When I say that I think Vincent van Gogh would have loved the album Propeller by GRICE, I’m not talking out of my caboose. Sure, the guy probably would have reacted to modern music about as violently as early man to artificial light – but I’m not talking about strapping ol’ Vinnie down in an easy chair and forcing a set of Koss headphones on his bean until he taps his feet in submission. I’m talking about what he might have thought about the creative process behind the album, which in the case of Propeller is one of the critical components that makes it as good an album as it is. If you ask me, he’d have dug it.

You see, it was one of van Gogh’s greatest unrealized dreams to found an artists’ colony, a place where he envisioned kindred souls would come together and thrive in an atmosphere of unmolested creativity and brave invention. For van Gogh, the experiment ended badly and he came out the other end sans an ear. But that was then, and the internet is now – and oh, what a difference a century makes. For the scattered group of collaborators that pooled their powers to create the impressive work of sonic art called Propeller, things have turned out decidedly better.

Propeller is a beautifully synchronous collaboration between titular talent GRICE and producer/composer/arranger Lee Fletcher, who’s one of the principal players behind Unsung Productions. Unsung isn’t exactly the artists’ colony Van Gogh bled for, but it’s close to it, an international cooperative of musicians and producers and uber-talented individuals that work both in person and via remote channels on the internet, all with a shared mission to foster creativity, catch it in a bottle, then kick you in the teeth with the awe-inspiring end product. Fletcher’s other Unsung partners are Markus Reuter (a guy that’s played with so many King Crimson alumni that he might as well be named an honorary member), Fabio Trentini (producer and current bassist for legendary Italian proggers Le Orme), and a couple of musicians named Eric Morris and Adrian Benavides, whose mutual residencies in central Texas have ramped the coolness factor of the Lone Star State so high that I’ve now got two more reasons to want to make Austin my future home.

As for Fletcher, he’s much more than just a producer, and in many ways his contribution is what makes Propeller come alive beyond what I’ll call “the aural spectrum” (even though it would probably be a lot less pretentious to just say “the stuff you hear”). Whatever your semantic preference, GRICE’s Propeller is the kind of album that was designed with the intent of being seen as well as being heard. The music and vocal performances blend varied and subtle elements of 70s-era Harry Nilsson here, a dash of Jeff Buckley there, and a heaping spoonful of melodic sensibilities everywhere the ear can roam. Meanwhile, the production utilizes the eclectic instrumentation of trumpet, sax, french horn and touch guitar to create an impeccable ambiance that gives Propeller a wholly cinematic feel.

And then, of course, there’s GRICE himself – the central jigsaw piece that holds the project together and stamps it with a musical identity so unique and mature that it makes you wonder why he’s just now getting around to recording his first official album. There’s a good answer to that, of course. Apparently, he spent years paying dues fronting a couple of bands named Swanston and The Martyrs, neither of whom I’d ever heard before. But if the audio clips I found online are representative of their sound, it’s apparent that GRICE was biding his time for the right moment to break free in solo flight. The aptly named Propeller is the embodiment of that flight, a collection of well-crafted songs so deeply intimate and personal that you almost want to ask “Should I be hearing this?” Well yeah, of course you should – and since he can’t do it from wherever he is, you should also do it for van Gogh.

Propeller by GRICE is distributed by Hungersleep Records and is available in both digital and physical CD format through the Burning Shed online store. The album features guest appearances by Markus Reuter, 05Ric, B.J. Cole, Luca Calabrese, Alan Burton, Fred Ehresmann, Jacqueline Kershaw, Jerri Hart, Joe Breban, Lisa Fletcher, Jim Peters, Alexander Marchant, Ondrej Pochyly, Raphael Ravenscroft, and Steve Bingham.

“A Voice in the Attic”

There was an old farmhouse that, until it was torn down a few years ago, stood in the middle of a three-acre plot of land in Afton, Wyoming. At the time, the land belonged to my wife’s grandparents, who had purchased the otherwise barren expanse in the spring of 1982 with the intent of building a home on the northwest edge of the property closest to the main road. The home was built, the perimeter fenced, and the rest of the land kept for the horses they owned. After toying with the idea of renovating the sixty- year-old farmhouse and turning it into a guest cottage, they decided against it and now only used it for additional storage space.

In the summer of 1997, my wife and I received an invitation from her grandparents to spend a few days at their home, and so we packed our overnight bags and made the three-hour drive from our home in Utah, looking forward to a weekend spent taking in the rustic scenery and relaxing.

For the record, I have always had a fascination with the paranormal, but my interests have been rooted in its more mundane aspects: horror movies, scary novels, and the occasional worthwhile TV documentary. My wife Jane, on the other hand, has always been a more willing participant in the pursuit of such topics and, as a result of her forays into the world of “ghost hunting,” boasts a collection of self-taken spirit photographs to complement her library archives of EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) audio recordings.

The phenomena of ghost photography – a pursuit that’s been around since the invention of the camera itself – is something that, to my practical and reasoning mind, can often be dismissed as nothing more than double-exposure, the reflection of light, or water spots on a camera lens. What really captured my imagination, however, were the audio recordings. Some of the anomalies that I have heard on these tapes could easily be written off using more earthbound than otherworldly explanations, yet there are some that even a rational mind must admit are beyond the scope of common experience and understanding.

In any case, beyond having heard or read about such occurrences, I had never had a personal experience with the paranormal. Not until the weekend that we spent at my wife’s grandparents’ home, in July of 1997.

We arrived in Afton late on a Friday evening, and after a few cups of coffee and conversation with the grandparents, we decided to turn in. Lying awake in bed talking, not quite able to sleep just yet, our conversation turned to the old farmhouse that stood about fifty yards off the south side of the house. This was my first visit here, and I was as much enticed by the farmhouse’s seemingly ancient, decrepit beauty as I was impressed by its subtle yet unmistakable air of foreboding. I mentioned to Jane how creepy it had looked to me under the light of the full moon as we approached the house, and how perfect a setting it seemed for the types of hauntings I was ever so fond of reading about on dark wintry nights. I asked her what it was like inside. She responded by telling me she didn’t know; she had never been inside.

