Ryan Tilby: Journal & News

Where I choose to live, as with most places I’ve ever chosen to live, we have our own fair share of eccentricities. Cultural, political, religious – I fully embrace all of them, and think that to a large degree our “imperfections” are what make us interesting, engaging, and human. But language is my favorite local oddity, especially because of how varied it has been from town to town.

Here I have compiled a list of local words, gleaned from actual conversations, of words I hear (or use) on a regular basis that I think are funny. (The “usage” sentences are altered to protect the innocent.)



1. “arready”: (already) Usage: “Dang, BYU arready lost seven games!”

2. “mmmm-bye!”: (goodbye) The “mmm” varies in length, depending on social status and the degree of insincerity involved in the farewell. Usage: “Uh-huh… O.K.!... Mmmmmmmmmm-Bye!”

3. “ecpecially” or “ek-specially”: (especially) Usage: “I like all there players, ecspecially Bronco Rugercolt!”

4. “pichure”: (picture) Usage: “I got a pichure of Bronco on my wall at home!”

5. “tempachure”: (temperature) Usage: “She’s got a tempachure, so I gave her some Coke.”

6. “melk”: (milk) Usage: “The Coke didn’t help, so I gave her some melk.”

7. “maaanaise” (mayonnaise) Usage: “Slather a sum’more maaanaise on there, will ya? More. More. A little more. That’s good.”

8. “pellow”: (pillow) Usage: “My pellow got Coke spilled on it; I’m headed to Cos’co for a new one.”

9. “sell”: (sale) Usage: “You like that? Picked that puppy up at a garage sell down the street!”

10. “acrosst”: (across) Usage: “No, not that garage sell. Acrosst the street.”

11. “dill”: (deal) Usage: “They’re out? What’s the dill?”

12. “probly” or “provly”: (probably) Usage: “They’re probly gonna run it a lot, Utah has a heck of a defense this year.”

13. “fal”: (foul) Usage: “This maaanaise must be expired. It’s totally fal.”

14. “moun’ins”: (mountains, or any word with an “nt” combination in it) Usage: “I live in the shadow of the moun’ins in the valley of the everlasting hills!”

15. “Evingston”: (Evanston) Usage: “Yeah, gonna run up to Evingston to buy parts for my Pontiac.”

16. “whole nother”: (another) Usage: “Oh, you’re talking about their 2007 season? That’s a whole nother dill.”

17. “supposively”: (supposedly) Usage: “Yeah, supposively these three huge guys just appeared out of nowhere and cleaned, butchered and jerked the whole deer!”

18. “bolth”: (both) Usage: “Black or Pinto beans?… I’ll just have bolth.”

19. “Is what we’re gonna do is…”: (What we’re going to do is…) Usage: “Is what we’re gonna do is stop at Old Navy and buy thirty-seven matching blue t-shirts!”

20. “figger”: (figure) Usage: “Dag-nab it! Lost to Florida? How do you figger that happened?”

21. “mel”: (meal) Usage: “Welcome to Café Rio! Enjoy your mel!”

22. “olny”: (only) Usage: “What the crap? They olny gave me one thing of salad dressing!”

23. “trells”: (trails) Usage: “Oooh, take your moun’in bike. St. George has some awesome trells.”

24. “then”: (than) Usage: “No way, BYU totally has a better English program then Utah State.”

25. “lussin”: (listen) Usage: “Lussin, you don’t even know what your saying!”

26. “offen” or “offenthenot”: (often) Usage: “Shur, I shop Cos’co pretty offen!” alt: “…more offenthenot!”

27. “shur”: (sure) Usage: “Hand out free BYU mini-footballs? Shur thing!”

28. “eltz”: (else) Usage: “Me, wearing a red shirt? Must have been somebody eltz.”



Honorable mentions: Enyways (anyway), pacifically (specifically), nutten (nothing), all most (almost), and zak-ely (exactly).

The temptation to lump people into categories in an attempt to better understand them is too great for me to withstand. Historically, I am not alone in this. From the beginning of time there has been the Believers and the Non-Believers, the Have’s and the Have-Nots, the Natives and the Aliens, Royalty and Peasantry, the Conservatives and the Liberals, the Starred and the Non-Star-Bellied Sneetches, and so on.

For years I found the most useful way of categorizing people in a way that helped me to better understand them was to make two groups – those who “got” Gary Larson’s Far Side comics and those that didn’t (sub-category: those who pretend to get it but don’t).

Now I have arrived at a new level of judgementalism, one with such far-reaching connotations that it’s hard to believe the accuracy with which I can assess any individual and their inner-most feelings after but witnessing one solitary act:

Clapping along to a song.

There are two types of people in the world: One-And-Three-ers and Two-And-Four-ers. The names, for the less musically inclined, are derived from a typical song which is counted in 4/4, which means the musicians keep time by counting to four over and over again. Typically, emphasis is given to certain of these four beats, which provides feel, groove, rhythm, and awesomeness. Nothing detracts from said awesomeness, however, like an audience member who misinterprets the emphasis and begins to clap along to their own alternate-reality-version of the song.

One-And-Three-ers clap on beats one and three, using two and four to prepare for the next clap. Two-And-Four-ers, in a similar fashion. They each have their place. But if you want to see the true nature of a person, a veritable window to their soul, a litmus test of hipness test, play a song, and have them clap.



Example:



Bingo:

There WAS a FARMer HAD a DOG and BINgo WAS his NAME-OH

1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4



Practice singing this while clapping only on beats 1 and 3. If this feels natural to you, you are a One-And-Three-er. Perfectly acceptable.

Now sing it again while clapping only on beats 2 and 4. Does this just make you feel awesome inside? Do you feel like you are in harmony with nature and the cosmos, and everything is going to go your way? Congratulations, you are a Two-And-Four-er.

Both types of people are welcome at a concert of mine. But to those who are born with 1&3 tendencies, here are some pointers to help you fit in at concerts that involve groove:

1. Watch the drummer. When he hits his snare (the loud one right on front of him), clap. Incidentally, I don’t know any drummers who are One-And-Three-ers.

2. If you’re aware of a 1&3 pre-disposition, watch for hip-looking people in the crowd, and wait to clap until you’ve ascertained that you are in sync with them.

