i was with two beautiful friends tonight and got real lonely suddenly. sad, and a little scary.

anyway …

came home.

did this.

gotta put it up tonight, before i lose my nerve.

some weird digital noise in a spot.

pretty raw all over.

number four – falling out.

our rose marie.

The crowes were three hours and we were second row, front and center, flirting with Chris all night. It was as advertised: an exposed acoustic set – fairly obscure in places – that challenged the crowd a bit too much for their comfort. So much so that Chris dressed down the “people running your fucking mouths” the whole show (“the trip has already started people. Maybe you were just late getting on board …”). An electric set that opened with traffic’s feeling alright and went onward and upward from there. Oh! Sweet nuthin … She aint got nothing at all.

Here’s what we saw:

- Acoustic Set -
Soul Singing
Downtown Money Waster -> Jam
Fork In The River
Ballad In Urgency ->
Wiser Time
Oh Sister
Good Friday
What Is Home
Thunderstorm 6:54 PM
My Morning Song
Sister Luck

- Electric Set -
Feelin’ Alright
Jealous Again
A Conspiracy
Exit
Thorn’s Progress ->
Thorn In My Pride
A Train Still Makes A Lonely Sound
High Head Blues -> Jam
Oh, Sweet Nuthin’
Remedy
- encore -
Movin’ On Down The Line
Boomer’s Story

Little sad in the midst of all that joy. Such a soulful group of songs and people. Lotta memories wrapped up in all that rock and roll. Chris leaning back for a note and lifting the mic stand up just a touch while puffing his little frame out. Rich’s deadpan, disinterested demeanor that flashes a little kid’s grin if you make eye contact with him. The great Steve gorman: part ringo Starr part John bonham. Good kids. If that was it, I’m glad I was there with my family. It felt like home.

After that murph took us to a hip little bar and we made it back to the Cheshire inn – a freak out if there ever was one. Murph and I snuck into the pool at about 4 am. I said, “murph, let’s keep it mellow so we don’t get thrown out of here.” she says, “right,” and then procceds to sprint across deck and do a cannonball into the pool. Murph …

Lou fest was amazingly perfect, too. Missed the bottle rockets at noon – noon is my new 9 am – but saw shafleys instead with murph and made it to the fest for an inspired and earnest built to spill set and a conceptually odd, douchilly executed, yet sonically compelling broken social scene set. picked up tim and then back to the fox and hound piano bar at the hotel for some piano man and tiny dancer singalongs.

Good kids. Brothers. Angels. There for you when you need ‘em. I miss you already.

‘it”ll be good for ya, son …’

or was that riley?

number three in the falling out sessions.

stack o’ lee blues. (i’m out of my pay grade here …)

the falling out sessions were inspired by staying up at hooch’s and writing cruel water and figuring out i could just sit down and record it on my telephone. these songs are (almost) all one takes and are rough and stumbly and (almost) accidental.

i figure it might be one of those deals where you can actually improve your falling out skills with practice. get closer to the source. or further away. or more aware. or less. or whatever it takes. like once i was writing down all my dreams for awhile to see if i could become more lucid. and it worked! for awhile … until, like most things, i got distracted and stopped doing it.

we’ll see how long this lasts.

***

it’s raining tonight. and it’s been rich life all around. and today hurt some cause last night didn’t hurt at all until it did.

and you can hear rain on here. and thunder. and drums. and words crossed with yours. and very little effort on my part.

i just work here.

inside, a copy of riley’s 1990 CD of original music, ‘last men standing.’

here’s a sample:

that’s riley on vocals. his buddy almous handles the production.

we talked briefly about a collaboration sometime in the future. how cool would that be? riley said if those ‘worms over at sirius ever got off their ass and do the right fucking thing’ and give him a show four nights a week, he could take a proper vacation and then we could ‘coordinate.’

he told me he called into stern earlier in the week to ask for help and support about getting more hours. i went back and listened to it … pretty funny hearing riley tell me the story on the phone and then hearing him tell the story to howard. same fucking story.