I found this strange, what with my wife’s seemingly voracious appetite for all things frightening, not to mention the inner fortitude she’d always displayed in braving cemeteries at night armed only with flashlight, tape recorder, and loaded Nikon. Her answer was simple: “Grandpa’s never let me inside. He’s afraid the roof might cave in on me.” With that, my curiosity was assuaged. But at breakfast the next morning, the germ of a notion that I’d planted in her head was alive and kicking and she broached the subject with her grandfather.

“It’s a dangerous place, there’s bats in the attic and I don’t want you poking around in there,” was all he would say when asked about it, attempting to turn the conversation from the subject at hand by asking if we wanted to ride the horses after breakfast. You have to know my wife the way I know her to understand that this would not satiate her curiosity, and you also have to know how persistent she can be to understand my mild shock when she simply let the subject lie.

An hour after breakfast, strolling out toward the horse stable for a midmorning ride, she turned to me with a mischievous gleam and informed me that we would be “investigating the old farmhouse” just as soon as Grandpa headed into town for groceries. I took this about as well as someone who’s been informed of impending oral surgery, but I also knew better than to resist her will or let her go alone. The last thing I wanted on this quiet weekend was an upset wife or – far less – an injured one, so I acquiesced.

The sun was straight overhead and beating down hot as we approached the doorway of the old farmhouse with nothing but our wits in tow. I hesitated at the entrance, casting a glance over my shoulder to ensure no lectures about venturing into unsound structures would be delivered over dinner that night, but Jane walked straight in like a woman with a mission.

I followed her inside, nearly tripping over a horse saddle that had been left just inside the doorway. The doorless entryway opened up to a fairly large room crowded with old cardboard boxes, and a large worktable stacked with bridles and old horse saddles. To the right, there was yet another doorway that led into a much smaller room (a bedroom, I supposed). The way into this room was made impenetrable by more stacks of boxes and crates. Off to the left, I saw an even smaller doorway that exposed a rickety flight of stairs leading, presumably, to the attic above.

The interior was fairly well-lit by the large cracked picture window that had at some point (and for reasons I never discovered) been painted over but was now badly peeling. The first thing I noticed was how the previous occupants had apparently plastered draft-holes in the walls with what appeared to be old newspaper. Closer inspection proved my initial assumption to be true, and I discovered the dates on the newspapers went as far back as the early 1930s.

Jane, now also having discovered the aged newspaper that crammed the draft-holes in the walls, was attempting to flatten out a large torn portion of a strip of newspaper that announced the destruction of the Hindenburg in Lakehurst in 1937. She called me over and we stood there marveling at it. I was mid-sentence, decrying the use of such a historical headline as hole-fodder, when we heard the thump overhead.

In retrospect I wish we’d had a video camera to record my reaction to this sound, because I nearly jumped out of my skin and my motions, although betrayed by my desire to remain cool in the situation, displayed a willingness to race headlong out the entryway of that place. But my legs and feet, loyal to my inner workings, took only a single step before falling into compliance.

Heads now turned upward to the blackened wood overhead, I started to mutter “Did you hear that?” when Jane cut me off with a swatting of her arm and a sharp “Shhhhh!”

Dead silence ensued for the next thirty seconds as we stood there, frozen, until I finally spoke again in a whisper. “Could be the bats your grandfather warned us about, let’s go.” But she would not be moved, her will would not be shaken. I was about to fire off some crack about the woes of having a ghostbuster for a wife when it came again, this time more distinct, not directly overhead but further toward the back of the structure, as of something in the far corner of the attic above our heads. Bats fly, I thought to myself, they don’t walk and they certainly don’t lay heavy footfalls in their wake.

Immediately our heads turned toward the doorway to our left, the doorway leading to the short flight of steps into the attic. I asked her if she thought it could be a cat, or a bat finally given up the ghost of hanging upside down from a rafter in 100 degree temperature, but the silence of her response only served to shake me up all the more when it came a third time, actually loosening dirt from the rafters and punctuated by what I can only describe as a dragging shuffle on the floorboards overhead.

That was enough for me. I took hold of Jane’s arm and gave a firm tug. “Let’s go.” But I know my wife, and I ought to have known better than that. Eyes still fixed on the first three steps leading up to the attic, head cocked sideways in an almost comical manner straining to hear, she whispered: “It sounds like there’s someone up there.”

Now, I don’t know about most people, but I don’t do well with declarations such as those, under circumstances such as these. Anything bearing an even remote similarity to the typical fright-fest dialogue of “They’re coming to get you” or (heaven forbid) “They’re here” and I’m a running fool with feet flying out ahead of me like a leaper over hot coals. But I suppose that I would willingly trade bearing sole witness to any of those proclamations in exchange for what we heard next, which is something that my rational mind still grapples with, something that if I live to be 100 I will never, ever forget.

The voice was soft, and low, muffled by the rafters and the overhead floorboards that separated us from the attic, and it called the words: “David, is that you?”

One moment we were in that dark, stuffy farmhouse, the next we were out in the bright sunlight with the breeze blowing in our faces as we stepped lively through the tall grass back toward the main house. It was that quick, that synchronous. At a moment when I must have realized that whatever courage I had would hold up no further and decided it was better to run than stand, Jane had also reached her threshold of tolerance and we both got the hell out of there.

One very important fact – and I state this for the record – my name is not David, nor is her grandfather named David, nor do either of us know anyone by that name; strange as it may seem, the name being such a common one. What’s even stranger is that you might think, once away from whatever danger we may have been in or imagined we were in, within the safety of sunlight and the dependabilities of the concrete world, we would have felt a rush of exhilaration or adrenaline. But it was quite the opposite.

You’d think that we would have found ourselves a safe space somewhere and sat talking about what we had heard, or what we thought we had heard, but we didn’t. We simply turned heels quickly, left, and not another mention of the experience was had that day until we found ourselves in bed again late that night, unable to sleep and unable to forget.