3. If you’ve been diagnosed with a pre-existing 1&3 condition and have been unable to obtain treatment, you can always just sit in the back.

4. Limit your concert attending to musicals, children’s plays, cowboy poetry, traditional bluegrass, and polka-thons.

5. Before attending your next concert, buy yourself a Stevie Wonder CD and practice in the comfort and privacy of your own condo, or while driving your Corolla.

Nobody wants to be the “dad”. You know, the guy who makes you finish your chores first, turns the car around, and reminds you that you should have thought of something before you left. The guy who reminds you of the responsibilities, the obligations, the commitments, and the fact that money doesn’t grow on trees.

When I was a boy, my dad had mastered the art of riding the line between friendship and leadership. Somehow, he just managed to instill just enough fear to keep me on the straight and narrow, while still being the best friend a boy could hope for.

Then came grown-up-ness.

It’s kind of lame, sometimes, to think of what I should be doing when I’m doing something I’d rather be doing. It’s even more lame to realize that I may be the only one in the group to be driven by such guilt and obligation.

Being in a band is like building a fort with all your friends; a foray into big-people things with big-people tools, but without any adult supervision. Now, sometimes we realize that we have no adult supervision because ARE adults, and other adults are off worrying about their own livelihood, and they think we are best left to our own devices anyway. That’s all well and good, until you’re building your fort with your friends and they’re putting in this awesome water-balloon launcher and it’s gonna be so sweet and totally take out anybody that tries to raid the fort and you realize, wait – this fort is built in a ravine, it’s going to rain, and oh yeah, the fort is supposed to buy us all food for our families and pay our mortgages.

Then, as much fun as it is to launch water-balloons, somebody has got to be the dad.

Like I said – lame.

A wise band once said that music was their aeroplane. Well, music is my fort. And we’re way beyond couch cushions and rope-pulleys. I became a professional fort-builder, and it’s my job now to build awesome forts that look totally sweet and have killer water-balloon launchers and are surrounded by traps and camouflage, but also serious forts that aren’t built in ravines and can provide income, longevity, security, and stability.



Come to think of it, my dad always helped me build the most awesomest forts anyway. Being the dad is cool.

I have the distinct pleasure of both being a fan of many bands, and being in a band with many fans. Fans are the best. We can obsess, stalk, taunt, heckle, criticize, swoon, fantasize - and we love it.
I once saw Godsmack open for Metallica (awesome show) and was appalled to see Sully Erna (lead singer) dash to the edge of the stage and send a massive wad of spittle soaring out over the crowd. But the shocker was this: a wave of people rushed not away from, but towards the flying phlegm. That happened a couple of times.
That got me pondering the fan/celebrity relationship a little. What power. What devotion. Celebrity is a weird thing (have I already blogged about Michael Jackson? Probably).
But I stand by this philosophy: Art transcends the artist.
I'm a fan of all sorts of art created by artists who are simply human. That's what I love about art. It's insight. Revelation. Creation.
So, fans, let's keep being awesome fans. Maybe someday we can take turns spitting on each other.

My little boy is three years old. He doesn't yet appreciate what it means to have three great-grandfathers still living, not to mention the one great-great grandfather we don't get up to visit near often enough.
He has even less appreciation (he's three, alright?) of the fact that all three of the living and one of the deceased great-grandfathers served in the military, all traveling the world, wielding weapons, and earning medals. Try explaining to a toddler why it's OK to fight sometimes and not other times. Seems simple, right? I tried it. It's not.
And just when I think my toddler is unappreciative, I realized how little I knew myself about my heroic grandfathers. One was in charge of firing those guns on huge boats that look like the four-barreled-blasters off the Millenium Falcon. Another was the tail-gunner in a B-17 bomber - shot down over Nazi Germany. One maintained the engines of giant Boeing Tankers - while they were flying - on trans-Atlantic flights. One sat in the back of Air-Force planes over England and threw metal ribbons out the back - old-school anti-radar measures.
How did I miss all this? I mean, the guy has a Purple Heart and I think he's an ornery cuss? This guy dodged grenades from low-flying Korean planes and I worry about him driving? I've never been so far off.
And yet they don't really talk about it. They come from a generation where patriotism and bravery were included stock in all models, right at the factory. Now these traits are options - features people don't seem to value as much anymore. Even the 9/11 goings-on seemed to have had more impact on the "shake-to-recharge" flashlight industry than the number of my friends signing up to defend our nation. (As a side note - if you hate the French that much, start a petition to return the Statue of Liberty to where it came from.)
But I digress. What I mean to say is THANK YOU, to all those who have lived for decades without anyone asking them about, or thanking them for, the service they gave. And when I say decades, I mean almost 30 years, and when I say "they", I mean my very own Grandpa's. It's because of them I'm enjoying every aspect of being American, right down to my freedom of speech.

There are several instances I can think of where being educated is waaaaay over-rated. I subscribe to the “ignorance-is-bliss” methodology in most aspects of my life, including:
• How Spam is made.
• Anything to do with Brad Pitt.
• What goes on behind the scenes at Disneyland.
• How to write HTML.
• Where the suds in a hot-tub come from.
• The melting point of Gummy Peach Rings. (no, I think I’d like to know that…)
And most importantly,
• Learning about the personal lives of my favorite musicians.

I have my brother-in-law Nic to thank for this last one. Nic knows more about bands you’ve never heard of than you know about your grandma. He not only knows the part of every instrument of every song from the 60’s and 70’s, but he knows who wrote it, where, when, why, and what they were on while they did. Then, when you mention that you love a certain song, he’ll tell you something about it that makes it so it just can’t be your favorite song anymore. For me it was Zep’s “Whole Lotta Love” with the awesome drum solo in the middle, followed by the even awesomer guitar solo. I said, “I love this song” and Nic said, “Did you know that…”
I won’t wreck it for you.
I get really in to some peoples music, and I like reading liner notes from CD’s. But the days of Album Art are all but gone, and when I’m left with a question about a record or an artist, I turn to the internet – and that’s where the problems start.
I find out my favorite guitarist is not quite the family man I had hoped.
I find out my favorite bass player is in to pills you can’t buy at Walgreens.
I find out my favorite lyric isn’t saying what I thought it was saying at all.
I find out my favorite band has an inverted view of deity to my own.

