In December of 2022, I released a record called White Trash Revelry that was funded one dollar at a time. It was a whirlwind of an experience where I handpicked a dream band and rented a little studio in East Knoxville- blocks from the first apartment I ever had- and gave my friend Kyle space to make a little magic.
My wife, Hannah, designed the artwork while our toddler toddled expertly and we all held on real tight. By Spring, I was opening over a dozen dates for my favorite band, the Mountain Goats, and had heard *THE* Brandi Carlile call me “one of the best writers in Roots Music.” I was even nominated for an award!
Actually, because of all that, it didn’t even seem all that unusual a thing to be having coffee with one of my heroes: Butch Walker.
I was eighteen when a friend of mine gifted me a burned compact disc of his Sycamore Meadows album. Those songs became anthemic for me. When I shared my favorites for Jessye DeSilva (piano) and Nelson Williams (bass) at the kitchen table, it was explicit what an influence he’d had on my practice of the craft. That’s why it was so surreal, being that I’d just flown them into town to record an album with him.
Actually, I wasn’t really sure I had one to record when the opportunity to collaborate was presented. While I don’t consider myself a political activist, I do consider myself committed to the prophetic power of the truth and bound by blood oath to an ancient God who tasks me to seek peace and seek justice. I wasn’t sure if I had anything worth saying yet.
I did have a protest song written from a place of real heartache over the tragic death of Anthony Thompson Jr by Knoxville Police (White Mule, Black Man) and a ballad about the senseless desensitization of war (Night Sweats). Otherwise, I had been writing mostly about parenthood (Carry You Down, Rotations), some love songs for Hannah (There We Are, Socialite Blues, Plot of Land), and trying to reflect on the idea of songs as pieces of folk medicine (Nancy, Wounded Astronaut).
It wasn’t until I unearthed an old song about intersecting timelines that I wrote early in mine and Hannah’s marriage (Part & Parcel) and finished penning poetry about the revocation of rights for Queer people in the state of Tennessee (Nightmare) that I could see the stars assemble into a shape: this is an album about cycles. It’s about the psychological imprint of trauma. It’s about Anniversary as a concept and as an experience.
On March 3rd, Governor Bill Lee signed a ban on gender-affirming care for minors & gender expression restrictions into law. On March 9th, I sat on a ranch in the hill country north of Austin and I wrote Nightmare with Kyle & Hannah. On March 27th, a trans shooter murdered children in a school in Nashville. On March 31st, a woman shouted at me, “Those kids are dead because of you,” outside of a theatre in Chattanooga moments after finishing my set.
In November of 2023, Hannah put paint on my skin, on the hat I hand embellished with makeshift Fraktur wedding vows, my bandana, on the jacket that I wore to grandpa’s funeral- and we took a photo for the record cover. I am proud of this art, of these songs, and astonished by the life Butch has poured into them. My brain grew new dimensions just by being in proximity to Megan Coleman (drums) and Ellen Angelico (Actual Genuine Black Magic) and I will forever treasure this little moment we got to share.
May 3rd is the date of mine and Hannah’s Quaker Wedding in Chambersburg, PA where we acted as our own officiants. Now, on this 10 year Anniversary of our wedding, as we celebrate ten cycles around the sun together, I give you these ruminations on being from our little family to yours.
