…what becomes of the power we give away?
The box arrived from Cascade on one of those scorching late July afternoons that make your mind wander back to luxurious days of youthful Summer boredom.
I’d been looking up and down the block on the hour, awaiting that brown block of UPS benevolence, like a fat kid straining his ear for the creepy ice cream truck jingle.
As I tore into the box, it seemed a lifetime removed from those rainy Winter days we first started this project.
And then I actually held it, shrinkwrapped and tight, the final product.
We had been through those tortuous post production days of artwork and finalization, listening to different mixes and masters til we were sick of the new songs already.
Liner notes edited and thrown out entirely, the usual bitching about fonts and band photos (I like this one, even if you do look fat!).
But that same familiar thrill returns when holding the record in hand.
It took us back to those Posh Boy days of the early 80’s when we would go down to Zed’s or Best Records to actually hold the vinyl, even smell it—the actual, physical manifestation of creativity and sweat, those dreams and curses sheathed within 12 x 12 cardboard.
TKO Records had graciously agreed to release the record under their relaunched flag, though we were pretty much on our own as far as the nasty business of promoting the goddamn thing to the masses.
We have learned that a new project is only new for a shockingly brief amount of time, so we shamelessly shilled the platter to any site and rag that would have us.
We considered the launch a success when we finally got a mention in HardTimes!
And so the album came out with some nice fanfare, got our name on the radar for a shining, if not necessarily long, blip of existence.
Proof of life means everything to a band going on 4 decades:
Hey, we’re still here-yo.
But like a spent holiday season, the anticipation and celebration are quickly forgotten, and you’re left to wander barefoot through a den littered with torn wrapping paper and broken toys.
It’s back to the daily grind.
They say you always think your latest song is your best.
And as with children, you are not supposed to pick your favorite, but yeah-the baby.
Perhaps it’s because as you lay there in the afterglow of maternity and hold this shining nugget of promise in your hands for the first time, anything is possible.
Inevitably, this little shit will grow up to crash your car and steal all the beer out of the garage fridge, but for now, this kid can do no wrong.
The record splashed out and took its place in our uneven catalog.
We are able to cull two, maybe three songs off of it to slip in among the 1982 songs that everyone tonight only wants to hear.
Hey look, we get it.
The best we can hope for is a few hundred people giving our new stuff a chance, maybe listening through a track before going off to the next level of Candy Crush.
More likely, we’ll get the wan blue thumbs up! on Facebook, the digital stamp of approval that passes for acknowledgement these days. And that’s OK.
We look at it as a snapshot of these times, our hostage note to our future selves that we lived and hopefully survived these truly disturbing times.
And if nothing else, we end up with something to hold, the validation that matters mainly to ourselves.
Hey look -we can still do it.