Friend of the devil.
I spent last weekend in San Francisco with my father, getting a feel for the west coast, letting the breeze from the bay blow away some of the excess baggage. Aside from an hour or so each day spent in my hotel room reviewing mixes for MICE, I spent my time in Califor-ni-ay exploring the many corners of a remarkable city, all the while bonding with my pops. It was a much-needed realignment of context. Long talks with my father about his struggles and successes amidst the unmistakable streets and colorful houses of Haight-Ashbury, strolling through the beautiful remnants of hope from a failed experiment in everlasting peace, weighing my own musical debts to the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane, aligning my perspective among the tall trees of Golden Gate Park.
You know, the usual hippie shit.
But it was a great trip and there is a part of me, too long a prisoner of the east coast, that is very much descended from my flowerchild father. Though my new record is only slightly reminiscent of the San Francisco sound, I feel that much of what I've attempted to communicate through these songs is at least partially married to the same vulnerable but optimistic nerve that Jerry Garcia and Grace Slick were trying to touch in their heyday.
We need to be better to one another. We need to love deeply. We are flawed but beautiful. Let's make the most of it. Love, peace, and hair grease.