She brought up the topic gently, almost as if expecting me to stammer out a request to close the subject and leave it that way, but I found that once removed from the situation I was able to confront it with a little more ease. I told her what I thought I’d heard, and danced around a million different possible explanations for what it could have been; everything from fillings in our teeth picking up a nearby radio station, to an old phonograph player that could have been stored up there and might have fallen over after fifty years and scratched out a snippet of song whose lyrics we mistakenly took to be some ghostly voice from beyond.

I figured it was much easier to believe either of those scenarios than to consider any otherworldly possibility, but the explanation that occurred to Jane as we lay there in bed, sleepless, was a bit more frightening than any. “Maybe there’s someone living up there that my grandparents don’t know about,” she said, and a look of startled concern came over her face.

The idea sent shivers up and down my spine, offering up images of escaped mental patients creeping onto unsuspecting people’s properties in the dead of night clad in flowing hospital gowns, and it alarmed me to the point where I actually got out of bed, stood at the window looking out onto the property offering a clear view of the moonwashed farmhouse, and actually considered either going out there with a baseball bat in hand or calling the local police to check it out.

But we could have been mistaken in what we heard, there could have been a rational explanation, and the last thing I wanted to do (apart from admitting to her grandfather that we had betrayed his wishes to keep out) was call the police to investigate the overactive imaginings of a young married couple. They’d probably ask us to provide urine samples for our troubles, and that was one place I didn’t want to go.

So we determined that at daybreak, we would go out to investigate yet again. This time as we approached the farmhouse (not having mentioned our concerns to her grandparents for fear of causing probable undue worry) I was armed with a short-handled shovel I’d found lying on the grass and Jane, not entirely convinced the sounds had come from any earthly emanations, with a long-handled flashlight and the mini-cassette recorder she rarely left home without.

Our second entrance in as many days through the doorway of the farmhouse proved to be a lot more ordinary than my imagination had fancied it might be, and the notion that someone may have actually taken up residence in that ramshackle pile of sticks was quickly put to rest on second look at the conditions of the old house, and the likeliness that anyone attempting to climb up the flight of stairs leading to the attic would most likely crash through the rotted wood and break a leg, or worse.

We stood listening in silence for what seemed like an eternity but what was most likely a few minutes. Nothing, no sounds except for the occasional crack of the old blackened wood settling. We decided that since we had come this far, we were damned if we were going to leave without a good and thorough search and so we set about the task of figuring out a way to ascend the steps leading to the attic.

I’d spotted a fairly fresh plank of wood about six feet long, two feet wide, and three inches thick, lying in the yard of the farmhouse as we approached, so I came up with the idea that perhaps we could lay the plank lengthwise across the top of the steps and crawl our way up. Jane’s first attempt at laying any weight on the board caused a groan of the old woodwork underneath so severe that I insisted on attempting to reinforce it from below with several odd-length two-by-fours I’d also spotted in the yard outside. (We worked quietly in the light of early dawn, aware that to be caught rooting around like children in the old farmhouse against her grandfather’s wishes would earn us a severe talking-to.)

Finally, after about half an hour, we had constructed our ascension ramp and, after another five minutes quietly arguing over who should be the first to go, I was shuffling up the length of the plank on my hands and knees, shovel at the ready. Jane’s insistence that she should be the first to go was quietly overruled by my proclamations that if there actually were some crazy person living in the attic, the person with a weapon of defense ought to be the first to check it out. She finally consented – grudgingly so, for I have married a woman with the courage of two men – and with only a fleeting hesitation I was up and on my way.

By this time the sun had emerged and the sunlight cast through the holes in the roof was good enough so that I could see everything before me. As I stood on the floorboards of the attic, determining if they were in well enough shape to sustain my body weight, I scanned the large area before me, shovel at the ready, probably looking like some deranged baseball player or a character in an old Sam Raimi flick. Strange how the fear which had gripped me the day before had now been swept away, and in its place something much stronger, borne most likely from the instinct to fight rather than flee, or the inexplicable instinct of territoriality over a place I’d never even been before.

When I look back on it I honestly don’t know what I was expecting to see up there in the attic. But whatever it may have been, whether flesh and bone or otherwise, there was nothing to be found. Only the time-ravaged, weather-worn leftovers of the previous tenants’ storage, which amounted to nothing more than a severely rusted bedspring, an equally old mattress leaning askew against the near wall, a scattering of empty crates, and a decrepit rocking chair that sat in the farthest corner of the attic facing the wall.

I stood there staring at the back of that chair until Jane’s voice, directly behind me, startled me out of my daze. “So much for your phonograph theory.”

I turned around to find that as I’d stood there taking an inventory of the space before me, she had made her way up the plank and into the attic with me. She was aiming the beam of her flashlight and scanning every inch of the attic space before us. I followed its movements and acknowledged the absence of any overturned phonograph player I dreamt may have been responsible for what we’d heard.

“So much for our stranger in the attic theory,” I added, motioning to the inch-thick layer of dust that covered every visible square foot of the floorboards. If anyone had been in the attic, it was a long, long time before we had ever arrived. I’m not sure how long we stood there, but it was long enough for the two of us to determine that our notions (my notions) of homeless squatters or escaped mental patients seeking shelter – or bats, for that matter – were completely unfounded.

As we turned to begin our descent back down our makeshift ramp, Jane stopped and fished a blank cassette out of her pocket and inserted it into the recorder. I said something like “Hey, don’t bother, we’re leaving” but she informed me that she was going to leave the micro-cassette behind in RECORD mode. She set it down on one of the floorboards just inside the attic entryway.

“Just to satisfy my curiosity,” she said. And we left.

