-Kinney - The Center Won't Hold

I wanted to love this record long before it was released. I still don't. Not that it isn't solid, it's just too far afield from favorites The Woods and No Cities to Love for my taste. (Same can be said for former drummer Janet Weiss, unfortunately.) That's not to say acts should stick with what they're known for, but sometimes stretching results in a pulled muscle. I'm curious to see where Sleater-Kinney goes from here.

The Raconteurs - Help Us Stranger

This band has something the White Stripes didn't, something the Dead Weather don't, something Jack White on his own doesn't: uncanny, timeless familiarity. Usually, you hear one of their songs once, and it's like you heard it a thousand times on FM radio throughout your formative years. They create catchy folk-rock that feels simultaneously lived-in, real, nostalgic, fresh (and made with actual instruments). But their latest didn't do that for me.

Lukas Nelson & Promise of the Real - Turn Off the News (Build a Garden)

On a list so twangy, surely this solid folk-fueled effort fits, right? If only more of the songs hit me like the title track, which may be my favorite song of the year—yes, above all those on the aforementioned records. It’s flat-out perfect for 2019, for a parent, for a wanna-be hippie. The record is a pretty feel-good affair, but “Turn Off The News (Build A Garden” is really something special. It feels good while making a statement. It sticks like the best songs do.

The first day of spring seems a fitting time to mention a couple of major updates on my career. First, I’m writing a non-fiction book. Second, my day job is no longer straight marketing. In the former respect, I’m writing what I know, for a built-in audience. In the latter, I’m doing something I know next to nothing about, in an attempt to finally contribute—and I’m really excited about both opportunities to grow.

The book? A 33 1/3 volume on Pearl Jam’s Vs. If you know anything about me, you also know that my proposal being selected by the series’ publisher, Bloomsbury, is a huge honor. Though I’m contractually obligated to deliver the book, it still feels more daydream than reality. Me writing about a band I’ve loved since high school? Yeah, that’s a dream. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t major challenges in the work (not the least of which is carving out time to pen it), and it doesn’t mean my Vs. book is going to be a love letter. No, this is not fanboy stuff; it’s what I hope readers will agree is compelling scholarly reflection on a record that made a legendary band what it is today. It’s going to take a while, but I believe it’ll be worth the wait.

Speaking of waiting, I’ve been wondering how I might use my one solid skill to truly better others’ lives for years now. (Not coincidentally, the thoughts began nagging me shortly after my dad’s passing.) I’ve loved writing marketing copy all along, but selling social features and cell phones and investing tools and restaurant menu items was cultivating diminishing returns. So: now for something completely different.

Today I started at Health Perspectives Group. It’s a patient advocacy organization that helps people with serious health conditions make better-informed decisions about their pharmaceutical options. At least, that’s how I understand it after one shift. There’s a ton I don’t know about what they do, but it’s clear that they care about people and their well-being. And my contribution—consultation scripts, email, print materials—could help some of those people live better lives. Maybe that’s romanticizing it a bit, but HPG’s mission is one I believe in, and I hope to give patients who engage with them simple, clear information about their options… while I learn a whole bunch myself.

It’s going to be a busy spring. Here’s hoping there’s a bountiful harvest in the months and years that follow.

Last September, I clicked through a tweet to read about Hired Guns Creative, a boutique agency that designs craft beer (and other libation) labels. I was blown away by their work, and intrigued by the mention of the label “love story” they wrote for every Driftwood Brewery release.

I’m a writer who loves beer, you see. This wasn’t the first time I’d daydreamed of crafting copy for bottles and cans, but Hired Guns’ work impressed me enough to daydream in public. I tweeted the story myself, praised the agency’s artwork and design, and noted that I’d be thrilled to write beer label copy.

Then I went on about my day.

My phone interrupted me a bit later; I’d received a direct message on Twitter. From @HiredGuns. Whoa. I swiped straight to it, eyebrows high and hopes low.

They’d seen my tweet, and, as serendipity so rarely would have it, actually needed someone to write their Driftwood “love stories.” Was I interested?

I couldn’t respond fast enough.

The brewery preferred poetic, evocative blurbs on their bottles. Was that okay?

Holy crap, I was obsessed with prose poetry in college!

This beer label concept centers on an unknown object in the solar system, and we’re imagining it carrying beings that created the human race. Can you work with that?

Are you kidding me? Aliens is my favorite movie!

Yes, I was jazzed. (I’m still jazzed; I’m employing exclamation points!)

And now that beer, Oumuamua Milk Stout, is out in the world. Presumably hundreds (thousands?) of bottles are in cold cases and on shelves bearing words that I wrote. Bearing a damn sci-fi quatrain (which hints at the beer’s qualities) that I wrote.

Sure, it’s a Canadian brew, so I won’t find it at the local bottle shop, but it’s real. It's beautiful. (And there will be others!)

The only thing that would make this story sweeter: my dad holding a bottle and reading the shimmery little all-caps rhyme that his son wrote. He would grin. He would shake his head, just a little bit, in appreciation. His eyes would gleam.