You get the idea.
So, on to my point. Do the personal fallacies and shortcomings of artists make their art less valuable? Less worthy of my attention? Is a love song less of a love song when sung by a love-challenged singer? If I enjoy a song recorded by a band who was enjoying some plants I don’t choose to enjoy, am I vicariously enjoying things I don’t enjoy?
Which led me to this: When I get something from some music, when I find something I like, I take what I can get. Listening to music brings me joy, and creating music brings me joy, and if I can share that joy with other fans and other artists, all the better. I’ll let the music speak for itself.
And as for you, maybe you shouldn’t read too many of my journal entries. You might learn something that wrecks it all.

This entry is inspired by a some time I spent with my 16 year-old sister, who in a week of driving has collided with more stationary objects than a blindfolded toddler on Pixie-Stix. And to hear her side of the story, it was really quite out of her control.
It made me think through all the things I didn't appreciate at the time, like, for example, not being a girl. Not to say that boys are better drivers than girls, but... wait, yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.

Here are a few things that come to mind:

My Dad suggesting I not get too involved with that girl from Texas.

Rudimentary sewing skills.

Being the skinniest boy amongst my peers.

More common sense than some.

More sense of humor than some.

My first car being a manual transmission.

Being prodded to practice the banjo.

Not having a Nintendo.

Knowing how to splice tape.

A short list, I know, but it's all that comes to mind at the moment.

The intrinsic link between age and perspective is my favorite part about growing up. If you ever want to know more about that, go have a long talk with a 16 year-old.
But now while she's driving.

Let me tell you the story of a bass:
There once was a bass - a decent little bass, made in America by a reputable but not highly-esteemed maker, sold to me by a friend for $25. In the name of "making it my own", I immediately stripped all the paint off, swapped out the pickups, drilled a giant hole in the back for batteries, hacked on the pick-guard a little bit, and (last but not least) ripped the frets out with pliers.
Voila.
My first fretless bass.
But make a bass fretless is apparently a little more complicated that the removal of frets. The bass went from sounding bad, playing OK, and looking good to sounding great, looking weird, and playing really badly. I used it on a handful of recordings and made a careful map of the fingerboard in my head of the parts of the neck that made bass-sounds and the parts that made buzz-sounds.
Until I got bored. What else is the off-season for? So (with a little help from Craig) I planed off the old fretboard, glued a new one on, sanded and reshaped the neck a little, and arranged to have the bass painted silver-sparkle. All that's left is to put in the frets that I should have left in in the first place.

And last but not least, I have just finished up an album of hymns on solo guitar. It's called "Guitar Hymns" and you can check out the album here or on iTunes.

So as you can see, I've got some fun projects going on.

Guitar Hymns is on the shelves at Deseret Book (although they did jump the gun a little, I think). It looks nice, I think, thanks to Paul Cardall.
It's on its way to iTunes and all the other digital distribution points, too, if you're like me and all you music comes on some sort of iSomething.
So, watch for it!

Lately I've been given lots of opportunities to be opinionated, without really having to do much in the way of defending them. Now, when other people express their opinions to me, I'm usually pretty good at hearing them out, then in my mind (usually) categorizing their opinion as "wrong" and substituting their truth with my own.
Until, that is, I got into a discussion about music. It was really easy for me to see why other people liked what they liked, and easy for me to say "that's great - my tastes are a little different, but so what?" It suddenly dawned on me that music had taught me another life-lesson: there is very seldom a black-and-white-right-and-wrong-no-exceptions situation where one person is dead-wrong and the other unequivocally right.
Now, I’m not saying there’s no right or wrong. Far from it. But more often than not, in day-to-day life, there’s just better and worse, and “better” is pretty darn subjective.
Like in music.
So I’ve been watching myself, and the world, to see when things get presented as “wrong” when they’re just different. And I’ve found myself a lot more tolerant, which is good. If you’re Christian, which I am, loving all people all the time is kind of a good thing. When people tell me their political opinions, I think to myself “they like the such-and-such party kind of like they like rap music and Fruit Loops. That works great for them. I like the other party, jazz and Marshmallow Mateys. We’re good friends.”
Forgive my bold comparisons; the whole world right now is proof that religion, culture, and politics are much more serious issues with much more life-impact than music, but I’m sayin’ this: No matter what you think, feel, believe, preach, play, or listen to – let’s all be tolerant and loving. For me, that’s what music is for. For saying “hey, we’re all just people – let’s get together and feel alright!”

I just spent two days surrounded by Music Educators, and here's a thought: "Music Education" is the broadest, most vague job description I've ever heard.
I've spent two decades around music - practicing it, performing it, studying it, learning its history, writing it, arranging it, recording it, teaching it, doing the math on it, building instruments for it, etc – I’ve made a formal study of nine different instruments - and I don’t think I know more than a fraction of what there is to know about music.
Now I’ll say that although I think teachers are outgunned at every turn when it comes to doing their job the way I think it ought to be done, I will say that I’ve had some amazing teachers (mostly private) that I feel have been specially qualified to teach me some aspect of music I couldn’t have learned as well from anyone else. Thank you Mike, Dennis, Matt, Lisle, Victor, and the RubberBand (who I’ve stolen the most from!). But it took all of them, plus me, to get me to where I feel like I can call myself a musician. And that’s a vague term in-and-of itself…
Music is a living, breathing energy; an experience, a form of expression, give-and-take with the Universe. It is technique, feel, knowledge, circumstance, craftsmanship – a seldom-used channel that runs directly between your spirit and your body, that doesn’t require much thought at all, once all the framework is in place.
And we’re asking our Music Educators to do this with limited resources, mediocre pay, and combined programs. (My high-school guitar class teacher gave me an A and told me not to come anymore. He was, at best, one or two days ahead of his students on learning the guitar.)
So let’s do this – let’s get our kids out to shows. Let’s get our educators out to shows! Let’s LISTEN to music (it doesn’t happen in the background!), and talk about music. Let’s get our educators talking to the working performers, composers, conductors, engineers, and teach applicable skills! Let’s get our kids involved in music programs! Let’s put money into the programs! Let’s support the existing ones! You don’t have to have a kid in a concert to make it a good concert! Give your kids, yourself, lessons! Don’t like the piano? Buy a banjo! Don’t like the banjo? (C’mon, who doesn’t like the banjo?) Buy a flute! A recorder! I keep a Peruvian flute in my glove box. Music can be anywhere. In my opinion, it already is. But that leads me to whacky vibration talk that spooks folks, so back to the point at hand:
“Music Education” is an overwhelming task, and God bless those who undertake it. May we all do our best to support, contribute, and educate all who desire it, and may we all do our best to instill that desire in everyone we can.