We never did fess up to what we had been up to that day, or the day previous, when having dinner with Jane’s grandparents later that evening. Nor did we tell them about the sounds we’d heard, or the voice we thought we had heard. We were set to head back home early the following morning and we both agreed it was far better to exchange pleasantries on the final evening of our visit rather than to choke the air with questions about previous tenants, the history of the land, or the possibility of spirits that linger after death. According to Jane, things like that didn’t go over too well with her grandfather, who was, she said, in his youth as well as in all the time that she had known him, more practical-minded and rational than I ever was. Coming from Jane, I took this as a compliment.

We realized that in order to retrieve the cassette recorder Jane had left behind, we would not only have to brave the rickety ramp of our invention once again, but we’d also have to make it out there early enough so that her grandparents wouldn’t see us. We also decided that it would be best to take apart the makeshift ramp, lest proof of our actions be discovered. So we resolved to wake up half an hour before dawn and sneak out to the old farmhouse one last time.

When we got there, this time stepping our way through the dark with the aid of Jane’s flashlight, everything was just as we’d left it. No signs of any ghostly disturbance, no violently overturned boxes, no footprints in the dust other than those we’d created ourselves.

I cautiously but hurriedly crawled my way up the wooden plank, reached a hand into the darkness, and retrieved the cassette recorder which was in the exact place Jane had left it the day before. We quietly removed the reinforcement two-by-fours and set them on the wooden floor in a neat pile, followed by the six-foot plank itself, which came easily enough and which we leaned against the inside wall.

I was just setting about the task of patting the dust and dirt from my pants legs when it came again. The same sudden, sharp thump that we had heard two days prior. My first thought was that Jane must have heard something moving up there before the thump sounded, because when I looked at her, her head was already turned upwards and her eyes were fixed on the attic entrance directly above us.

My eyes followed her stare and I looked up, but there was nothing discernible in the darkness beyond the threshold. This time it was Jane’s turn to speak first, and she began to ask me if I’d heard it too but her words broke off when another thud, this time more jarring than the first, almost violent in its force, sent a fistful of dust shooting from the rafters. The horrible, sickening shuffling sound came next, and the image that entered my mind then was that of someone, or something, dragging itself across the floor almost directly over our heads, approaching the attic entry.

This time there was no resistance, no arguments to be put up against turning tail and leaving that place behind us for good. In an instant the two of us were stumbling through the dark toward the front entrance and within five seconds we were back out into the cool predawn air. But in the cage of memory, instants can sometimes stretch the length of an eternity, and it seemed it took us ten minutes to make our getaway.

As we passed through the doorway of the old farmhouse for the last time, we heard the voice again, this time much closer, coming from atop the attic stairs where we had stood only seconds ago, this time much clearer – raspy, nearly gravelly, calling after us. And the words it said were “David… I saw you!”

In the time it took to clear half the distance between the old farmhouse and the grandparents’ home, a mere fifty yards, I had managed to regain most of my composure and had slowed my trot to a brisk walk, though still casting furtive glances over my shoulder, ensuring my rational self that all was good, all was well in the world, and that nothing had taken up chase. Crazy thought, I know, but it was one that occurred to me and I wouldn’t be surprised if it had occurred to Jane as well, despite her outward calm demeanor.

Jane had stopped about ten feet short of her grandparents’ back porch and was studying the micro-cassette recorder closely. “It was turned off,” she said, “halfway through the tape. As if someone shut it off on purpose.”

I tried to reason that maybe the batteries had run out, but she quickly dispelled that notion when she pressed the REWIND button and it kicked immediately into life. It only took a few seconds for the tape to reach the start of the spool, and just as she was about to press the PLAY button, the back door of her grandparents’ home swung open and Grandma Perkins was standing there in her morning robe.

“What are you two doing up so early?” she asked.

“Just saying goodbye to the horses,” Jane replied in a calm fashion, and within seconds we were back inside the house where the smell of brewing coffee awaited us.

It wasn’t until we had packed our bags, said our farewells, and hit the road once again (all the while eyeing the old farmhouse as we made our way down the long gravel driveway headed for the main road) that we were finally alone and able to listen to what it was that may have been recorded. I wasn’t certain that anything would have come through on the tape, but I wanted to be able to listen without having to strain to hear over sound of the engine so as soon as we’d gone about a mile, I pulled the car off to the side of the road under the shade of a tree and shut the engine off.

The first sound head on the tape were Jane’s own words (“Just to satisfy my curiosity”), then the creaking and groaning of the floorboards and the racket of our footfalls as we made our way down the plank and exited the farmhouse. Five minutes of silence ensued, only the occasional sound of the old structure settling in on itself, then another five or six minutes, the rumble of a truck driving by in the distance, then more silence. Just as the tape was about to reach the point where it had mysteriously stopped on itself, I heard something.

On first impression it sounded like someone breathing in short, shallow breaths. I was opening my mouth to tell Jane to stop the tape, rewind it, I may have heard something, when I realized the sound was only getting louder. I could tell by the expression on Jane’s face that I was not, in fact, hearing things. She was hearing it too. What came next, though, sent shivers down my spine and made the sounds we’d heard in the farmhouse – frightening and inexplicable though they were – seem like nothing more than a precursor.

The breaths seemed to be getting louder, and although no sound of movement could be heard, I got the distinct impression that something was drawing nearer to the microphone. It frightened me to the core to think that the very cassette recorder Jane now held in trembling hands could have come so close to, or may even have been touched by, whatever it was that was causing that horrible sound. The breathing faded, almost abruptly, followed by approximately ten seconds of absolute silence (not even the sound of the wood settling or a car driving by in the distance).

Then the singing began.

It was quite unmistakably, and most distinctly, the voice of an old woman – perhaps in her eighties, perhaps older – and although I could not make out the words, she was singing something. A lullabye, perhaps? To this day I am not sure, even though we’ve listened to the tape hundreds of times since and have tried amplifying the sound through various means. It is certainly not a melody I, or Jane, or anyone else we’ve shared the recording with, are familiar with, but by the very nature of its ambiguity, it has become an oft-controversial conversation piece among friends with similar interests.