amazing.

anyway, the mail from riley was also a care package of sorts, with extra goodies …

first, i got a headband. riley always wears these … now when i need a little extra something to push it over the cliff, i’ll have this:

‘this is the sacred headband of the seminole cherokee nations. your name shall be called … [wait for it] … the eagle storm.’

the eagle storm!

you hear that people? no more kc, no more casper, no more kevy kev, no more horse cock johnson … it’s the eagle storm from now on, bitches, or i’m gonna straight ignore you like i can’t even hear you.

also …

an autographed picture of his crew. riley, nino, eron, howard, and ‘the wiz’ arde iannoca.

the note says:

kevin,

this is my crew.

if you see them coming:

a) lock doors, douse lights.

b) hide the women and the beer.

c) call 911

’smile.’

to: kevin casper, ‘the vision weaver’

from: riley martin

***

folks, you’ll notice i got two nicknames in one care package. the eagle storm and the vision weaver. dancer’s choice, y’all. i’ll answer to either. we’ll see which one sticks …

i think it’s karma coming back to me for all the nicknames i have handed out over the years. and not just idle nicknames mind you, i’m talking nicknames that redefine personalities, nicknames so sticky your grandma starts addressing your christmas cards that way. i’m talking hooch, dingus, big kev, kd, big jess, chicago mel, chin, white, the great dh, our ralph, hotlava, farrug, kt, smoke … don’t get me started.

***

in other news, it has rained every day in makanda since i wrote and recorded cruel water. coincidence?

now hooch has himself a rain song courtesy of the eagle storm …

and maybe i’ve stumbled upon a rain song recipe. write and record the song within 24 hours on the very land that needs rain … ?

might have to write a book.

should be the blueprint for how rock bands must must must do retrospective/greatest hits/best ofs from now on.

an acoustic reworking of 20-odd crowes tunes from the catalogue (and a few choice covers … gram parson’s ’she’ … mercy.)

you know the tunes, but you don’t, cause they’re new. but old. like sleeping with an old girlfriend again after a long time apart.

‘hey, you’ve picked up a few new moves. and i like them.’

anyway, the great chris robinson taking two minutes out of your life to tell a story about a mushroom costume party.

and i quote:

‘we projected sky on the wall …’

good.

so i can play you this song i wrote on the farm yesterday.

it’s a capital D demo:

1. it was recorded at hooch’s kitchen counter on a telephone.
2. the shaker is a box of apple watermelon nerds.
3. multiple dogs are audible.
4. first takes all around.
5. sounds a little rough around the edges.

all that being said, i can’t stop listening to it.

likely because it was a part of one of the best days of recent memory.

work up alone on a the farm.

coffee.

fed the puppies and chickens.

breakfast.

guitar on the porch swing, where i struggled with this pop song that’s been damning up the works for a few weeks. i didn’t get any closer after a concerted effort, but then this one just fell out.

when they fall out, they’re more fun to listen to, cause it doesn’t seem like you wrote them.

then freud on the hammock.

swimming in little grassy lake.

dinner from the co-op.

kitchen recording session.

giants-cubs on the tele (giants win it on an 8th inning pat burrell home run).

few beers.

soy milk.

cookies.

sleep.

***

anyway, i don’t know who or when or why or how or what with this song …

but it’s about a drought.

and it’s called cruel water.

(interestingly, today, the day after this recording, two hours of afternoon rain. first in months … coincidence?)

