I apologize for the lack of Square Face updates. My life has been busy with the release of my record and an increased demand for shooting. But there is always an interesting face out there. Or two. I was in Carmel recently and saw two priests casually strolling down the street. Felt like I was in a Roberto Rossellini film for a moment. With Carmel’s dreary decaying architecture. Italian overtones. Part of the charm of it all really, on most days. What’s funny is that two priests walking down the street seemed like the more appropriate company for this old coastal town than the usual tourists with mega-pixel cameras. I could tell they were Orthodox priests. My grandparents would take me to a Russian Orthodox church when I was young. These two, however, were Greek Orthodox.

As I approached them I asked the obvious question already knowing the answer, “Are you twins?” I’m always fascinated by twins. My brothers are twins, fraternal. My good friend is also a fraternal twin. For fraternal twins it’s an existence where the other doesn’t look like you and in most cases is nothing like you, but you both share a connectedness like no other and that connectedness is seemingly endless. A bond bargained over nine months in the same womb. Growing up with two fraternal twins as brothers was a strategic experience for me. I had to be allies with both in different situations. It was my only way to survive. Play both sides. It’s still that way. I’m more of a middle man than a younger brother. I respect both world views.

What struck me with these identical twins that I met in Carmel is that they were both priests. They both had given their life over to a faith that they shared. That they both believed in. So much that they decided that this was their life path. I wonder if it would be different if they had been fraternal twins? Would one be a priest and the other an atheist? Maybe someday I’ll meet fraternal twins that are both priests.

My new record Invisible Lion has been released and is now available on iTunes as well as on the 4th Street Records website. Most of these songs were written during my travels across country from California to North Carolina and the backroads in between. Experiencing the Southeast while living in Western North Carolina influenced a lot of the imagery in the lyrics. The Carolinas, Tennessee, and Georgia are ripe with incredible history, people and scenes. Capturing a sense of my experience on this record makes all those things still seem new to me. Makes them last.

When it came to recording these songs I traveled to Portland, Oregon, to Producer Beau Raymond’s Family Farm. I’d been familiar with Beau’s producing and engineering work from two of my favorite records that he was a large part of, Ready For The Flood by Mark Olsen and Gary Louris, and Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon by Devendra Banhart. I was excited to see what we could do with my compositions. Beau’s recording studio is an amazing atmosphere tastefully decorated with a natural aesthetic of rich woods and beautiful anomalous items, as well as a shag walled isolation booth. The first night at the Family Farm he hosted a soup night, where a large number of his closest friends came together. Portland welcomed us warmly.

The sessions lasted three days and went smoothly, due in large part to the musicians backing me on the record and Beau at the engineering board. Nathan Junior (Lead Guitar, Piano), Jesse Bates (Pedal Steel, Strings), W.C. Beck (Bass, Piano, Guitar), and Ryan Spellman (Drums) all left their own distinct touch on the record. We recorded the whole thing live, with some overdubs, and didn’t really plan much of what would happen. It just developed on the spot and was improvised. I would strum my guitar and sing and they would interpret what they heard and respond musically. It was amazing and made me realize that the old saying “You’re only as good as the people around you,” was being confirmed as the sessions progressed. The twelve hour drive home was a perfect way to reflect on the experience and listen to the record, what we’d created, on repeat, smiling the whole way.

Have a listen below. Please share it with others if you like what you hear. A free download of the title track can be found here. Thanks for listening.

Headed north this weekend to Humboldt County to celebrate the life of my cousin Justine Thonson. Her life was taken in a sudden accident and the giant redwoods claimed her for their own. She was an extraordinary human being whose laugh and smile was legendary. She was twenty eight. I spent the first years of my life in Humboldt County being raised along side my brothers and cousins, then returned almost every summer until I was about thirteen. It’s an ideal place to be a kid. Arcata is a coastal town with the vast blue Pacific on one side and a deep dense forest of enormous redwoods on the other. Adventures endless.

Seeing my family under these circumstances was very difficult but quickly turned to a place of support and an environment to mourn, an acknowledgment of love. Not much has changed there since I was a kid, most of the buildings are still standing, the redwoods still strong and towering, and a family still joined at the hip.