But it isn’t that horrible breathing or the faint yet undeniable strain of song delivered by that mysterious voice that still, to this day, years after the experience, years after the old farmhouse was finally torn down, years after the grandparents sold the property and moved away, haunts my mind in the quiet dark before sleep overtakes me. Rather, it is the final two seconds of that recording that will always stay with me, and will always serve as proof to my mind that despite our best efforts to argue to the contrary, there are things that happen in this life that are beyond the bounds of rational explanation.

The singing voice stopped abruptly, as though perhaps startled by itself, and was replaced by a dry, hoarse giggle – a hideous, insane laughter – that erupted into a cackle just as an invisible finger reached out, brushed against the microphone, and pressed STOP.

Eleven years ago this month, I made a move that changed my life. Big time. Throwing caution to the wind and quitting what I’d been brainwashed into thinking was a great job at a Costco tire shop (what can I say? I was young), I crammed a bunch of my belongings into my car and made the 800-mile drive from California to Utah to shack up with a girl I barely knew.

Roughly 4000 days later, we’re still together – married, in fact – and I’m still digging things out of boxes. Totally unacceptable, right? The part about the boxes, I mean, not the relationship. Especially for me, a guy who actually gets paid to write moving how-to articles and has become something of an expert on the dos and don’ts of relocation, how to hire the right movers, how not to pack a box like a bonehead, and what-have-you. Of course, back then I didn’t have a clue about any of that. Today, I’ve got lots. And it just so happens that I’m fixin’ to share some with you – starting with a couple of things (actually, four things) that would have helped make my move a hell of a lot easier. So consider this your lucky day and take notes, because I may not always be in such a wonderfully giving mood.

Thing #1: Guess what? Moving companies don’t cost an arm and a leg and neither do moving truck rentals. I wasn’t exactly rolling in the dough when I decided to flee my dead-end Bay Area existence, but I wasn’t destitute either. They weren’t the salad days; those were still to come. It would be more appropriate to call them the “Taco Bell days” – and if you doubt my veracity, I’ve got a couple of gall bladder removal scars to show you. The point is, I wasn’t broke and I wasn’t planning on staying unemployed for long once I’d made my move. But the thought of shelling out any more than I had to in order to get from Point A to Point C (Point B being a stopover in Winnemucca) was apparently too much for me to bear because I did it on my own without the help of a rented moving truck or even the installation of a tow hitch. If I’d gotten off my lazy tuckus and done some digging, I’d have discovered that I could have gotten either option for cheap. But I suppose the thought of picking up the phone and calling a hundred different places turned me off. Nowadays, you can get online moving quotes without even having to talk to a single person. Dude, I’d have so loved that back in 2000.

Thing #2: How to fill out a USPS change of address and why not doing so is a stupid idea. Apparently, I’m still getting mail at my parents’ address from when I used to live there in the 90s. Looks like I’ve been a habitually bad mover all my life. When I picked up roots in 2000, I did it again. Maybe I didn’t think I’d end up staying long, or maybe I completely spaced it on the need to notify the people charged with delivering my mail that I wasn’t going to be around to get all of that awesome junk they so dutifully deliver. It’s been so long, I honestly can’t remember the rationale behind my never having filled out a change of address form. All I know is I didn’t, and as a result there are at least three former addresses of mine where the current residents are probably still getting credit card offers in my name. Not good. Fortunately for me, I was succeeded by folks goodly enough not to take advantage of my stupidity.

Thing #3: How to pack a cardboard box like a normal, capable human being. You never realize what a complete an utter failure you are at packing boxes until the time comes to physically move them or, as was the case with me, unpack them. The fact I’ve still got boxes that haven’t been emptied since they were filled in October of 2000 tells you a lot. The thing is, every time I pry one of them open I find myself staring down into a mess of haphazardly packed crap that causes me to instantly retreat with the promise “I’ll go through this next month.” Lately I’ve stopped visiting those boxes and I wonder if I’ll ever knock them off my to-do list. I mean, it’s been over a decade. C’mon, me.

Thing #4: How to take an inventory so you don’t lose things forever. Every once in a while, I’ll call my mom to ask her if she’s seen something I could have sworn I brought with me in my decade-old move but probably left behind in the confusion of my disorganized migration. She usually replies “Gee, I don’t know where that could be” and I realize that it serves me right for undertaking my relocation with such ill regard and lousy preparation. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have channeled my anal-retentive, OCD-prone desire for organization into a home inventory of my belongings so I’d know where to find them when I eventually needed them. What a concept, right?

In the end, my experience isn’t so much a horror story as it is a cautionary tale, or a near miss. I’ve heard home moving horror stories that would curl your hair and I know for a fact that things could have gone south real easily. I could have had some ne’er-do-well steal my identity and run up a ten-jillion dollar credit card bill on beer and firecrackers; it might have snowed on my way over Donner’s Pass and I might have had to make a choice between cannibalism and calling roadside assistance; things might not have worked out with me and the girl, as they so often don’t do when people try to turn long distance relationships into something real. Alas I didn’t, it didn’t, and things did. Can I get three cheers for good old fashioned stupid luck? Sometimes, I get a sneaking suspicion that somebody up there’s pulling a lot of strings for me.

This month and all throughout October, 30 US cities and two Canadian cities will be paid a visit by six musicians whose collective onstage powers could destroy a small planet. And the really sickening thing is, most of the residents going dreamily about their lives in every single one of those cities will have absolutely no clue of the importance of what’s about to go down in their neck of the woods.

WTF am I talking about? I’m talking about the forthcoming US/Canada tour by the Adrian Belew Power Trio and Tony Levin’s Stick Men. Individually, either one of these acts are something to behold and you’d be nuts to miss them. Having both share a double bill that you can catch on the same night in the same venue makes for a slice of heaven on Earth. But being given the bonus opportunity to witness all six musicians take the stage together to play a third full set of King Crimson material? Depending on your tolerance for shows that literally raise the roof, this might just be too cool for you to handle. Word to the wise: don’t bother wearing socks.

