Over the summer I played four shows in a single weekend. It was the closest I've come to feeling like a touring musician. Between gigs I spent a lot of time in coffee shops trying to be more disciplined about writing, either songwriting or just keeping a record of my day and thoughts in a journal. 

There are some people who can work anywhere, who are able to pull out a notebook or tap out a verse on their phone between subway stops. My friend Jen is like that – she’s able to squeeze work into the tiniest slivers of time to produce delightful sketches or paintings that reflect her mindset at that particular moment. 

I am not one of those people.

For my entire life, I have struggled to stay focused, to keep my eyes on long-term goals and put in the day-to-day work necessary to reach those milestones. When it comes to music, I think writing and journaling is particularly helpful, yet it’s always the thing I let slide as soon as things get busy or hard.

When I read Laura Jane Grace’s memoir, I was struck by the clarity she brought to things that happened years ago, was able to cut through the fog of time and booze to craft her vivid stories. She was able to do that because she’d been keeping a journal, daily, since she was a child. And I’m willing to bet her religious commitment to daily writing helped her craft layered, complex songs that she sings with Against Me!

And I feel like I need to be like Laura, and like Jen, because their diligence and tenacity has led them to create remarkable bodies of work that they’ve been able to show the world. And I want my writing to be seen.

What’s weird is that I’ve never viewed playing guitar that way. Sure, playing music is a way to entertain my friends and earn a few bucks, but I have always played primarily for myself, because it makes me feel a happiness that I don’t need to share with anyone in order for it to be real.

And when I step back and think about it, writing does the same thing. It lets me see the hidden sides of myself, helps me find ideas I didn’t know I had. When I’ve spent a long time writing, I feel the same way I do after playing guitar in my garage. I feel like I’ve gotten something done, and I don’t need to show it to anybody.

A coworker recently suggested I learn Greenville by Lucinda Williams, with one small adjustment — he said I could tweak the line “You don’t really love me/you’re not my man” to sing the song from a man’s perspective.

It’s something I’ve run into before. I’ve spent the past year building up my repertoire, trying to have a reliable stock of 500 cover tunes. When I’m pulling from a pool that big, I end up learning more than a few songs by female artists. I play a bunch of songs by women, singing about the men they love (or, more often, the men who broke their hearts). 

I’ve never really messed with song lyrics to match my gender, but I wondered if I was the odd man out. I took a quick informal poll on a musicians’ Facebook group, and in general people said they didn’t change the words. A few people said they would leave the words “as is” if they referred to another individual, but if the singer referenced themselves in another gender, they’d change it.*

But for the most part, people said they left the lyrics as the original artist performed them. Most people who didn’t change the lyrics said it was just too difficult to make the rhythm or the rhyme scheme work with an alteration. A few people said they were trying to faithfully recreate the original, and to change the words would be a disservice to the song. 

For me, I feel like I play better when I can put myself in the song. And maybe that means letting go of a bit of myself so I can more completely embody the song’s landscape. I think playing covers can be challenging to do well, and that means I do a bit of acting mixed in with the singing & the guitar. I want to make sure I’m giving the audience my best performance, and I enjoy changing roles with each tune.

*Honorable mention to the singer who suggested changing every instance of the word “girl” with “squirrel.”

Too long since I’ve done this.

I set up my electric rig the other night for the first time in months, just to mess around with the different tone combinations I could get out of the amp and the few pedals I use. I’ve been playing my Gibson acoustic almost exclusively for the past year, and I didn’t realize how much I missed playing electric guitar until I flipped the switch on my amp and rolled the volume knob between my fingers. 

I have a Fender Telecaster, and though I’ve owned other electrics I’ve never found an instrument that could match the Tele’s playability. My fingers feel a bit more nimble on the maple fretboard, and the ash slab body gives the Tele the feel of an industrial-age tool that could build entire cities from raw sonic material. 

What I like most about the Tele is its versatility. The guitar lets me spend time with it, helps me explore the strings and the amp settings until I find a sound that inspires me. I can try pushing a riff through different pickups, winding back over itself and seeing how it comes out on the other end. And maybe I’ll hear something reminiscent of another idea I once had, and I’ll marry the two together for something completely new.

That versatility and expansiveness can also be paralyzing - all those options give me fewer guardrails, and I get lost in possibility & feel like I can’t close the deal on a song. So I’ve got all these snippets floating around in my head, or these tiny thirty-second recordings on my phone, and nothing to hold onto, to make a complete whole. It’s like doing a puzzle, except all the pieces are from different sets, and you’ve never seen any of the images they’re meant to create.

Maybe that’s why I’ve avoided songwriting - it’s felt too hard, too much of a fool’s errand. There’s already so much great music out there. Even with all the inspiration and the cool sounds I’m creating, I’d have to work to really define the sound I want and the things I’m trying to say. 

