The Great Jet-Setter Heart Disaster
Full Length… ahem… Triple Album.
In Progress. To be released Late 2020.
Hello,
I will now be introducing to you one of the weirdest things that has ever existed in my brain, and wants to exist in the world. It’s…. The Great Jet-Setter Heart Disaster !
It’s a megalithic, three-part album. It spans many genres, styles, recording techniques, and moods
Overall, these are the vibes of three movements, respectively:
ONE: You enter Seattle through the viaduct as it is being destroyed, encounter the underlord of Grunge while two-stepping at the Little Red Hen, spend summer in 2010 getting too hot at Fiddle Tunes, Fall too wet in Forks, and the Next Spring landscaping your way across Country in a dodge Dakota, with the rollicking memory of mildew basements and KOMO 4 pounding in your head. Through the hang-over of moss-addled teenagers on mushrooms to the outskirts of Spokane, you feel you have greeted the deep female knowing of what was once called Oregon Territory, but is now something like Burien, Tacoma, Shopping Malls, Casinos, Wine bottles wet with morning Condensation, being tossed down a ravine, only to find that’s no Ravine at all but the actual Elwha River come undammed, loosening silt kept too long in standstill, all discarded grocery carts in the Ivy tumble to their freedom and the world is renewed in the exhale of a preteen smoking a camel behind a Safeway.
TWO: Just as you relinquish the last fabrics of Northwesternness from your shoulders, there you are, a naked baby in Times Square Manhattan, staring straight up seventh avenue to your destiny of headlights. In the September dawn you are greeted with the thick hands of would-be-managers, intellectuals, converts to post-structuralism, sexually androgynous amateur astrologists, all sipping espresso in a cafe in Queens. Before this strata of the hip-tongued literate ever cropped their pants above the ankle and rode the M train hungry, there was the city spit by Sinatra in suit bought yesterday from a Greek tailor, and out west they know nothing about the proper martini dry, so by god though you’re caught in queens between two cats and a humidity unreal to anyone except the laundry line, you’ve got your vocal chords jacked from sessions under YMCA hot lights, and your growing like the phyledenron in the kitchen, crossing out the eyes of the last season’s lover with the ball point pen you scrawl out the manuscript, remembering all the ways he held your hand through security, paid for Cabs to JFK, all those evenings passing the backlit laundromats and delicatessens with your rolling suitcase and your passport one stamp heavier for having followed him. Blindly you step into the spotlight of a midnight stage in someone else’s east village. You may have fallen, but never from Grace.
THREE: Out of a lovesick blues onto the mesa waltzing. Knowing no master you can only kneel to railroad and kiss dust, drive straight down Texas with an air conditioner up the skirt, pounding song hammers over radio waves until the sun rays blaze a final margarita into the menagerie of a too-many highway’d Santa-Fe boogie. It’s a strip mall cafe with tinted black windows, a pool hotel thronging with influencer moms, and underneath all the turquoise and leather, a thought, a gasp, a song returning over the centuries of bloodshed and might. Confronting frontier in self in star in river in big tall man with biker coat and hanging face, tobacco and endless sunflowers, the only hope your lost companion, her hair golden wisp crisp growing from clay rooted brown of maiden adventurer. Train to Los Angeles. With summer gasoline and streets paved with parked cars, you puncture North Hollywood theaters to douse yourself in makeup and hair, slathering your face with blue sparkle and bright white to ignite the script with fauna, you take uppers and greet the dawn in five intervals, poised for champagne nostalgia, howling at the moon on your birthday on Fairfax, wearing a Stetson and looking more like yourself than yourself in Highland Park neon, making the gestures of the West until it all fades back into miniature from an airplane window. How was it that we got here anyway? Why, didn’t it all start with a little robbery in Poulsbo?