***

officer, i’d like to report an unnatural act. (btw, lefty did the most amazing thing he’s ever done on this trip, and i missed it. you’ll notice that this piñata is a giant pink dog. so it was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, and lefty, in his wanderings, strolled past it in the middle of the party, and casually sniffed its asshole before moving along.)

buster siesta.

mary ann henry got shit faced this weekend. i feel so close to her now! she was howling at the moon at one point, and was giving me a heap of shit about writing songs about whore houses. i like this mary ann henry. a lot.

josh is a bad assed rock diver. and he’s not smoking in this picture.

talia threw a fit one night, as kids do, freaking out about packing her suitcase or something, and when the dust settled, she walked into the living room where i was. i said, ‘what the hell just happened? what were you on about?’ and she just started shitting herself laughing and said, ‘i don’t know!’

katie, as part of the style team that assembles this particular look of mine, hard at work. i have hearts and stars on my toes now. and you don’t.

isabella.

blackened chicken does not give you cancer. but 17st bbq sauce is amazing, burnt or not …

the lovely smith shoot.

i love this man.

give this girl a job already, god … are we going yet? what are we ordering when we get there? what time did you get up? what are you doing? what are we doing? huh?

the great dagan shoot … made me a sandwich and brought me a drink to the hammock for an hour and fifty minutes of angry birds play time on my phone. tough negotiator …

geiser. genius. ’nuff said.

tim and lisa. this time my car didn’t die, so timmy didn’t have to drive me back to the rouge. but i still felt better that he was around!

sunset over little grassy.

riley, i appreciate it, and am honored to have you listening to my stuff and talking it up!

here’s the shout out:

i think it’s time we all bought symbols, don’t you?

check out his artwork here.

i’m ordering mine tomorrow.

first the backstory.

this is riley martin:

check out his website for the full scope of his life’s work, but suffice it to say, i consider him one of the greatest storyteller’s alive today, a world class radio broadcaster, and an all around groovy motherfucker.

the reader’s digest version is he was abducted by aliens at a young age, taken aboard their craft, and introduced to many different races of alien species before being released to come back to earth to spread the word of their existence and to share their wisdom with humans in order to save the world. life has taken him “from a sharecropper kid to a mothership near saturn.” talk about a life’s work …

so riley used to appear on art bell’s am radio show coast to coast, and since howard stern moved to sirius satellite radio, riley has had a show on stern’s channel once a week.

his show is incredible. he and his co-host eron take calls and riley pontificates on his experiences with alien races like the screed, the biaviians, the targzissians, and the nyptonians. some people who call in are busting his balls, some people are sincerely curious, some people are just winding him up, but he always stays on point and always keeps things moving.

so a few years ago i wrote this song called ‘membrane universe.’ here it is:

trippy space tune inspired partly by this quantum physics book my friend todd got me about schrodinger’s cat and partly by god knows what else …

anyway, i got the idea to add a little riley martin to the mix, so i recorded one of his shows and chopped up the clips and made it all fit. riley was the magic track that really made the song. in the end it is pretty much a duet, and riley is telling the story.

the thing i realized, though, in chopping up riley’s words and taking them out of context and playing with them outside of time and space, was that riley is really a spiritual teacher of sorts for the modern times. i don’t say that jokingly. i mean he’s really getting at some of the big questions about life and existence and love and peace and happiness, and his overall message is one of kindness and compassion. i’m saying all this as a guy who, to put it kindly, is ’skeptical’ of spiritual teachers in all forms. but there’s a sincerity to riley, and something about how he tells his story that comes across as really beautiful to me. funny, warm, lighthearted.

it’s bigger than the aliens.

anyway, (finally) the real story:

so chicago mel and i are hanging out the other night goofing around. for some reason, we ended up putting membrane universe on the stereo, and i got the idea to send riley a copy of the tune. the next morning, i dropped a cd in the mail to ‘biavian enterprises’ along with a note to riley that said i was a big fan, explained the song a little bit, and thanked him for all the great radio.

and then i forgot all about it.

so i’m laying on the couch yesterday and the phone rings in the other room. i don’t answer. the phone rings again and i don’t answer. i lay there a few more minutes, get up and check the phone. new jersey number. new voice mail:

needless to say, that was a trip. i called riley back and talked to him for about fifteen minutes. cool fucking dude.

told me he never touched a woman he didn’t love … at least when he was touching them.