I've been locked in a tiny room with some mics, some guitars, and my own thoughts for some time now.
I love playing hymns on guitar - it feels somehow very honest - and as I arrange and play these songs, I'm finding that these songs don't need a lot in the way of embellishment and complication to make them more interesting; these songs stand on their own just wonderfully.

I feel singularly qualified to write about geeks and geeky things, as I have devoted the greater part of my life to being one. With that in mind, I feel it is my duty to announce to the world that there is a digital accordion.
End of statement.
I was in downtown Salt Lake City last night, and passed a throng of people spellbound by the strains of Blue Danube - but I could hear an orchestra, piano, flute, you name it - all coming from, it turns out, an accordion. But this was not Rogers moms accordion: this puppy took 120v a/c, had foot pedals, and output through left and right speakers with a dedicated subwoofer. I heard a version of Beer-Barrel-Polka that nearly made me soil myself. It was incredible.
Well, incredible if you're the kind of guy who already owns a metallic-orange electric banjo. Which I do.

Now please, don't get me wrong: I love the corporate gig. I think I can speak for the band in saying we love the corporate gig. For those of you wondering what exactly that means, let me explain:
From time to time, throughout the year, we play "private" shows for various companies and their sundry functions, and they're fun. I've gigged for some really weird companies filled with really weird people. I've played for little companies in tiny cabins, and for companies that give iPods to whoever shows up and sports cars whoever wins the drawing at the end of the night.
Usually these shows are great successes.
Sometimes they are not.
The catch is simply this: At a regular concert, folks go to see a band play. A band they like, and choose to go and see. At a company party, folks go to get a free meal and a bonus check. Come on, tell me it isn't so. At one show last summer, the CEO got up after the free dinner and said "Thanks for coming. Hope you enjoyed your dinner. Your bonus checks are on the table by the back door; pick them up on your way out. Now here's the band!"
Needless to say, everyone got up, grabbed their check, and went home.
Kinda funny. Kinda not.
Tonight I played a corporate gig, and there was a lady (no lie!) sitting front and center crocheting. Socks, or something, I don't know.
At a concert? Seriously?
Well, that's fine. The truth is, I'm a little jealous. We of the RubberBand have talked quite frequently about having our own corporate Christmas party, and maybe even hiring a band to set up and play for us. We would hand out bonus checks, and by bonus I mean bogus, eat chicken cordon bleu (Shupe orders the steak), and have Roger give a presentation on how we've grown this year. Craig would receive the Banjist-of-the-Year award for the 12th straight year, I would secretly be jealous of his award, and Bart would probably make a move toward spiking the egg-nog, but probably just with Gatorade powder. The band would start to play, and Shupe would just start talking louder, Craig would sneak out the back, Roger would be playing with his new iPod (and by new iPod, I mean napkin), and Bart would clap along to everything, even the ballads, and somewhat out of time.
And I would get out my hooks and start crocheting.

While others may have realized I was a nerd years and years ago, it has only recently occurred to me. I’ve since been trying to pinpoint the moment in which I entered nerd-dom.
I should have realized the day I decided to play the banjo instead of play little-league. In photos, it seems painfully obvious during my glasses/braces/growth-spurt phase. I don’t think anybody realized they were a nerd in high-school, although I honestly think all of us were.

But I only fully realized my nerdocity today, when I caught myself reading (and thoroughly enjoying) the following paragraph:

“While experimenting with internal clock designs, we found that we liked the quality of the audio better when the master clock frequency was increased. Due to the superior nature of third overtone XO crystal oscillators (they have inherently less jitter than fundamental XO oscillators because they have higher 'Q'), we decided to utilize the same clock that we use in the 002. We increase the original master clock frequencies, and then divide them down as necessary. We started with a pair of ultra-low jitter (1 picosecond delta sigma average) XO oscillators, one for 44.1 kHz and its multiples, and one for 48 kHz and its multiples. We divide these two frequencies using a proprietary method that keeps accumulated jitter to a bare minimum: under 10 picoseconds. Would you ever use the word "punch" when describing the sound of your 003? With our internal clock, you most certainly will.”

Holy crap that’s nerdy.

I read recently that on college campus, Facebook is more popular than, well, anything else college kids might be looking at on the computer. While I do think that's good news, I also think it's kind of bizarre. It all led led me to a theory about my generation: We feel entitled.
The blogging phenom tipped me off. (Yes, I know, I'm blogging right now. I laugh at myself all the time.) I'm bewildered at the number of people my age who blog. Add that to facebook, myspace, etc, and you've pretty much got a personal website for nearly everyone I went to high-school with. Now, where did we get the idea that we all deserved our own URL? Is it that terribly useful? Does each of us feel our lives are that interesting/important as to document each daily occurrance? (Again, I have no room to talk.)
I know we've been described as the "Peter Pan Generation", and as a musician I feel uniquely unqualified to dispute that point. So maybe it's true. We expect to be provided for, maybe not by our parents, but perhaps our government (!?!), and if not the government, well, we'll figure that out later. In the meantime, check out my sweet house/truck/boat/TV/stuff. Credit crisis? That silly government.
My point? I don't have one. That's part of the irony of the blogosphere. I think it's just an interesting observation to watch the world slowly get passed to the next generation, and like all previous generations in the history of the world, think to myself "well, this isn't going to go well". But I suppose it always does. Just different.
And in our particular case, with lots of documentation.