But I keep at it, because working on new songs on the electric will help my acoustic playing. Even if I’m learning other people’s material, the Tele can give me the room to explore, or to try new positioning. If it translates to my live shows on my acoustic, great. If not, I’ll save it for the next band I form, or the next project I undertake, years from now, when the Tele and I have finally put the pieces together.

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Fender American Standard Telecaster, 2009

Fender Hot Rod Deluxe 112

Boss DD2 Delay

Wampler Ego Compressor

MXR ZW44 Wylde Overdrive

Lyrics & music by J Gatos

My good friend and former bandmate Josh (J Gatos on YouTube, don’t forget to like & subscribe!) came over last weekend to play some music. I hadn’t seen him in almost a year, and we did the usual catchup game that’s become a staple of thirtysomething life. 

But when it came time to play some of our old songs, I flubbed through riffs I’d witten and my voice seemed to give out before it had even reached my mouth. These were songs I’ve been playing for twenty years, songs that I’d helped write or produce, songs that had become part of my bloodstream, and I was faltering. 

It wasn’t until later that I realized I wasn’t playing with Josh - I was playing for Josh, whose approval I still craved, my bandmate, my best friend, my hero. 

When we were younger, Josh cranked out lyrics on his lunch breaks, wielded his voice with precision and clarity through a cloud of cigarette smoke, and stood his ground in the name of punk rock.

I wanted to get a bit of that energy, to feel like maybe the magic he produced could pull a rabbit out of my ass too. My hero worship took me to some dark places, where I’d do stupid things to keep up with his ability to create a world around him. 

It got the better of him, too. Now he’s cleaned up, he’s more self-aware, more willing to temper his ego. And luckily, he managed to come through without any lasting scars.

We like to believe our heroes don’t need luck. They’re superhuman. They defy the odds because of some innate ability to amaze, to break the laws of physics & maybe the laws of the local municipality in the service of something great.

I always thought the “something great” Josh was serving was our music, the catchy three-minute power-pop diddies that led people to lovingly(?) call us “Green-182.” But he wasn’t serving the songs.

Josh gave me what I think all good heroes give us: the strength & confidence to be our own best selves. Josh taught me how to step out in front of a crowd, how to crank the volume on my amp & drown out that nagging voice of doubt, how to let my guitar talk when I couldn’t find the words (or the harmony). I was never going to be the singer Josh is, but he trusted my playing without reservation and helped me put that front & center.

I still tell people stories about my time in those bands, the things we did together that to this day I don't believe I did.

But I did them, because Josh showed me how. 

Pine Hill Tavern, October 2019

I’ve played a lot of places over the past twenty years, and each venue has its own feel.

But what I enjoy most are dive bars, the neighborhood watering holes that have been steadily slinging cold beers & shots of brown liquor for decades, hazy with the memory of cigarette smoke even though the state banned smoking years ago, where the regulars didn’t make plans to go out that night. It’s their routine, like stopping for a gallon of milk on the way home. 

Dive bars are having a bit of a moment. They’re getting facelifts, new menus, and craft beers to attract a new generation of drinkers looking to get a buzz on the cheap. I get it - a business has to stay relevant if it wants to keep going. 

But I can’t shake the feeling that the new, improved dive bar isn’t for the regulars anymore. The new dive is catering to those who are grasping at a space to belong, who are slumming it for the evening but still want the creature comforts of their favorite gastropub. It’s for tourists, just like me.

And like the other tourists, I love dives because the give me a feeling that maybe I could belong. That if I played the right songs, told the right jokes, let my voice crack at just the right point, I’d be invited to join the regulars, the people who have always called the dive their home.

I play my best when I’m playing at a dive bar. Because when someone invites me into their home, I want to make a good impression. 

Even at the corner dive.

So many non-venues…

A coworker recently took a look at all the stickers on my guitar case, a spacious patchwork in a familiar outline. “Have you played at all these places?” he asked, leaning down to read the collection of breweries, local restaurants & tourist attractions.

No. I have not played all these places. I’m a fraud.

Most of these stickers came from places that don’t even have live music - a restaurant in a Georgia strip mall, a historic cemetery in Philadelphia, an ice cream shop in Montana. I collect them not as keepsakes of past performances, but as more of a travelogue. Some of them make me laugh, like the sticker for the all-night taco stand in Tampa. More than a few inspire nostalgia that’s a little too painful to dwell on for long.

But maybe I could play at all these places, just show up with my guitar and play a short five-song set (or play until I’m asked to leave), and move on. Like a guerrilla tour.

I could take my time, stretch it out over several months: a swing through New England in the fall, spend a summer day hitting the Jersey breweries & shore attractions. The Philadelphia leg alone would take me to a firehouse in Chinatown, the aforementioned cemetery, the Mütter Museum, and Dock Street Brewing.  Not a bad mini-tour.