On the way home we stopped off at a place that I’ve always noticed along the way. On the roadside off the 101 headed south is a barn with a sign that says, “Don’t Forget the Magic,” written largely on the side of it. As I pulled over and got my camera ready for a shot we were greeted by the proprietor John McCaffrey, who quickly offered us candy and cold drinks. He introduced us to his other associates sitting in easy chairs out front, watching the cars pass along with the time. He then gave us a tour of his welding shop and asked us to sign his toilet journal. Something he makes everyone sign when they stop to use his facilities. Like a guestbook.

I noticed he had some cars in his shop covered and asked him what he had under there. He pulled up one of the covers and it was a 1956 Chrysler New Yorker. When he opened the door to show us the interior, it was all white leather and smelled like Bette Davis. Glamorous. He then took a few pulls from his pipe and said he would play a little music for us. He picked up a hammer and started tapping the bells attached to the walls and the roof, then he pulled a string and the loudest train whistle you ever heard blew. When my hearing came back we wished each other well and were on our way. As we drove off he blew his train whistle again and it trailed off in the distance like an old steam engine traveling through the woods.

Don’t forget the magic.

This past weekend I attended Vinyl in the Redwoods at The Henry Miller Library in Big Sur. An event overflowing with record vendors from up and down the coast with crates full of obscure records of yesteryears. Works of art really. I bought a few based on the artwork alone. Holding a record in your hands is a big part of the experience of music. It was for me when I was young staring at my mother’s records. Studying the stories you could imagine from the photos, design and lyrics while the needle spun around in black wax. Merle Haggard records, Bob Dylan records, even Culture Club records struck a chord.

On this day I also had the pleasure of meeting a local photographer whose work I’ve been familiar with and inspired by. Michelle Magdalena Maddox. A powerful name and a powerful presence she carries with her. Like the camera in her hand. Possibilities endless. A light chaser where timing is everything, and thus, her work exudes such timelessness. Stark, bold, dark and free. There is also a quietness to it that makes the impact of the image and subject more powerful and emotionally understood.

We spoke of many creative things. Other photographers work. I brought up Sally Mann. Best known for her collection Immediate Family, a black and white series of her young children in their natural state and setting of their summer cabin. The work at first was criticized and labeled obscene. But later regarded as high art. The level of honesty in the photos and the sense of just being is endlessly powerful. The complexity of youth in its freest of environments.

Photography to me seems like the only real way to stop time. Preserving the idea of what is being seen. Where that exact moment is everything.

Spent the weekend cleaning things out and getting rid of stuff. It’s amazing what one accumulates without really noticing until you try to bring something new in and it doesn’t fit anywhere. It’s an odd thing to hold on to something because someday you might use it. Waiting for that moment when these things will actually be useful.

Luckily I was able to part with many things. Tired of waiting for them to serve a purpose. So I found myself at the donation shop around the corner. Enter Nilo, donations coordinator. When I approached it looked like he was sleeping because he didn’t respond immediately, but I soon discovered he was deep in thought. Reflecting I guess, as his radio blared the San Francisco Giants game.

It’s a curious job and I was curious what the weirdest thing someone ever donated was, so I asked, and he recalled, “One time a guy’s car broke down in the parking lot, and I guess he didn’t want to deal with it anymore so he donated it,” Nilo said, half laughing. He continued, “You can’t just leave your broke down car here, arrangements have to be made. People have to be called.”

Now that is a pretty bold move to just say screw it and donate your car when it breaks down. Clearly the guy didn’t think it was useful anymore.

Brian is the manager of a local nutrition store. He’s really an encyclopedia on the natural ways of healing. A nutrition guru. I trust his knowledge more than I do most doctors. You can walk in, tell him what the issue is and he’ll break down what will help and what won’t, in a very truthful and informative manner. He’s not just a product pusher. Brian’s knowledge is almost all self taught. Motivated by his own experience of living a healthy life. He reached a tipping point years ago that led him down a path to understand aspects of the body, and specifically how what you put into your body affects everything. His job keeps him in an environment that supports his views.