Last week I officially decided that I’ve now seen all of Utah. It was while on Highway 21 between Milford and Garrison, in my trusty Isuzu Rodeo filled with bluegrass instruments.

Utah is the state of my birth, and for all the places I’ve been, it remains one of my favorite. I think the variety of geography is unbeatable, and the quality top-notch. Here’s a brief overview of my experiences around the borders of the state, starting at the top and going clockwise:

I once hunted deer with a muzzleloader (black powder, lead ball, buckskins) in the mountains above Snowville. Very cold. Saw one deer, took one shot, missed by a mile.

Last week I spent three hours on the side of the freeway in Tremonton when the band-mobile exploded on the freeway.

Lived in Mendon while I went to school in Logan which is next to the town where I was born, Smithfield. I’ve been to the back of Logan cave 3 times.

I used to believe that no one had ever found the bottom of Bear Lake. My dad broke some ribs on a four-wheeler while trying to ride the four-wheeler in the lake. That was weird.

I spent my high-school weekends hiking above Huntsville, in the Middle Fork area. I used to cross-country ski around Snow-Basin. A girl took me downhill skiing there once, but I crashed a lot and we never went out again.

My grandparents lived in Enterprise/Morgan while I was a kid. That’s where I learned to shoot, fish, hunt, chuck rocks, and stop profuse bleeding with dirt.

Evanston is not in Utah. It is also not pronounced “Evingston”.

I’ve backpacked into countless high Uintah lakes. I once speared a piece of jerky and posted it on top of Kings Peak, making that piece of jerky the highest thing in the state of Utah for as long as it lasted.

Once, looking for dinosaur bones near Vernal, I found the remnants of a cow and packed home a piece of the spine – my parents never told me it wasn’t a dinosaur, and for years the thing sat on my bookshelf.

The RubberBand shot the “Be the One” music video in Roosevelt and Duchene.

Wellington has a park in the middle that I have eaten lunch in more than any other park of any other town I’ve lived in.

I’m very fond of I-70. I think the San Rafael Swell is awesome.

Ah, Moab. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Canyonlands (Needles District), Arches, the Maze, Chesler Park, Little Wildhorse Canyon, Blue Bell Canyon, the Slickrock, Porcupine Rim, Amasaback, the White Rim Trail, Elephant Hill, Poison Spider Mesa, the Pizza Hut, Prophet Bob and your illegal homes blasted out of rock to house your too-many wives, Goblin Valley, the Confluence, Dead Horse Point, etc. etc. There’s no end to the wonder of that little corner of the state.

Reservoir Powell. You are not a lake. You are a giant toilet of refuse and oil-spills. You are the symbol of waste. I want the canyon back. HEYDUKE LIVES!!

I spent a summer dressing like a cowboy and playing mandolin and banjo in a little theater in Kanab. I know an obscene amount of cowboy poetry for a guy my age.

I was “escorted” out of Colorado City once by dudes in big trucks when I was cruising around out of sheer curiosity. Weird town. ‘Nuff said.

I lived in Hurricane for a few years. My wife was born and raised in Toquerville. I worked in St. George for 5 years. I have family in Santa Clara and Ivins. The biggest pot bust in Utah history just happened above Pine Valley.

Which brings me back, more or less, to Eskdale, Utah, and my Rodeo full of bluegrass instruments. I really enjoyed my visit to that Community.

I learned to whistle on a trip to Topaz Mountain, where I visited again this summer. I can still whistle.

My uncle makes targets for the military to blow up in the Dugway Proving Grounds. He has never offered to bring me along and watch stuff get blown up by jets and bombers.

On a trip to the Salt Flats, I set my land-speed record on a motorcycle and discovered the skeleton, saddle, rifle, and hatchet of a mountain man, apparently buried haphazardly by a friend. We reported it to the U of U, but no one seemed to care. Doing our own research, we discovered the journal of a man who survived the Salt Flats by eating his buddy on the same mountain we found our bones.

I got kicked out of the Peppermill Casino once for being under-age while watching a band.

I think that’s pretty much the whole perimeter. To tell the tales of the middle of the state would take hours, and they might not be as interesting. It seems all the interesting people I have met have lived on the fringes.

Well, here’s to fringes. If you’ve never been to Utah, it’s worth your time. If you’re new to Utah, just get in the car and drive around. If you’re a native to Utah but have never left your quaint valley of comfort and niceness, well, I have nothing to say to you.

And I can’t wait to know the rest of the world like this. Everything I’ve seen makes me grateful for a chance to live life and see the world – and as a musician? Even better!

See you down the road.

At my high school reunion last week, I was awarded the "Most Interesting Profession" award.
But you have to be present to win, and I was on tour with RS&RB.

Isn't it ironic? Don't you think?

Day 1:
Got up WAY to early even for normal people standards. 3:30am. Walked a mile to rendevouz point with gear-in-tow, because I didn't want to leave a car in some random parking-lot down by the freeway (van down by the river) for that many days. Arms got tired, but I don't really have huge arms, either.
The new airport hoop-la is lame. Paying $$ to check bags is lame. We are flying drums on this venture, to we have LOTS of extra bags. Wanna guess how much we paid to fly all our gear (seperate from our tickets)? I'll give you a hint: $425.
I read awesome short stories by Steven King all the way to Albany, NY. Steven King is a favorite of mine, and I personally think saying he writes horror is like saying Ryan Shupe plays country. Kinda, but not really, and there's so much more to it than that. So Steven, you rock, and your book "On Writing" is also brilliant. The story from SLC to Baltimore was "The Langoliers", about people who fall asleep on an airplane and wake to find everyone not sleeping has completely vanished. Takes place entirely on planes and airports, so I thought it was a fitting read for this trip. Now I'm in the middle of "Secret Window, Secret Garden" (later a Johnny Depp movie), and it's great, too.
Oh yeah, then the gig:
Lake George summer concert series, on a cool covered pavillion overlooking the lake. IT'S HUMID. We westerners forget. At least I do.
The show rocked - two 50-minute sets, with a great audience that danced and clapped and howled.
And, most recently, we checked into our hotel rooms. There's a little bit of drama envolved in that, which is sad, but when there are enough rooms for someone to get their own there's always a wonderously passive-aggressive struggle to see who can be the kindest while artfully claiming his own room. I'm sharing with Shupe tonight; I'll let that speak for itself.
And now I'm going to shower, becuase of afore-mentioned humidiDOOM. Tomorrow promises to have awesome pancakes, and maybe an impromptu visit to MTD where my bass was built. Sweet.
** OK, no shower yet, but I did cruise ther proverbial 'vard with Shupe and Bart in the mini-van. Got Sun-chips and a grape-fruit juice. We are such rock-stars....

