When I was a kid, I discovered Marty Robbins’ “Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs” in my Dad’s record collection and played it obsessively. I fell in love with the stories that that album told and the colorful characters in songs like “Big Iron” and “El Paso.” It was immediately apparent that to me, music was not just a melody and a beat; it was also visual and preferably cinematic. The story that the lyrics told was what really brought a song to life for me.
What is The Strange & Odd Secrets Club? It’s not a club, or even a band. It’s really just one person – Me. Hello there! I try to put an emphasis on making my songs sound like a collective effort rather than the solo project that it truly is. Through some “social experimenting” with other musicians I found that I work much better in solitude. Part of this is due to my insecurity surrounding vulnerable lyrical and arrangement ideas, but also because I love taking on the personal responsibility of creating each element of a song.
JVWN — which stands for Just Vibing With the Now — is more than just a name; it’s a whole vibe, a way of life, and a philosophy that defines how we make music. We’re all about being present in the moment, letting the energy around us guide what we create, and finding inspiration in everything happening right now. Each of us brings something unique to the table, but together, our approach to music is one of freedom, expression, and constant growth.
I love guitar riffs. Great riffs encapsulate the chords, melody, and feel of a song. They are a force that propels the songs forward. A good song also tells a relatable story, but a great guitar rock and roll riff can draw people quickly into that story.
Sometimes, riffs are memorable guitar melodies, like The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” or Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” I particularly like riffs that are part chord, part melody, and are often as memorable as the lyrics, or maybe more so – like Chuck Berry’s opening riff for Johnny B. Goode – one of the classics of rock and the inspiration for many riffs to come.
Let’s face it, as we get older it is hard, hard to balance the demands of work, life and family. Where we suffer is that we loose the connection to the formative communities that helped shape us by finding our place, our voice and people.
When I moved to Wisconsin in 2001 from the bay area, I struggled to connect with the community, and found solace in recording solo projects. When I moved to Washington in 2005 I encountered the same constraints and in the 20 plus years since I have continued to write, record and produce by myself.
It was a cold but sunny winter day. I was sixteen, and I only wanted two things in life: football and playing guitar. Period. I had just gotten my first electric guitar, a cheap Strat-style guitar, and a little 15-watt combo amp with a tiny overdrive button. Every time I wanted to switch to distortion, I had to stop playing to press the button, as I had no idea what a footswitch was back then.
My life as a musician started at a young age in the handbell choir of my family’s church near San Diego, California. I remember that I couldn’t yet read music, so one of the elderly ladies in the choir would take a highlighter and mark the notes in the music I was responsible for. A few years later, I picked up the trumpet in school and never looked back — no more handbells for me, and at some point, no more church.
Fast forward several decades later and I’m making a living as a professional musician. Despite many years of playing contemporary music and working extensively with living composers, it never occurred to me to write my own music. I wasn’t even sure what „my“ music would sound like. Even improvisation was something I shied away from – I was perfectly happy interpreting the music of others.
From the tender age of eight, melancholy wove its stars into the fabric of my life. Deep, existential contemplations about life’s transient nature became my constant companions. My young mind, captivated by these musings, delved into the profound mysteries of existence. In these depths of reflection, I discovered music’s magnetic effects, a revelation that ignited a spark in my soul.
Around the age of ten, I discovered my natural singing ability, dreaming of a life as a music artist. However, this dream faced immense resistance. I grappled with a soul-tormenting dilemma: a burning desire to devote my life to music, contrasted by a deep-seated belief, instilled by those closest to me, that I lacked the talent. Their laughter and doubts, and concerns that I was chasing a delusion, cast long shadows over my aspirations. The belief that “I wasn’t a good enough singer, nor did I look the part,” became an unchallenged conviction for the next decade.
There is often an expectation that great work comes only from deep intention. That it is birthed from the mind of the artist, fully formed. Picture the romantic image of Mozart, writing out his scores fully formed with no eraser marks. I find this to be a harmful narrative that can hinder creatives.
Just think of how many great improvisers we can look to and see their apparent musical genius. For example, just about every great jazz musician. The point that I am getting to, albeit in a roundabout way, is that it is okay not to know the end result when you start something creative. And it’s even better if you can begin to without expectation.
Since 2017, I’ve been the singer and guitarist of the Swiss band Dear Misses, although my first band experience started in 2005 when I was 15. My roots lie in a mountain valley, which is the embodiment of Switzerland: high mountains and deep valleys, a cold blue creek, a lot of snow in winter, green meadows, and Swiss cows during summer. If you don’t believe me, just Google “Muotathal.” It’s old Germanic and means “wild water valley.”
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