The discussion eventually turned to the Codex Alimentarius (Latin for “food book”). Which is a collection of internationally recognized standards, codes of practice, and guidelines relating to foods, food production and food safety. Established by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations (FAO) and the World Health Organization (WHO). The Commission has been aggressively working with the FDA and members of Congress to pass new laws that would require a prescription to buy limited amounts of vitamins and natural supplements. As well as giving more power to pharmaceutical companies to patent natural occurring vitamin elements once they’re included in their prescription drugs. Meaning certain naturally occurring supplements could not be sold by anyone except the pharmaceutical company that owns the patent.

I asked Brian what his store would look like if this law passed and he said, “Everything you see in here would be behind glass, and you would need a prescription from your doctor to buy most things. Some stuff would be over the counter but it would be in smaller doses and more expensive. Your identification would have to be scanned when you bought it to control your consumption of it.”

The Codex Alimentarius Commission has stated that, “The guidelines are to stop consumers from overdosing on vitamin and mineral food supplements. And that the guidelines call for labeling maximum consumption levels to ensure that consumers receive beneficial health effects from vitamins and minerals.” Really? Passing a law that requires a prescription for a smaller dose at a higher price is their way of protecting the people? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone overdosing on Vitamin C.

I saw a commercial the other day for an arthritis prescription drug that showed an old man casually strolling on the beach during sunset with his dog running around him. Not a care in the world. As the voice-over persuaded viewers to start living again with the help of this drug. Then it listed the side effects. “May increase the chance of heart attack or stroke that can lead to death. Serious skin reactions, or stomach and intestine problems, such as bleeding and ulcers, can occur without warning and may cause death. The elderly are at increased risk for stomach bleeding and ulcers.” Ah yes, start living again folks. Just be careful of the side effects.

Last week my wife and I found out she is expecting. We’re both very excited and like most first-time-expecting couples we found ourselves in a bookstore at the what the heck to expect section. Pastels, infant illustrations and glossed over glossy pictures is a bit overwhelming, albeit cute. But we were in search of substance.

Enter David Klopovich. He noticed my wife flipping through a classic book on expecting and couldn’t help but share his experience with raising his daughter and the books that had a much more profound affect on him. Books that were more about empowering a child, by the parents behavior, rather than empowering a parent with reactionary ways of raising a child.

I’m on the fence about reading too many books versus trusting my own instincts. I think back to my upbringing and how my parents raised me. The only real rule was, “Be home before dark,” as my mother would always say. The first few years of my life were spent in the Redwoods of Northern California’s Humboldt Country where me, my two older brothers and my cousin would spend almost everyday exploring the deep dense redwood forests. With rusted dull machetes in hand we lived out and created epic adventures with our imaginations. I was 4 at the time and didn’t realize until later in life that those first few years exploring those back woods helped shape me into the person I am today.

The world has obviously changed since the 80s. With its sense of innocence being pecked at everyday by vultures. I won’t be sending my child into the woods alone, however. Maybe metaphorically. But the idea of letting a child experience their own interpretations of the world, without a parent creating and dictating every situation, sounds like the right philosophy.

David spoke of how everyone sees his daughter Rilke as fearless and confident. She is named after the Poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Of all of his work, the book Letters to a Young Poet was the one that changed me. It’s a collection of Rilke’s letters in response to a young writer who began to send his poetry to Rilke, seeking both literary response and advice. But Rilke covered more subjects about life and living than he did on the proper way to write. The underlying theme Rilke shared was about trusting your own inner judgement. From that, what you create will be in its most potent and honest form. I think I’ll go back and read Letters to a Young Poet before I read anything about what to expect.

Yolie. Mother of three. Hair stylist. Yolie is my brother Jacob’s wife. I was down visiting with family in Southern California this past weekend. We all had good conversations that found their way to a spiritual realm. Yolie talked about her grandmother who was a Curandera, a traditional folk healer.