Day 2:
Woke up in Lake George and ate the “Colossal Breakfast”, a feat which sounded like a good idea at the time. Piled in the vans and hit the road, at which point in time Shupe spilled a half-gallon of 2% on the floor of rental van #1. I promptly claimed a permanent position in van #2. Van #1 smells like a dairy-farmers laundry basket on a hot day.
Then we visited Michael Tobias, the owner/builder of MTD basses, one of which I own and play. He lives in upstate New York with his wife and dog Bessie. His shop was off to the side of the house, and was exactly what I wanted it to be: smaller than I expected, filled with dismembered bass-parts, one-offs, experiments, and piles and piles of wood. Michael was a gracious host, and even made several excellent culinary recommendations for our journey to the city.
Let’s see… I drank a soda and ate a milky-way bar (best candy-bar EVER), and then watched tree-world transform magically into brick-world as we entered Manhattan. Then, on the recommendation of Bart’s father-in-law, we GPS’d our way to Ben’s Kosher Deli, where I ate a life-changing pastrami sandwich, some soul-altering corned-beef, and two very fine spicy pickles. (I know, you’re thinking “yeah, right, a sandwich is a sandwich” – I thought it too – but I’m am NOT messing with you. Life changing).
Then: wander around New York City. Load in to the Blender Theater. Sound-check. Wander more. See Chrysler building. Wander. Play awesome show in awesome theater to awesome fans. Load out. Wander. Eat milk-shakes at Big Daddy’s (don’t ask) Burger Emporium. Wander. Find vans. Drive. Write journal entry.
Holy crap, I ate a lot of food today.

DAY 3:
I slept until noon today. We decided to drive until 3:30 in the morning (and by decided, I mean there were no hotels between where we got tired and where we needed to be), and our consolation was that we got to sleep in as long as we wanted, because tonight's show wasn't until late, and we could stay in the same hotel for 2 nights in a row, which is nice.
Or so we thought.
In our dazed stupor, we forgot that we actually had free rooms supplied by the venue, and although I slept until noon, check-out was at noon, and you can imagine the rush with which housekeeping (Housekeepeen?!!) wanted us outta-there.
So we got out, and moved to the next hotel.
Where I put up some pictures of the trip so far, and a couple videos, one of which looks really bad for some reason.
Then, off to MAGIC CITY MUSIC HALL!!!!
Oh, it was magic all right. We were the grand finale event to the Colgate Country Showdown semi-amateur-preliminary-qualifying-test-auditions.
I didn't even take pictures, except of the outside. And one of Craig eating a gargantuan fish for dinner.
And, now, typing, then sleeping.
As a side note, Van #1 is smelling way better now. I might switch tomorrow.

Day… uh… 4?
We’re in Jim Thorpe PA right now. Cooooool city. Like a sister-city to Telluride, but with much smaller mountains, way more humidity, and half as many hippes. Maybe less than half.
Any-who, BEST SHOW EVER. We of the RubberBand often say that phrase, usually to emphasize the not-bestness of the show, but on this particular occasion, we mean it. Best show ever. “Ever?” you say? Well, ever is a hard thing to define, but within the realms of this tour, the best so far, hands down. But don’t take my word for it!! One new RS&RB fan (Crosby, you rock!) was overheard describing the show as (and I quote) “the best-incredible!!” I don’t know if that’s a hyphen or a “/” thingy, or maybe just one word, like “Bestincredible”. Either way, great compliment. We loved it.
What else…. Chicken-curry-pita-thing that was awesome.
In the 1930’s the CCC build most of this town out of rocks and mortar – it’s way cool. Go to Jim Thorpe PA when you get a chance. We can’t wait to come back.

Day 5:
Last night I dreamt I was standing on this frozen lake while some random guy kept jumping into a hole in the ice and swimming around, shouting for me to join him, but I was freezing already and new that jumping into ice-water didn’t make that better.
I woke up to find my room freezing, and shivered my way over to the air-conditioning unit which I discovered was set on “Max Cool” and the temperature knob was all the way to the blue side. I pulled that back a little, and changed “Max” to “Lo”, and went back to bed.
I woke up a little while later, FREEZING. Pulled the extra blanket down and put it on me. Turned the blue knob even more to the red. Went back to bed.
Woke up again FREEEEEEEZING.
Turns our, the knobs on the unit were dummies, and the real control was on the wall, set to 40 degrees. I found that the next morning after taking an insanely hot bath and eating the rest of a bag of Sun-Chips for calories. I know - I’m a moron.
Tonight we did a “fireseide” concert for a church here in Pennsylvania. We played a handful of our more inspirational songs, and each gave a little talk about some element of spirituality in the music business, which I think went well. Then we ate “water-ice”, some sort of philly-style squishee (mine was chocolate – not-so-great), and now I’m staying in the spare bedroom of our gracious hosts, Jeff and Vickie. My thanks to them!

Day 6
Woke up in Vickie's "Garden of Eden" bedroom (for the girl she never had) in "the Easter Bunny House" (That's what her boys call it - every room is painted a different color). Had an awesome breakfast, and talked politics.
Then Craig and I drove to the house where everybody else was staying, and watched an awesome submarine movie in the basement while the rest of them ate and packed. Submarines are sooooooo cool. Except for the depth-charges part. That's crappy.
Then driiiiiiiiiiiiiiive. That part is starting to get old, and I'm not even the one driving. Craig is the man of the van in that regard.
So I'm in Lake Placid now - home to two, count'em, TWO winter Olympics. 30's, I think, and 1980-something. I was little. And I'm pretty lousy at history. But the town is awesome, kind of like a Park City (for you Utahns out there), but with a sweet lake right in the middle. I want to paddle/hike around the lake tomorrow.
After I do my laundry. What is this, day 6? I'm running out of stuff, and the proportions of clean-to-dirty is starting to overwhelm the clean just by being in the same suitcase as the dirty. That's all the detail you get.
Oh, and we're staying in The Pines; the first hotel IN MY LIFE where the hospitality is hospitible - she showed us up to our rooms, told us all about the town, looked up phone numbers for us, and even showed us a funny YouTube video.
Now THAT'S SERVICE!!!