The name of the tour has been cleverly titled “Two of a Perfect Trio” which is play on the title of the now classic King Crimson song and album Three of a Perfect Pair on which both Belew and Levin appeared all the way back in the dark ages of 1984. In the intervening 27 years, both have crisscrossed each other’s paths as on-again, off-again members of guitar god Robert Fripp’s various Crimson-related projects, as well as heading up their own ensembles and cranking out enough music to fill a hard drive. But this tour marks the first time that Levin (regarded for his inventive bass techniques and prowess at the Chapman stick) and Belew (whose inimitable electric guitar sound has made him one of the most recognized guitarists in the world) have toured together with their respective trios.

It also marks the first time since 2008 that any band so closely resembling King Crimson has performed live, let alone gone on tour. As one-third of the Stick Men trio, drummer Pat Mastelotto spent the better part of the 90s and 2000s as King Crimson’s official drummer. Putting Mastelotto on stage with Levin and Belew only leaves the conspicuous absence of Robert Fripp to keep it from being an official King Crimson lineup. And that, as they say, is close enough for jazz – even though what you’ll hear emanating from the sound systems of any of the below listed venues will most certainly not be jazz.

Sept 19    Atlanta, GA / Variety Playhouse

Sept 20    Carrboro, NC / Arts Center

Sept 21    Knoxville, TN / Bijou Theatre

Sept 22    Annapolis, MD / Rams Head

Sept 23    Phoenixville, PA / Colonial Theater

Sept 24    Vienna, VA / Jammin Java

Sept 27    Boston, MA / Royale

Sept 28    New York, NY / Iridium

Sept 29    New York, NY / Iridium

Sept 30    Fairfield, CT / Stage One

Oct 1    Northhampton, MA / Iron Horse

Oct 2    Montreal, QC / Corona

Oct 4    Toronto, ON / Mod Club

Oct 5    Buffalo, NY / Tralf Music Hall

Oct 6    Covington, KY / Southgate House

Oct 7    Detroit, MI / Magic Bag

Oct 8    Chicago, IL / Old Town School of Folk

Oct 9    Minneapolis, MN / Cedar Cultural Center

Oct 11    Boulder, CO / Boulder Theater

Oct 12    Salt Lake City, UT / The Depot

Oct 14    Portland, OR / Aladdin Theater

Oct 15    Seattle, WA / Triple Door

Oct 17    Sacramento, CA / Harlow’s

Oct 18    San Francisco, CA / The Regency Ballroom

Oct 19    Solana Beach, CA / Belly Up

Oct 21    Agoura Hills, CA / Canyon Club

Oct 22    Santa Ana, CA / Galaxy Theatre

Oct 23    Phoenix, AZ / Foundry

Oct 26    St Louis, MO / Old Rock House

Oct 27    Indianapolis, IN / Birdy’s Bar & Grill

Oct 28    Nashville, TN / Belcourt Theatre

Oct 29    Asheville, NC / MoogFest 2011

Joining the Crimson alum onstage will be Stick Men’s Markus Reuter on touch guitar, and the Power Trio’s Julie Slick (bass) and Tobias Ralph (drums). The tour is set to culminate with a performance at MoogFest, a yearly festival celebrating the life and invaluable contribution of Robert Moog, electronic music pioneer and inventor of the Moog synthesizer. If your mama raised no fools, you’ll buy your ticket today to the venue nearest you. A tour of this magnitude and epic awesomeness only comes along once in a blue moon.

I’m just going to throw this out there. Moonbound’s Peak of Eternal Light is one of the best damn albums I’ve heard in years. And I have a feeling that if you heard it, you might say the same thing. Of course now that I’ve made such a pronouncement, you’ll probably expect me to back it up with a bunch of frilly adjectives and literary dissections of every track on the album. If that’s the case, you’ll be disappointed. Partly because I can’t stand it when people do that, but mostly because doing so would be a disservice to an album that accomplishes something so many fail at: being greater than the sum of its parts.

That’s not to suggest that the individual songs on the album aren’t powerhouse numbers that can’t stand on their own. They can and they do, every last one of them, and they’re varied enough in their diversity to ensure that the one song I fall in love with will probably not be the same one you end up playing compulsively – and that’s a good thing. But as a complete package, Moonbound’s Peak of Eternal Light is about as close as you can get to The P Word without actually saying “perfect.” Oops! I said it anyway.

So what is it about this album that I think is so perfect? Good question, I’m glad I asked. For one, it’s completely unpretentious, even during its more “proggy” moments. (For those of you who have no idea what “proggy” means, let me direct you to the year 1969 and a band called King Crimson. Start there, then work your way up to the present date. When you’re done, if the internet is still around and if you still care, you can continue reading the rest of this article.) Actually, that probably won’t be necessary. The truth is, you don’t have to have an appreciation or even a passing interest in progressive rock to get something out of Peak of Eternal Light. But it does help if you dig well written songs, expert musicianship, and things that make your feet go tap – all of which are in great abundance on this album.

Singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and all around badass Fabio Trentini of Moonbound.

But those aren’t the only things that make this Moonbound album peak out on the The P Word meter. Another one is this: If you didn’t already know lead singer and principal songwriter Fabio Trentini was a bass player, there’d be nothing to tip you off to this fact without reading the liner notes. In other words, this isn’t an in-your-face, kickass bass player showcase – even though Trentini is, by all definition, a kickass bass player. And with the exception of the bass-driven title track (a proggy instrumental groove that alternates between 5/4 and 6/4 time signatures while mirroring a cool synth voice riff courtesy of Trentini’s vocal cords and a Roland Vocoder, yay technology) the rest of the songs here are completely egoless compositions that display an obvious preference for craftsmanship over showmanship. Yeah, there’s the occasional subversive bass lick that might make your inner Geddy Lee sit up and take notice, but it’s never over the top. And that’s the way (uh-huh, uh-huh) I like it.