He wrote and loved beer, too, you see. Prose. Poetry. Dark stuff. Hoppy stuff.

So I’ll raise a glass of this special stout to Dad. I’ll tell him he’s sorely missed, and thank him for believing in me.

I’ll keep daydreaming, too.

Forever caressed by blackest space, the hurtling megalith returns—

Earthlings' prodigal creator in dense, velvet-wrapped disguise.

Its secret pilots seek adulation, sweet desolation, eternal cold burn;

Sapiens' myths rewritten when revealed the cosmic truth inside.

I write a lot. For work, for fun, for somewhere in between. Marketing. Fiction. Journalism. Employing different voices for different outlets. Tuning tone one way and another like the knob some of us used to twist on the stereo. For nearly a dozen years I’ve been at it, growing more adept at that twisting and shifting, feeling increasingly better about my work.

Clearly I have a handle on my own voice, then, right? Well, turns out no. I hadn’t put a lot of conscious thought into that until, in a recent job interview, I was asked the question directly: How would you describe your writing voice, Clint?

Oh, damn.

I nearly began this paragraph with “Needless to say…,” but the fact that I’m writing this ditty proves that it does need to be said. (Speaking for myself, anyway.) We writers aren’t just magical passive conduits who channel words from some other plane. Rather, we’ve already collected the words, we keep them within arm’s length, and, blessedly, somehow string them together to fit the right place at the right time. But we each do that differently, don’t we?

The way I’d write about a smartphone, an investing method, a musician, myself, or your standard toothpick likely wouldn’t read anything like your piece. We might choose completely different adjectives and verbs. You’d emphasize one aspect while I highlighted another. Our sentence structures wouldn’t align. Our punctuation would be a Rorschach study in placement (and I’d use more em dashes). Your work would be memorable and persuasive, and hopefully so would mine. For, most likely, very different reasons.

That’s the beauty of writing: there’s no singular perfect way to compose any given headline or ad or email or story. There are best practices and proven approaches, of course. But being a successful writer requires a unique application of those ground rules, a distinctive fruition of education and instinct. In short, being good at it requires having a solid voice. A voice you can describe, refine, and describe again. A voice you can be proud of.

So. Excellent question, interviewer. Next time I get it, I’ll have an answer as well thought-out as everything that I write.

Vintage knob image from w2dtc.com.

Matt Vaughan Behind the Easy Street Counter

Vaughan in the Vinyl Loft

Vaughan Contemplates His Pearl Jam Pop-up Shop

Pearl Jam Tweets the Story

A couple of months ago, I decided I wanted to write a piece on Matt Vaughan, owner of Seattle's Easy Street Records. I felt I had to share how he's a legend in the local music community and one of a handful of people responsible for Record Store Day—and, because of that, responsible for the resurgence of vinyl records. Thankfully, Matt was up for it and Northwest Music Scene agreed to publish the story. So I had the honor of hanging out with the man in his shop, the site of so much history that's precious to this music nerd. It was the best kind of surreal.

The story—"Thank Easy Street Records' Matt Vaughan When You Spin the Black Circle"—quickly got a lot of social love (even from Matt himself), which was nice. And then Pearl Jam tweeted a link to it, which was just plain effing awesome. (I've been a fan since high school. The piece's title is a nod to the band, if you didn't know.) Color me grateful. And a little smarter. I learned that sometimes, when you chase down a writing idea, things can work out quite nicely. It's the little things; they can actually be huge.

Given the time of year, and that I have a 4-year-old, here’s something that’s been bothering me lately: the comma in Scaredy-Cat, Splat! I’ve not only spent a fair amount of time reading this book aloud the past few weeks, but I’ve been worrying at its title when I should be doing other things (like reading a book I want to read).

Did author Rob Scotton put that comma there to create a pause before the hero’s name? This is the only semi-reasonable purpose I can see here, yet it doesn’t grammatically justify the punctuation. So why, why, WHY is it there?

It’s making me nuts. I can’t figure it out.

The only potential conclusion I’ve drawn is a troublesome one: the comma is emphasizing “scaredy-cat” as an adjective. It’s doing something that really should not be done on/in a kid book. It’s highlighting name-calling.

The comma is both creating and forgiving the missing address of a longer, complete title: You’re a Scaredy-Cat, Splat!

Yeah, it’s lighthearted, and Splat is a “loveable” goof of a cat. The author’s not making fun of him. The other cats (and the spider) aren’t insulting him. Splat comes out a lauded winner in the end, as you'd expect. But man, that comma. It’s leveling a finger at him. 

Am I overthinking this? I think I know the answer to that.

Perhaps you were expecting more? A full-on blog, maybe? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint, if so. The days of regular posts are behind me, I'm afraid. 

My goal for this page is to share occasional thoughts on copy and creative out in the world. Headlines and passages. Good and bad. Print and online. And maybe talk a little about my jobs and process. Maybe.

Spare time's hard to come by, though. So we shall see.

Thanks for reading!

Clint