But the more I think about it, the more I think this is an effort in retracing one’s steps, revisiting the things I meant to do but never got the chance. Looking back is always comforting, but stare too long and it can be intoxicating. I think I’ve got too much going on ahead of me to get stuck drinking in the past.

I might have to play South of the Border, tho.

The guitar room at Fred Oster’s Vintage Instruments in Philadelphia.

I was road-tripping with the family over the 4th of July holiday, and we stopped in Montpelier, VT for lunch and a brief stroll to stretch our legs. We were hungry & cranky, but I really wanted to check out GuitarSam, just down the street from where we planned to eat.

I love guitar stores - what guitarist doesn’t? We love to pick up the priciest instruments and strum, imagining how they’d sound with the rest of the band, or how we’d look playing that vintage Martin at the next show.

When I was younger, my dad would truck all around Philly and South Jersey looking for the best deal on an amplifier or guitar. We went out to Zapf’s Music for my first amplifier, a solid-state Fender that had two inputs so he & I could play together. When I saved up enough money to buy my first electric, we went to a now-defunct store in Maple Shade, NJ & I bought a Hohner 430LP, on which I endlessly played the intro riff for Hootie & the Blowfish’s “Time.”

We never checked out GuitarSam, and I wish we had. When I visit neighborhood guitar stores, it’s often just me and the owner. Invariably the owner is friendly, and introduces himself, and we talk about music and the gear hanging on the wall. When it’s just me & the owner, I’m not afraid to ask the dumb questions, and I have the quiet to strum on open D and listen closely for the instrument’s tone. There’s no sales push, just a conversation between musicians and a chance to build our musical community, to explore ourselves, to pursue our quiet, intimate ambition.. 

I keep hoping my kids will take up guitar, and we can explore guitar stores together. My son is 10 and enjoys singing. He’s got a Strat copy in his bedroom & a drum set in the basement, both of which I use far more frequently than he does. My daughter is 18 months old, and she enjoys lugging her little plastic guitar around the living room & using it as a step-stool to the counter.

So maybe they won’t want to go to guitar stores. Maybe it will be a ballet studio. Maybe it will be a fly shop on the Upper Delaware River, or maybe my son gets that feeling when he tugs his batting helmet over his head and steps into the box at the local batting cages. But I know they’ll find something that makes them feel like they can do more, that they can do better, that maybe this place is the next step in their journey.

It’s a chance to see what more the world has to offer, and what we have inside of us to offer in return.

I changed the strings on my Gibson last night, after putting the kids to bed. I did some work on new songs for the summer, but after a while I drifted back to songs I haven’t played in years. Not the pop songs that usually get played on the radio, but slow mournful tunes I enjoy playing for myself.

I play in front of people so often, and I work hard to give them a good show. I lean into certain lines, add a guitar fill to spice up a repetitive four-chord progression, dance around in between verses. I sweat, I trip over my mic stand, I laugh about the guy who’s still shouting “Free Bird” at the end of the bar.

It’s lively, and it’s warm, and it’s the reason I love playing for folks - we’re doing something together.

But when I play alone, in an empty room, the energy is different. I’m more focused, and I can feel the strings’ vibrations flow from my fingers up to my shoulders, and I can feel my voice barreling through my chest and echoing through my head. It all becomes a single sensation.

For me, when I hit that place, it’s hard to put the guitar down.

I’ve always used Martin Marquis strings. They’re affordably priced, sound good, and are one of the few Martin products that are in my budget.

But Musician’s Friend had a sale on Elixirs, and I’ve heard awesome things about them, so I decided to give them a whirl. No gigs this past Friday, so after the kids were asleep I restrung my Gibson Hummingbird with the Elixirs.

I don’t know about other guitar players, but I love restringing guitars. There’s something kind of zen about it, a methodical process that lets me get intimate with the guitar that’s different from when I’m playing it. When I’m done, the guitar is transformed & renewed, and I feel excited to take the new tone for a ride.

With the Elixirs, that feeling was tenfold. The tone was so crisp - almost too crisp - and I played for hours. Honestly, it was like getting a totally new guitar.

I’ll definitely have to try Elixirs on my Tele. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Here’s a great example of what happens when I’ve had too much cold medicine & still insist on pushing voice. And throwing in an extra instrument for the hell of it.

I’ve been playing guitar for almost 30 years, and at this point I’m in a rut with practicing. I usually figure out the basic chord structure of the song, print out the lyrics, and figure I’ve got it down.

I do not, in fact, have it down.

When I try playing the song live, I realize there’s a bridge I didn’t study all the way, or a key change that I was higher than I anticipated. The result is often unpolished, and as my own worst critic I end up beating myself up for the rest of the set.

A friend suggested I video myself practicing new songs so I can identify problem areas & work to fix them. I think it’s a good technique. Once I get a decent version out I’ll publish it here. I’m hoping this will motivate me to learn songs with a little more regularity, and with a higher level of completion.

Thanks for reading!