There’s one other thing that really sets Moonbound apart from other bands of its ilk, and that’s the fact that they’re not really a band. At least not in the traditional sense that makes bands “bands.” Although Trentini’s near future plans include forming a touring band with some of his studio cohorts (a prospect that gets me giddy just contemplating, as Peak of Eternal Light is an album I’d probably commit homicide to see performed live), up to this point Moonbound has strictly been a studio band with Trentini serving double- and sometimes triple-duty on other instruments. Not that it really matters that Moonbound has no live history to speak of. Remember, the Alan Parsons Project was a studio band for a crazy long time before they finally took their act on the road. And no, I’m not using the Alan Parsons reference lightly here. There’s actually a lot more the two have in common than a deficit of live performances.

For instance, their styles aren’t that far off. The music of Moonbound has been described as “hooky 80s influenced pop-rock with progressive influences” and although that’s not a bad assessment, I’m leaning closer to pop-prog as a more fitting description. The 80s influence is certainly there, as evidenced by the tactful and understated use of occasional quirky keyboard effects and the random e-bow guitar solo (courtesy XTC’s own Dave Gregory), and as further supported by the presence of Pat Mastelotto on drums – a guy who had a front row seat to the neon- and pastel-riddled 80s pop music scene as a member of Mr. Mister. Who knows? Maybe that influence is one of the things about the album that really speaks to me. Sure, the 80s were a train wreck of questionable music and unquestionably bad fashion, but they did produce a few awesome (or rad, or tubular) albums – the previously mentioned Mr. Parsons’ own Eye in the Sky and Ammonia Avenue being two fitting examples, not to mention the unfortunately short lived output of Mastelotto’s old band.

Still from the Moonbound video "Our Day Will Come" directed by Lee Fletcher.

In case you hadn’t guessed by now, some of my favorite musical artists emerged and thrived in the 80s. So when I say that Peak of Eternal Light is an album that would have been right at home sharing record store bin space with the likes of Marillion’s Misplaced Childhood, Mr. Mister’s Welcome to the Real World, and Mike + The Mechanics’ self-titled debut, you know I’m showering it with props. But don’t get the idea that listening to Moonbound is somehow going to transport you back in time to a day when skinny ties were hip and unbelievably tight jeans weren’t worn by aging blondes trying to re-experience their glory days. It’s not dated, not by any means. The production – which was handled by Trentini, Mastelotto, and Markus Reuter (an incredibly talented touch guitarist and composer who’s played with everyone from Centrozoon to Tony Levin’s Stick Men) – manages to pay homage to the best elements of 80s pop-prog, but with decidedly contemporary sensibilities. Mastering maestro Lee Fletcher is no slouch either, delivering an end product that sounds almost as inviting as a quitting time whistle on a Friday afternoon. I said almost. We all know there’s no sweeter sound. But this album comes close.

You can get’cha some Moonbound Peak of Eternal Light directly from the Unsung Records corner of the Burning Shed website, or if you want to find out if anything I’ve said above holds true you can listen before you buy over at Moonbound’s Bandcamp page.

You know me; I’m not one to get my undies in a stir over the latest, greatest music streaming service. For the most part, I detest music services because I’m suspicious of them. I guess I get the feeling that somehow, they’re trying to sell me on music that blows so I’ll turn into another one of the countless zombies that’ll actually sit and willingly watch garbage like American Idol. I hate iTunes and I refuse to install it on my computer, and years ago when I bought my first media player I ensured it was an mp3 player, and not an iPod. You’d think that I’d be just as resistant to something like Spotify. So why the hell am I so excited about it? Your guess is as good as mine.

Maybe I’ve sold out. Or maybe I’ve convinced myself that Spotify is really nifty-neato because the name sounds a lot cooler than Pandora, or because I just didn’t stop to take a close enough look at Grooveshark to see that they’re essentially the same thing – with the exception that Spotify has a killer premium mobile app that can basically turn your smartphone into a replacement for your mp3 player and lets you listen without incurring any data usage. Let’s see Pandora or Grooveshark pull that little maneuver off.

In the end maybe it all boils down to what the lead-in to my review of Spotify over at Brighthand indicates – that I’m just a big fan of anyone or anything that can make Steve Jobs and the peeps at Apple quake in their collective boots (Doc Martens, I’m sure, since everyone even casually connected to Apple is just way too cool for school).

Who the hell knows? You’d think I would. It’s me we’re talking about, after all. All I can say with any certainty is that for now, I’m getting a kick out of Spotify. And just as long as I don’t think about all of the money that the artists affiliated with Spotify aren’t making (each single play generates about $0.000167 profit for them), I can even manage to listen and not lose any sleep. I’ll let you know how long that lasts. Meanwhile, check out the full review I wrote for Brighthand that gets into all the specifics about how Spotify works.

Kyle Mullikin, Jameson, Chronos, and Nathan Alan Gilbert of the progressive metal band American Hollow. (Photo by Ethan Killian)

If you’ve ever wondered what it would sound like if Corey Glover of Living Colour had a love child with Porcupine Tree’s Steven Wilson, wonder no more. Just pick up a copy of American Hollow’s Whisper Campaign and find out for yourself. Their style’s been labeled “thinking man’s metal” but I don’t really like the connotation. Partly because there’s a lot more to the band than just their metal elements, but mainly because I think metal blows. And American Hollow is a band that most certainly does not blow.

With lead singer Jameson (just Jameson) ably fronting a trio of talented musicians in Kyle Mullikin (guitar), Nathan Alan Gilbert (bass, keyboards) and Chronos (not his real name, drums) the band delivers a powerful debut album laced with progressive sensibilities and tracks that have “instant classic” written all over them. In other words, there ain’t a dud on it – and with the reality that even untouchables like the aforementioned Porcupine Tree record the occasional throwaway track, it tickles me to no end to tell you that.