In Yolie’s hometown, her grandmother was regarded as the town healer whom people would call upon day or night to heal, advise, and even deliver a baby into this world. In fact, her grandmother delivered Yolie and each of her six siblings. With her bag of herbs and instruments she would travel on foot or by horse to those in need. She was able to diagnose by placing her hands on different parts of the body to detect the source of the imbalance. Today she’d be referred to as a medical intuitive, who could remedy an ailment by combining the power of therapeutic touch with the healing properties of plants to restore balance in the human system. The Mayans practiced a type of shamanism based upon astrology and a form of divination known as the blood speaking, in which the shaman is guided in divination and healing by reading pulses in the veins of the ill person’s arms and legs. Tapping into the rhythm of the physical body which flows from the spiritual form.

The blood speaking doesn’t sound much different from the modern practices where a doctor measures your blood pressure or takes a blood sample to determine what’s wrong with you. It’s still a question of faith and trust. Faith that what the person is doing will help you. I don’t think I would call most doctors healers. But I do believe in letting the blood speak for itself.

Erik. Artist. Interior designer. I met Erik at a mutual friends birthday gathering. He walked in wearing a wild jacket that fit his personality perfectly. Custom made in the 1950’s in Honolulu. He told me when he wears the jacket it always causes a panic. It found its way to him by the widow of a Stanford professor. The professor also liked to cause a panic.

We spoke of art and design. Erik designed the interior of the Big Sur Bakery, which is an incredible collection of art pieces and decor suited to the spirit of the Bakery and the elemental quality of Big Sur. Rustic, weathered, faded colors chosen by the sun. Beautifully beat.

Erik explained, “My design work is usually found washed up on the ocean, pounded by the fury of the Pacific storms. Rusted bent metals, driftwood, plywood, boat pieces, China shards. I am inspired by the shapes, and incorporate contrasting elements and color. Usually working with elliptical shapes. There are not enough ellipses in the world,” he said. “My patch work metal is salvaged from vintage label cans, bread boxes, suitcases, that I cut into rectangles. I scourer the flea markets, dumps, and side of the road for materials. The only art supplies I buy are the paint or adhesives for my work.”

Bringing together old fragments of items to create something completely new. Rediscovered. Found things that find their way to him.

Charro. Charro is a term for a traditional horseman from Mexico. I saw this fellow doing tricks on his horse in the local farm land regions. I was curious about his hat, which he told me cost him about $900 dollars. The tooled leather trim was well crafted and clearly took time and patience to achieve. A type of Sombrero but with the back curved up more, a Sombrero charro. Sombra means shade or shadow. He let me try the hat on which was pretty heavy.

I didn’t talk to him much more than that so I’ll just make something up about him, that may or may not be true. Here goes. He was born in Durango, on a farm where his parents grew mostly quince, a pear shaped pome fruit, and pitahaya also known as dragon fruit. His mother made both marmalade and Licor de Membrillo, from the quince fruit grown on their land. He grew up watching his father compete in the Charreadas, the original rodeo style in Mexico. This influence and the charro films from the Golden Age of Mexican cinema inspired his own style of Charreadas competition. In which he earned the nickname Poco Escorpión, the Little Scorpion, because of his long scorpion-like ponytail.

Since coming to the United States he runs his own ranch where he and his family train horses and grow artichokes and quince to carry on his families marmalade making tradition, and, of course, the Licor de Membrillo tradition.

My sister’s wedding was on Sunday. A pastoral farm setting with roosters howling and horses grazing. One of the esteemed guests was this little dude. A natural born tough guy. Brought a touch of cowboy class with his ostrich cowboy boots, ostrich belt, and matching ostrich trim on his hat.

I read a letter recently written by my wife’s great grandmother from the 1900s, and in the letter she used the word dude to describe a visiting cowboy. Surprised me that dude dates back that far. Growing up in California it’s a word that has seeped into my lexicon without realization. But the origins of the term, which first appeared in print in 1870, were used to describe somebody well dressed who has never lived outside a big city. “Bush hook dude” was also a job description for someone working the railroads in the 1880s. I think this little dude’s used to the country life but he had some big city style.

When I saw him the song Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys started playing in my head. The song was written by Ed Bruce, a cowboy hat wearing dude.

