More and more, I’m going retro. Touch the real world. I’m contemplating a flip phone. Analog has benefits.
I got a library card.
Zane Grey fills half a long shelf. Writer of westerns, a hundred years ago. Many of the books have not been checked out in fifty years. There is a wonderful smell to old paper and ink, spines that crack slightly with gentle opening.
1873 was within living memory when Grey was writing. Homesteaders, miners, ranchers, rustlers, prostitutes, lawmen. Winchester lever action. Claim a piece of land and pass your genes to the next generation. If you fail at the mating dance…there’s always the profession of gunslinger.
belt hangs heavy steel against my hip glint of brass polished shells checkered walnut grip
the hammer click acrid stench of cordite spaced between heartbeats
out here the sun will take your breath this trickle down the spine reminder of slow death
somewhere a crevice in a canyon flowing cool and clear wellspring of precious water help a man to heal wash the blood from his hands
Spore is inspired by the connection between psilocybin and healing the brain from Post Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI). The terminology PTSD is both outmoded as well as inaccurate. The difference in word choice between disorder vs. injury may seem insignificant, but it is the difference between disability vs. certainty of hope.
Humans are a social species, with a portion of our sanity outsourced to friends, family, and to a certain extent cultural figures. The people we choose to include in our lives form a network of nodes, with whom we share thoughts and perceptions in an effort to determine reality. The narratives we agree upon form in part the reality of our individual lived experience. When nodes in our societal network become emotionally dysregulated, survival itself may be threatened.
Healing begins with self.
These tiny spores, capable of surviving the intense cold vacuum of space and germinating into psychedelic mushrooms, provide the gift of insight. Perhaps most importantly the gift of connection.
Coastal air off the Atlantic seeps in under Sandy Hook, slyly flirting with Navesink River dampness, the extended New York metro tang of NJ Turnpike combustion and chemical refineries. Onshore, offshore. Giants to the north, Eagles to the south. Manhattan commuters. Money.
Chris Buono will flit through this mist, reaching up with (funk you) Jersey Attitude™ to grab Big Apple brass and polish it against shore prog rhythms. Triumph Brewing Company, Red Bank, New Jersey is our venue, as he prepares to take onstage residency for the next several months.
Risk is real…
He’s coming in cold, struggling—rehabilitating—excruciating left arm pain via pinched nerves in his spine. This band is total raw bar, two hours of rehearsal and digital chord charts as guidance through an improv jazz wilderness marshland.
Chris debuting two new guitars I built for him: his custom multiscale fretless “Fragile” and “Green Monster” who is also holding my tremolo. Cody McCorry is playing another build so fresh the finish is still drying: “Orchid” bass. New and unfamiliar instruments for both of these masterful players. And a chance to capture their sounds live, in the wild.
We are in this together. Tonight is opening night.
With the recording, I am seeking to capture the village vanguard intimacy of Bill Evans. Snapshot this moment. Band banter. Audience chatter, barstools and glasses. 1961 turns 2022. Killick Hinds beautifully brings his touch to the mixing and mastering. Deeply grateful we had this opportunity to work together.
Credits:
Chris Buono — music & guitar Anibal Rojas — synth sax Cody McCorry — bass Faye Fadem — drums
Killick Hinds — mixing & mastering Rick Toone — recording & production
“If I died right now I would want you to show the world ‘Raining Caterpillars’ and say this what I truly sounded like when I was dialed in. For that I’m indebted to you both.” (Chris Buono)