For the first time in well over two years, I am thinking, and, dare I say, am enthused about making another album. This new year I have been working to attain some semblance of writing discipline so as to plough forth with the grand idea. Songs : album.

As you may have already deduced, I have not exactly been a cauldron of creativity since Scarce reared its lint-breathing head on that late February day of aught six. I have several songs laying about here and there, some finished, some incomplete, some written a time ago, some brand new ones I am polishing off even now, most of them having never been heard by anyone, not even Lady Danielle. Honestly, I am afraid to play them for her, because she is my filter, the one whose opinion I trust most, even though she has little to no musical pedigree and can’t detect a major chord from a minor. She knows me well and, armed with such knowledge, she tends to listen with her soul and guts. It is a good way to listen to music, in my opinion. I cornered her a few nights ago and played her one of the new songs, one that I was quite proud of and eager for her to hear (and bestow praise upon me, afterwards). It bored her. It was, in her words, “not Eric”. Brutal. Ego-wrecking. But honest. And good and necessary. Back to the drawing board. Since I have not written much in the Days of Ellis, I am fairly out of shape in the overall exercise, a proverbial fat kid in brand new Sauconys standing on a treadmill having yet pressed the start button. I sweat it without ever doing the work. Hopefully, songwriting is a little like riding a bicycle (ironically, one of the new songs is from the perspective of a 10-speed), especially since I’ve just been sitting, watching all the other kids from the curb. During the writing and preproduction phases, I never really have much of a clue if the songs I write for an album’s inclusion are any good, or even if they’re worth pursuing — alas, that’s where a talented producer is worth his/her weight in gold. (Oddly, this makes for some strange imagery: “Mr. Subway Jared, you used to be worth 250 karats, now you’re only worth 135 karats. We’re sorry for the news, but you’ll have to leave now.”) Critical discernment has never been a talent of mine.

Some time ago the idea began brewing around in my head to record a collection of third-person stories/songs, several of which have missed the cut on my previous albums, perhaps some which have yet to be written, and the rest pertaining to onions and bicycles. Writing from the third-person perspective is a challenging and enjoyable exercise for me. Empathy, understanding and listening to both sides to a story seems to me to serve not only that person (or object), but humanity on the whole as well, especially in this age of mistrust and fear of what is misunderstood. Mistrust comes with a price. We’re living in it now. Time will tell whether or not this album, A) ever comes to fruition, or B) retains the earmarks of a homemade quilt, with its narrative, tale-driven mojo. Then again, this “album concept” (why does this make me think of Pink Floyd?) may sound as boring as winter trees. You, of course, will be the judge of that.

My friend, Geof Morris (all-around dot net guru), has a really interesting idea on how to garner support for my next (independent, yet again) record since money isn’t exactly forcing its way into the ol’ bank account these days. Without divulging the details, I will say that the idea involves you, the devoted. More on all this as we figure out a game plan and draw up X’s and O’s (there I go spouting off with sports-speak again). Until then, avoid financial debt and eat lots of warm soup during these bitter cold days.

WARNING: This post contains graphic, superfluous and melodramatic sports-oriented language. If you have no interest in athletics — specifically college football — you may want to venture out to the rest of the world-wide-web. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Consider yourself warned.

I just took a mancation. Yes, I combined the words “man” and “vacation” — probably not a cool thing to do. A week ago, I spent five hours inside the Louisiana Superdome in New Orleans watching my alma mater, LSU, play Ohio State in the national collegiate football championship, AKA, the BCS Championship (Bowl Championship Series). The ticket to the game was a gift to me from the father of my best friend in high-school and, probably life, John Neswadi (the same guy who supplied the stone on which my song Squeeze is based.) Me, my dad, John, his dad, John’s brother-in-law, his dad and brother - eight of us, all told - all were given tickets to the event by Mr. Neswadi. This was not an inexpensive offering. We sat in the nosebleed section 15 or so rows from the top of the dome at about the 10-yard line. We needed binoculars to make out players’ numbers, and it was hard to find the football at times amid all the action, but the view was clear and unobstructed and afforded us a bird’s-eye view of a swath of purple & gold-, crimson & grey-clad humanity. And it was glorious. A venue filled to capacity with 79,000+ screaming people, full bright lights, a freshly painted field and national media attention emits a certain electricity, an air of eager anticipation and excitement that was nearly as hard to digest then as it is for me to explain now. No one in our group - four LSU fans, three Ohio State fans - were able to believe the fact that we were there. The Tiger Band took the field during pre-game and blasted the first four very well-known south Louisiana staccato notes, I got choked up. They played the national anthem and I knew tears at “o’er the land of the free and home of the brave”. I cheered throughout the game, I yelled myself hoarse, I nearly lost my voice. I hugged and high-fived my dad and friends after every big play, and we relished every moment. Four quarters flew by, LSU won the game, I got teary. I easily get teary. I am teary now even thinking about being teary.

You see, I am a sucker for sports drama and underdogs. Honestly, I’d rather watch “Rudy” than most any sub-titled foreign film. This does not exactly make me Renaissance-man material. I doubt anyone will ever accuse me of being a cinephile or critical observer of culture, art and film. I have fought this for many years, but I am slowly coming to grips with the fact that I am a simpleton in many ways, but especially when it comes to understanding and conveying the arts. I could be wrong; that’s why there are critics in this world — that’s their job. Myself, I enjoy sports. I don’t live and die by them, but I certainly enjoy the energy and competition. I can throw a decent spiral, I know how to catch a pass, how to dribble a soccer ball with some deftness, I can shoot a 3-pointer (I make for a short, scrappy point guard), and I can hit my driver 300 yards on a good, dry downhill day. I am not bragging, so don’t misinterpret me. I am getting at a point, however obscure or feeble. Many in my close circle of friends are artists and are far less interested in football - nay, sports, in general - than they would be in watching paint dry on a basement wall with only a bowl of cold gruel to keep them company. I usually feel like a grand poseur when I’m around them, especially when they get to talking about music, music theory, or, especially, when I hear them play their songs. Me, I like hitting the little white ball here and there and chasing it around for 18 holes. My pipe and putter; not exactly a complex arrangement. My wife says all this makes me a more well-rounded person. I’m not sure I agree, but I appreciate her grace.

Earlier during the day of the game, I spent with these seven other men (also on their mancations) walking the historic brick streets of the Vieux Carre. We parked the car late that morning and walked several blocks east down Poydras, turned left on St. Charles, made room for a couple of passing street trolleys, and entered the French Quarter via Royal Street where I, once again, marveled at this rich and unique city. You have no doubt heard this before, but I can assure you there is no place across the wide expanse of this exceptional country like Nouvelle Orleans. No American city matches it for its uniqueness, architecture, complex history and convoluted present, for better or worse. It possesses an identity all its own. And that is to say nothing of the food, oh my, the food. It is a city that knows itself. I appreciate that. We stood at the elevated position of Washington Artillery Park overlooking the Great River directly behind it, St. Louis cathedral and Jackson Square to the west, and absorbed what was so authentic about that setting at that very moment: life. Street performers cajoled and lived out their animation and antics in the eyes of all the onlooking slack-jaws, myself included. They brought smiles to faces. Painters sold their paintings along the iron fence of the Square. Dixie band notes hurrah’d over General Jackson’s statue from the direction of the cathedral. Cafe du Monde churned out chicory, cafe au lait and hot beignets. Life exists here. Life exists. This is a good thing to know. It is good to have and know friends, to have people in your life who value you because you are, because you exist. Nothing you do can change or repeal it. To be loved is the best of all.