Spent the day in San Francisco with the 4th Street Records crew at Nico Georis’ house. He’s just released his album Songs From Nowhere, a ten song self produced sprawling journey of sonic melodies. Hearing Nico describe the album, he reflects on it being a result of intense highs and profound lows, an equal balance of lightness and darkness, resulting in a collection of songs that musically captures everything in between. The songs first came to life in Lost Valley. Western landscapes of nothing, nowhere. Later culminating in his San Francisco basement where the record was recorded. On his own terms in his own space.

Nico is opening for Leon Russell on May 5th at the Sunset Center in Carmel. A fitting occasion to play these new songs live. Opening for a musical hero of his who has experienced his own equal balance of lightness and darkness. Russell coming off an induction into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame and an album that brought him back to the light, after being down and out. Back from nowhere.

Nichole. Saxophonist. Illustrator. Film major. Today I met Nichole and talked about an array of creative things she is involved in. Lately she’s been taking the bus so she can illustrate the people riding it. She draws them as she sees them and creates stories about who they are, where they’re going and where they’ve been.

Nichole has also been working on a documentary about her parents. More specifically about motorcycles, and her parents love and devotion to the road and the machine. The film is centered around a trike, a 3-wheel Harley, that belongs to her mother. They’ve decided to resurrect the trike from the garage where it’s been buried and get it back on the road. With her dad doing the fixing.

Her film is a rolling tribute to her family, intertwined with footage from the past and interviews of the present as she tracks the progress of the trikes rebirth. It’s a memoir of what defines them, where they’re going and where they’ve been.

Nathalie. Herbalist. Qi Gong Therapist. Acupuncturist. I met Nathalie at a photography opening last night. We spoke of her background in Chinese Medicine which is the basis for her beliefs in a pro-active, preventative way of healing.

I’ve never had acupuncture done but have always been curious. Most people I’ve known who have had acupuncture treatments speak of an intense emotional reaction. A release from a certain area of the body caused by the precise placement of a needle pinpoint. The goal is to keep things flowing. Keep the blood, energy and breath flowing. Focusing on points that help heal an ailment, stimulate the natural rhythm, and open an otherwise blocked path of energy. A way of improving function of these areas one needle at a time.

Dating back to the Stone Ages, the origins of acupuncture include stories that soldiers wounded in battle by arrows were believed to be cured of chronic afflictions that otherwise would have gone untreated. In acupuncture the surface of the tongue is believed to be a road map to the entire body. Different color coatings and bumps are an indication of specific organ imbalances. Examining the tongue is one of the first steps an acupuncturist takes to see where the ailments may reside. Teeth marks on one part of the tongue give insight to a heart problem, for instance. Next time you accidentally bite your tongue it may be your body telling you something.

I stopped by my friend Kurt’s brass shop today to talk about my trumpet and see if he got any new trumpet mutes in. Bill was there playing his sax when I stopped by. I didn’t have a chance to talk to Bill except to say hello when he took a breath. He barely stopped playing for more than a second or two. Kurt motioned me to take some shots of him and this one turned out to be a favorite. The shop can get a bit dark but I like the shadows of this shot. There are many shadows in Jazz music and its history. Sounded like he was playing a Charlie Parker piece.

Charlie Parker is considered one of the most influential saxophone players. One of the founders of the bebop movement, resulting in many of his songs now considered standards. Few musicians had the tonal vocabulary of Bird, as he was famously nicknamed. His influence spreads further than music and into the realms of poets, writers and artists. Jack Kerouac wrote countless pieces on Charlie Parker, elevating him to a saint like status in many of his writings. He felt a holiness towards him. Kerouac saw himself as a Jazz Poet influenced by Parker. With improvisational pacing in his words and poetic tone. It was also Clint Eastwood who directed a film about Charlie Parker entitled Bird.

A lot of shadows from the Bird. I’ve always been fascinated with the darker side of Charlie Parker. His infamous heroin addiction and how it affected his music and genius. At times attributing to the charting of new courses in his music and at other times digging his own grave. He may be one of the earliest pop-music musicians to portray the artist-as-victim role we see so prevalent these days. TV shows dedicated to this where a household is filled with a mixed bag of talent battling their own demons and shadows. The difference is that no one has spread their wings as wide as Bird did nor influenced so many with his beautiful shadowy brass sound.