DAY 7:
This journal is epic. If you're still reading, I commend you.
Laundry day. Nothing says soul-less time-suck like sitting in front of your spinning underwear and feeding endless quarters into the antiquated wash-bot. A guy can really start to have strange thoughts while killing time in a laundromat. Really strange thoughts...
Then we went canoe-ing! There are tons of lakes around here, and we rented two canoes and paddled around one of them, even paddling under a road to another lake filled with cool little islands. We basked, we swam, we splashed and giggled - it was a good time. Could not have asked for a better day for it, either.
Then we played in another park overlooking another lake for another appreciative audience. Two sets tonight, with all the standard favorites, and a few extendo-jams (that's what we call them).
I forget to say that last night we watched Hellboy II at the local $6 theater. What a great show. We all gave it two thumbs up.
There's a McDonalds double-cheeseburger in my gut right now, and I'm trying to remember what compelled me to put it there. Hindsight is 20/20. Ugh.....

DAY OK-I’M-READY-TO-GO-HOME-NOW:

The following events are real. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

We left Lake Perfect this morning, and drove a really long time. The person driving (we’ll call him Nhoj), got a speeding ticket. One van stopped at Elvira, NY, to see various religious historical sights. The van I was in stopped at a Sbarro for pizza.
We pulled into Bisonville, and loaded our gear into a bar called “Schlappies”. Even after just loading in, I felt in desperate need of a shower, a change of clothes, and an exorcist. It’s just been a while since I played a bar-bar, and not just a club with a bar in it. This was a bar-bar. For sure.
Then off to see the town. We ate wings, pizza, and saw Lake Eerily. I played Frisbee, and chased “Billy”, who thought it would be funny to spit in my face for some reason. Then on to the gig:
I’ll spare you the details. I could describe the walls and ceiling, but I want you to be able to sleep at night. I could describe the odiferous qualities, but you might never eat again. And I could describe the men’s room, but I can’t have your permanent mental-health on my conscious, no sir.
As is always the case, I was surprised by the handful of die-hard fans that appeared from nowhere and made bizarre requests all night. There was dancing, clapping, and smiles all around. We even broke the 20-minute mark with a super-extendo version of Devil Went Down to Bisonville, which was insanely long and weird. At the end of the night, I dropped my bass face down on the stage. So awesome.
Now we’re driving into the dark night, waiting for a Super Gr8 motel to appear so we can sleep in it. That really will be awesome. My favorite part, in fact, of the whole day.

DAY 9:

We drove all day today. Wait, let me check…

Yup, all day.

Day 10:

Well, last day of gigs on this particular trip. We're in Twin Lakes, Wisconsn (dig the accents!), at COUNTRY THUNDER!!
We did one of these in Arizona this spring, and I did a journal entry on it which I later decided not to post. Maybe someday.....
We opened the main-stage again, early afternoon on a grey dairy day. The first show went great; we play again at 9:30 tonight on a smaller stage. Promises to be a good time.
Right now we're chillin' in the green-room (mobile home) having a meeting about how to do this thing we're calling a career in a way that makes money, is fun, and gets better every year. For the most part, we're on that track.
Tomorrow we get up early to catch a 6am flight, or somewhere in there. As much as I'm not diggin' the early hour, I'm diggin' on the going home part. I'll catch you up on that tomorrow.

DAY DONE:
Sorry for leaving you hanging (Jeremy...), I'll put the button in it now.

Kinda like day one, but in reverse: Got up WAY to early even for normal people standards. 4:30am. Drove to Midway Chicago airport, where we almost missed our flight (what, you never seen a band check 20+ bags before?). But, we made it, and enjoyed an uneventful trip to Denver, where I enjoyed a gourmet piece of $14 pizza. Sheesh! Dropped Shupe off, where his family/car was.
Then on to SLC, where we raced home to change clothes/gear and Craig and I raced back to SLC for a fun little gig with Sam Payne, a dear friend of ours.
I slept like a baby that night. A baby that sleeps through the night without crying. And sleeps in late the next day.
And one that is potty-trained.

Escalation is the phenomenon of something getting more intense step by step, for example a quarrel, or, notably, military presence and nuclear armament during the Cold War. (Thanks, wiki)
Only slightly less harmful would be gear escalation, the trend amongst musicians to continually try not only to keep up with the proverbial Jones', but be able to confidently sneer in their faces "nah, nah-nah nah-nah" when you whip out your new piece of gear and toss it casually onto the stage.
In this band it's the never-ending quest to get the most technologically advanced piece of gear into the smallest, lightest form possible. This has its practical applications, however, since we fly with all of our own gear, and that's getting expensive, if you hadn't heard.
There are only a few ways to avoid escalation. One would be to take the "purist" route, which is to say "I don't believe in electronics, wireless technology, and them there 'FX' Processors; all I need is this here gee-tar (and a nice mic and PA system)". The other is the "vintage gear" approach, which is "this piece of gear is from 1973, man, I can't alter it in any way! Blasphemy!".
But RS&RB doesn't really subscribe to either route - so when one of us discovers some new thing that sounds better, weighs less, is smaller, or even just looks cooler, we get it, and for those 6 months or so before our new gear becomes obsolete, we're the envy of all the other guys. Then, 6 months later, well, you get it.
The end result is: We CAN fly with all our own gear. We DO sound pretty good in a lot of situations where me might otherwise not, and when I look down at my feet to see all those blinking lights, I smile more.
And truthfully, I don't think there are any hard feelings amongst us about who is able to have what at any given point in time. But I'm still looking for the atom bomb of gear - the thing that I buy that can never be bested, that just says "Tilby wins; this thing is as awesome as can ever be". Until then, I'm just saying all my gear is "vintage".