The album’s lyrical content isn’t too shabby either, tackling issues as daunting and diverse as societal decay and political strife – but one of my personal favorites is the 13-minute epic about an alien invasion called “Prizards.” That frontman Jameson can move between such far ranging topics with ease and credibility is one of American Hollow’s greatest strengths, as is the band’s seemingly effortless ability to provide a hard-punching sonic backdrop to the lyrical themes.

American Hollow live in performance, proving that prog metallers can headbang with the best of 'em. (Photo by Ethan Killian and Jennel)

Although the album title Whisper Campaign hints at a quiet, gradual emergence that eventually builds to a cacophonous clamor, this is one album that really deserves hollering about from the get-go.

The music of American Hollow can be heard frequently on the progressive rock music podcast Progopolis, which is broadcast courtesy The Dividing Line Broadcast Network in Vancouver, Canada. Click here to listen to the latest podcast episodes. Vince Font is a full-time freelance writer who dreams of becoming the host of his own late night Creature Feature TV show. Until then, he continues to write. You can find out more information about Vince Font by visiting his website and blog.

The big big talent behind Big Big Train (Greg Spawton, Andy Poole, David Longdon).

If everything works out the way it’s supposed to, nobody but those in your inner circle will ever learn of this band. You’ll never hear them on FM radio, you’ll never see their videos on MTV (if MTV even still plays music videos, that is… I haven’t checked in years) and you’ll certainly never see them rubbing elbows at the Grammys. That’s because bands as good as Big Big Train just weren’t meant for the masses.

As sad a statement as that is, it’s also just fine and dandy with me. I honestly don’t want to see such great music polluted and brought down by comparisons to Radiohead or Coldplay (two bands that have come to embody what people with questionable taste in music like to think as the be-all and end-all of complex music). So I’m happy to belong to the small yet exclusive club that knows about Big Big Train. If that means I’ll never get to see them perform live without having to travel a great distance, then so be it. At least I won’t have to watch their destruction under the influence of record label suits and worldwide popularity. So far, the band is doing just fine without all that.

Far Skies Deep Time was released as an EP, presumably because it’s “only” 41 minutes long, but it looks and sounds like an album to me. It’s even got a 17-minute epic and features guest performances by former IQ keyboardist Martin Orford and Dave Gregory, who used to play guitar for XTC – so the hell with it, I’m calling it an album. In this, their latest studio album, Big Big Train delves ever more bravely into old-school-Genesis territory – they even cover an Anthony Phillips song that was originally intended to be a Genesis song, but never got made – and their gumption when it comes to things like flute solos and down-tempo tracks that take a few listens to sink in is evidence of that bravado.

The best part is, they do this all without sounding derivative and by still maintaining their unique sound. But even if some people do think it’s a bit derivative, so what? If nobody else wants it, it’s not a bad baton to pick up and run with.

The music of Big Big Train can be heard frequently on the progressive rock music podcast Progopolis, which is broadcast courtesy The Dividing Line Broadcast Network in Vancouver, Canada. Click here to listen to the latest podcast episodes. Vince Font is a full-time freelance writer with a great love of schlock, black and white movies, and zombies. You can find out more information about Vince Font by visiting his website and blog.

If you’ve ever seen The Big Lebowski you should be familiar with the name of this band. No, they weren’t in the movie and their music wasn’t featured on the soundtrack, but the band name was taken from the impromptu eulogy that John Goodman delivered for Steve Buscemi’s character Donny – admittedly an unusual place to find a name for your band, sure. But then these guys are anything but usual.

Donny Who Loved Bowling's Joe Griffin, shredding.

Over the last 10 years, Donny Who Loved Bowling (a duo comprised of Joe Griffin and Christopher Petkus) have released three albums, each of which differs dramatically from its predecessor. With their latest effort Screeching and Exploding, the band delivers a mostly instrumental album that plays like the soundtrack to a futuristic David Lynch western, veering sharply away from the expectations laid by their Ween-esque debut album Tree Fort and its follow up, an incredibly innovative album of mostly obscure covers aptly titled Butcher Covers.

A monster chord here... a dash of weirdness there. Donny Who Loved Bowling's Christopher Petkus.

The fact that Griffin and Petkus live a thousand miles apart (one in Chicago, the other in Austin) makes their collaborations all the more rare and infrequent, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Some art takes awhile to ferment, and proximity isn’t always a friend to creativity. Whatever the case may be, it ain’t broke, and I hope they never try to fix it.

The music of Donny Who Loved Bowling can be heard frequently on the progressive rock music podcast Progopolis, which is broadcast courtesy The Dividing Line Broadcast Network in Vancouver, Canada. Click here to listen to the latest podcast episodes. Vince Font is a full-time freelance writer and social media marketing guru in the making who’s got a love of red wine and dreams of world domination. You can find out more information about Vince Font by visiting his website and blog.

The name Röyksopp comes from the Norwegian word for puffball mushroom. Don't these two look like a couple of fungis?

The fact that Norwegian electronic duo Röyksopp are a huge success in Europe mystifies me. It also bugs me, not because I’m unhappy for their success or because I don’t think that they deserve it, but because I realize I’ve painted myself into a corner with my aforementioned disdain for anything that can appeal to a wide audience and I hate people knowing I’m a hypocrite. It also ticks me off to no end to have to admit that European audiences have far better taste than I usually give them credit for, but that’s actually something I learned all the way back in 1985 when Marillion broke the UK top 10. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

I could try to lie and say that the reason I love Röyksopp so much is because I’ve recognized some underlying progressive elements in their music that makes them the new Tangerine Dream (their new album Senior is, after all, completely instrumental). But in the end I suppose I have to just accept the fact that one of my top 10 favorite albums of 2010 comes from a group that’s so popular they made it into a Geico car insurance commercial. So go ahead and call me a sellout, I don’t care. Just don’t take away my Röyksopp. I’m fairly positive I couldn’t live without it.

The music of Röyksopp can be heard frequently on the progressive rock music podcast Progopolis, which is broadcast courtesy The Dividing Line Broadcast Network in Vancouver, Canada. Click here to listen to the latest podcast episodes.