HUGE BLACK MAN

Sorry for the delay. The last two weeks have been busy, which should never be an excuse for not being busier. But I still need to develop a knack for posting on the road, amidst the snow and chaos of my lifestyle.

And that’s where I was: eight shows, nine days, five states. It started on Thursday, February 15 when Mr. and Ms. Nave and I watched the riveting and unfortunate series finale of HBO’s Six Feet Under. I say “riveting” because the show is/was amazing. I say “unfortunate” because I could watch that group of actors and writers work together forever and ever. The show worked because it felt so attainable. The heroes seemed more like acquaintances that had picked up and moved to L.A. rather than Hollywood stars trying their hardest. More importantly, the heroics had nothing to do with burning buildings, atomic terror threats, or vague biblical situations (all biblical-ity is overt in SFU, like it will be when you leave work tomorrow and some guy calls everyone on the sidewalk a sinner as you walk to your car). Instead the heroics involve commonplace moments, like someone saying “than you” and meaning it. I can’t say enough about it and I’ll never forget it. That must mean it’s going on my Amazon wish list . Here’s the last six minutes of the entire series.



After SFU, I slept for a few hours, woke up, and then drove to UC Berkeley. It was a bright and overexposed Friday, crystal clear and warm. Great turnout in Berkeley: plenty of real fans, surprise fans, and new people who were kind enough to pay attention to us. We sat at a Peet’s for a few hours then drove to Reno. The traffic was actually a space/time continuum that bloated our perception of the drive time. Took us twice what it should have to get to Reno. This should have allowed us a better chance at being caller 20 and getting to choose tickets for “Fall Out Boy or The Killers” on the radio, but I could do no better than “sorry bro, you’re caller 14. Keep trying bro, alright?” Of course it wasn’t fucking alright. As if it wasn’t difficult enough to be moored in temporary dimensional slowness. Radio DJ’s don’t understand me.

We played in Reno that night, then stayed in town for 30 more hours. Utah show fell through, so we ate pizza and went to a mall. The Gap’s spring line seems designed for companies that are about to seriously disappoint investors. What the fuck is “the boyfriend khaki” anyway? First three comments with the correct response win tickets to my heart. The seats will be good this time; my management is telling me that I can make that a promise.

I gambled my first one-dollar at a slot machine at the Cal-Neva called “The Magic Wood.” The whole time I wished the machine was not so in tune with my sense of humor. I also wished it was a pinball machine with the same theme (talking trees, devious nymphs, prescriptive foliage, a place for lost souls). I could have used a multi-ball.

Then we were in Boise with Tera Melos and Damiera. Every band was guaranteed $50 to play, which I wasn’t aware of until they paid every band $90. The Venue was happy. That night I felt tired.

The next show was in Lewiston, ID. It ruled.

Then I turned 24. After dealing with needing, then putting, then taking chains on and off our van for 15 miles (aka two hours), we cruised into Seattle, where I had a great night. I ate some salmon chowder, some Costa Rican tilapia with mashed potatoes, and some crème brulee, which was garnished with a birthday candle. Shout out to the birthday candle industry. I also had a pomegranate mojito. Here’s a joke about salmon I recently created: “one guy asks another guy, ‘If I were a salmon, do you know what kind of salmon I would be?’ Then the other guy thinks about it and says, ‘No, what kind?’ Then the first guy looks at the second guy very seriously for many seconds and says, ‘A king salmon.’”


This is what I look like after 24 years of what they call ‘The Struggle.’

Later on, still in Seattle and in the midst of my first karaoke experience since my birth at Kaiser, Oakland, I learned an important truth: One can’t really understand “Like A Prayer” until one sings “Like A Prayer” with the flavors of cheese bread on one’s tongue. You can quote me on that. I can show you my research.

Then we played Bellingham and Eugene and Chico and Davis. Thanks for coming out if you came out. The shows felt good.

Through all that, the coolest noise in the background was a supergroup of friends called Huge Black Man. The band is composed of my band’s drummer, Noah Clark, in concert with Tera Melos guitarist Nick Reinhart, bassist Sam Phelps, and Anton Patzner, a curly violinist and touring member of Bright Eyes. A few months ago these four came together for about eight hours and recorded seven songs. To me, this music sounds like an eclipse: rare and phenomenal. I can’t believe that these four have connected in this way in these variegated lifetimes. They just got mixed, thanks to Avi, at Springman, who will release the songs for free online and for cheap on vinyl. Here’s “Unprotected Flex” from Huge Black Man’s debut, Hugh Jackman.



Download ”Unprotected Flex” by Huge Black Man.



Visit Huge Black Man’s LABEL and keep an eye out for free music/cheap vinyl.