I've been fascinated lately with my generations need to blog. What sort of attention-starved generation feels compelled to post its every mundane action on the web and invite all their friends to see?
Besides me, that is.
But you see, this page, if you'll notice, is called a journal, not a blog. A subtle difference, but if you'll remember, journals are where people of the past would write their most hidden thoughts and sacred feelings; a place where you could bounce ideas privately off yourself, and laugh at yourself years later. Journals were written for the writer, and the generations to come when the writer is comfortably dead and spared embarrassment.

So here's my journal entry. Not a blog. This is an honest look at how I think today, and I reserve the right to change how I think tomorrow. Here are 10 non-glossy-non-bloggy things about myself.

1. I don’t like the Beatles. I think Crowded House does the same thing, but better.
2. “Meet the Robinsons” makes me cry. Every time.
3. I’m not very interested in getting to know the people in my neighborhood.
4. I don’t like cats.
5. I’m a tree-hugger.
6. I usually vote Democrat.
7. I think most popular country music is nothing more than a marketing campaign.
8. I think Disneyland is more trouble than it’s worth.
9. I can eat Cocoa Puffs all day and night.
10. When I was 11, I lit the Johansons field on fire with homemade black-powder bombs.


There, I think that about covers it.

I just acquired another guitar. My collection is small, mind you, but nice and more importantly, meaningful. So when the opportunity to trade some banjo playing for this beat-up red-sparkle Fender Stratocaster (Japan) came along, I took it.
But this guitar is ugly.
It's scraped up.
The finish on the fretboard is peeling off, and the dirt is sticking.
The bridge pickup is a different type than the other two.
The bridge was discontinued by Fender in the late 80's.
There's a gash in the bottom of the body.
There's tape on the inside that says "This guitar belongs to Danny. If I catch you with it I'll kick your @&%."
The volume knob and tone knob are in the wrong places.
It has no case.
It has no whammy bar.
And so on, and so on. But here's the thing: the more I look at these things, the more they are what endear me to the beast. I think I'd like other people to love me in spite of my tone knob being in the wrong spot. When I pick up this guitar and plug it in, I play a little differently than I play with my other electrics. This one doesn't care if I try something new and botch it miserably; it seems to say "hey, no worries, I'm the guitar that's not about shiny paint or smooth frets, I'm the guitar that's about playing guitar." And I like that.
I guess I'm saying that having a really ugly strat has humbled me a little, and taught me for the fifth gwazillionth time that it's what's inside that counts, and how I use what I have.

Even so, if you know a good fret guy, let me know.

Last week we went to Florence Arizona for COUNTRY THUNDER!!!!!!, which was a lot of fun. I've spent my life going to bluegrass festivals, so I expected a country festival to be similar.
Nope.
Kinda different. In a perfectly good way, don't get me wrong. I think what caught me the most off guard was the instant elevation to stardom performing on the mega-thunder stage would bring me. I made a lot of cool friends.
One such friend was Trisha (no need to change names, I'm not real sure she'll remember this if she reads it). Trisha and her friends will forever embody Country Thunder for me. They were totally ready. They had the wicker-crinkle-cowboy hats. They had the whole-body-tanning-booth tan. They had a couple of bucks to buy beer. They had bikini tops. They were totally amped to see shows.
They didn't have tickets.
But by combining a few of the afore mentioned prepared elements, they were able to get past the gate-guard and see our show. And man, did they rock hard. They danced and screamed and cheered. And when the show was over, they were psyched to meet us and talk. It was cool. This Trisha, however, seemed to think I would be her boyfriend right from the get-go. That was great. Quite flattering, and for a lot of musicians, it might have been a match made in heaven. But I have a slightly different style of socializing, and there were a few other details that may have prevented us from ever really becoming anything too serious. For one, she lived in Arizona, I in Utah. She has a deep love for country music, I'm kind of a jazz guy in my spare time. She seemed kinda extroverted, I'm a little shy. She was kinda drunk, I am kinda married.
But Trisha, if you're reading this, can we still be friends? I'm assuming you didn't make it to our second set because of the whole not-having-a-ticket thing, and I'm sorry about that. But for what it's worth, you and your friends will forever be Country Thunder to me, and no country festival will ever be the same without you there.

I've spent a lot of time lately philosophizing on the class-structure of American society. In other words, I'm tired of renting, and want to buy a house.
I'm getting to where I can estimate a a homes value to within $20k based on the number of cars (and their models) parked in the driveway. For example: An Audi A4 and a Tahoe: $300-$325k. A Subaru and a Tacoma: $240-$275k. A Corolla and a Montero: $180-$210k. An Isuzu Rodeo and a mountain bike: you're renting.
Which is why I get a sick satisfaction out of April. Sometimes it's nice to see everyone you know reduced to the same common denominator: paying taxes. Everybody's got to do it, and for a brief sick moment, all mankind has something in common to talk about. It's like Christmas, but for all Americans.
Now, don't get me wrong; having or not having things does not a person make, nor it is (IMHO) what this life is all about anyway. I'd much rather meet a friend on the street and discuss the happy things of the world than, oh, say, taxes. So maybe this tax season we should all decide to talk about things we have in common that we like rather than dislike.
But all the same, if you see a deal on a house please let me know. I'm the guy in the Isuzu Rodeo. With a bike on the top.

I have a toddler. He's two. He's awesome. Before he goes to bed each night, I sing him a song. We have about five that we choose from, and I usually ending singing the same one or two each night.
Then, a week ago, he decides to start rejecting all my song options with a casual "nope" after each of my standard suggestions. In desperation I started naming completely random songs in hopes that he would say yes to one. He finally did.
The Macarena.
I have just enough Spanish skills to sing the thing, and barely enough dancing skills to get through it without falling down.
He loved it. I've done it five times a night for the last week, and I feel like an idiot. But, when I'm done, he lays down with a smile on his face and goes right to sleep, so I keep on dancin'.
Remember the Macarena? Need a reminder? I'll warn you, there are girls dancing with tight pants on.

http://www.vh1classic.com/view/artist/1165513/55389/Los_Del_Rio/Macarena/index.jhtml