told me he’s going to have to talk to stern personally about his pathetic salary.

told me he’d send me a copy of his cd.

told me he could become a preacher and get rich anytime, but he made a promise to some little men long ago to spread the word this way, and he’s gonna honor it.

told me i could use the old man’s voice anytime i wanted, cause i used it right.

told me he’s gonna gimme a plug on his show coming up. might get some new traffic to the ole blog.

so those of you with sirius (all eight of you), tune in to howard 101 on tuesday night at midnight EST and see what riley’s got to say about it all.

you never know what you’re gonna get.

this is worth ten minutes of your life:

jesus.

i’m going to reiterate a point christian made earlier about the – how do i say this? – perceived shallowness of the lovely bride to be and her beau.

chelsea clinton, daughter of a former president, daughter of a former senator, daughter of the secretary of state. raised in the white house. born. of. privilege.

fine.

nothing wrong with that.

here’s where i get confused.

you’re born to two people who – on the surface at least – have made it a point to at least speak to the plight of working people. bill clinton was born poor, hilary wasn’t anything fancy, they had to earn what they have. they spent a good deal of time and energy in their lives in public service at least attempting to do right by people less fortunate.

then their daughter – the recipient of all their hard work and success – gets a first rate education and when she enters the work force she takes a job at … wait for it … avenue capital group, a hedge fund. her husband-to-be is the son of a former congressman (an ex-con who spent time in the fed lock-up for fraud) and a former congresswoman, and he works for … wait for it again … goldman sachs as an investment banker.

now, sure, work is work and they’re both free to do whatever they want with their lives and everything else. and the world needs hedge funds and investment bankers, evidently. can’t get enough of ‘em.

but … come on, man. i mean, these two were born with silver spoons in their mouths and have apparently decided that their purpose in life is to see to it that their children will be born with diamond crusted silver spoons in their mouths. i don’t know. it just seems like the easiest, shallowest, most lucrative, least imaginative, safest, most decadent path to take from two people who could have done anything with their lives.

boring and unoriginal.

lame.

they’re probably giving all their money to charity or something, but that’s not even the point here. the point is, you could have done _anything_ with you life, and you chose to work for a hedge fund?

stunning.

to each her own.

***

recording with flatbed. we tore through it’s getting hard and iron rails – fucking mega, really – but got a little lost in colorado. don’t know. the lap steel and the shaker seemed to help, but we’re still moving on to something else next time. might just need to let it … sit.

lefty did this to himself. i came in the room and he looked up and i saw this:

these are pictures of people in baton rouge trying to look like people from florida. for a yankee like me, the subtleties of this were difficult to grasp:

this is what third place looks like. jimmy’s costume was to pin a bunch of food on himself in plastic bags and to go as “jimmy buffet.”

this is kurt cobain and a kitty:

***

in other news, a lizard just ran across my desk. i’m letting him be.

***

times are a changin’. for the better, i reckon.

in the end, all is always forgiven.

and time’s wasting.

and you’re not gonna live forever.

***

feeling like slowing it up a touch before hooch’s! next weekend. i’ve been on a bender.

should be a ball up in makanda. i’m bringing fireworks and boudin and maybe schmitty and lindsey. and we’re slaughtering chickens (to eat, not for fun) and riding on party barges.

vegas is on for matador 21, although our ticket situation is fuzzy. me and paco and scotty are gonna try to share two tix to the shows. but dh and nader and paco and kd and scotty and chin and george and our ralph are all gonna be there ticketless, so it’ll be a lot of stupidity regardless.

flights from nola are down under $200.

yes!

***

finally, here’s two brilliant clips from the stern show recently.

first, a little swap shop fun courtesy of richard and sal. they email these poor dip shits at swap shop who mindlessly read everything live on the air. priceless.

next, the stern show visits comic-con and interviews this guy whose idea for a super power is amazingly fabulous. pardon the less than pristine recording, i made it while driving.