Cool Hand Luke

1. I’m getting old.

2. Being in a band all this time has kept me from growing up. It’s good in some ways, but very bad in other ways.

3. I don’t know how to do anything but be in a band. That is to say, I have no marketable skills outside of music. This, honestly, scares me to death.

4. Most guys my age have at least some athletic ability and desire to play sports for fun. I don’t have that, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I’m no good, so I don’t want to play with people who are. That then starts a spiral—I don’t play because I’m not good but I’m no good because I don’t play. This is a source of insecurity for me. It also makes me wonder what I missed when I was growing up. It also makes me want to start keep up with sports so that I can at least have something to talk about with guys who don’t care about Radiohead and books. We’ll see if that actually happens.

5. I am really, really going to miss touring.

6. Any future songs I write may not ever be heard by anyone else, and I have to be okay with that.

7. Cool Hand Luke was never a very big band, but that is more true now than it ever has been.

8. Cool Hand Luke has some of the kindest, most encouraging fans one could ever hope to encounter. I am overwhelmed and thankful for the kindness I have been shown.

9. I like playing with a band a lot more than playing by myself.

10. At the end of the day, I kind of like to rock.

11. Touring as an adult is not as exciting since I don’t do all the crazy stuff I used to do.  Conversely, there is way less drama.

12. I think I spent a few years trying to re-capture an earlier time—like I wanted it to be 2002 again or something. Of course I could never do that, so I was always frustrated. I have learned that recreating that time isn’t possible and even if it was, I’m not the same person anymore. That time is gone and it’s okay. Now is good, too. On the last tour, I just tried to enjoy my time, and I had a blast.

13. It wasn’t as sad as I thought it would be. It was just mostly fun and at times surreal. It didn’t feel like the end.

14. When we started touring, none of us had cell phones, and we used actual maps to get to places. Our webpage had a URL that was impossible to remember. It was like www.tripod.com/punkrock/jesus.1234_coolhandluke/tennessee-fv9nr2_duckduckgoose or something ridiculous like that. I had just gotten my first ever email account through my college. There was no myspace, Twitter, or Facebook. We used AOL instant messenger to find people (back when they would send you a disc in the mail for 20,000 minutes of free internet!),  and we actually called people  on their land lines to book shows. If you wanted our merch, you had to write what you wanted on a piece of paper and mail it to us with a check. We got “fan mail”. We recorded our first EP to ADAT and then released it on cassette. We had a glossy promo pic in which I had a goatee. We thought Jinco’s were cool (though I could never afford them) and we all had chain wallets.

For this tour, I was the only who didn’t have an iPhone and we used GPS to get to shows. We don’t even have a webpage anymore. I booked the shows using texts and emails. We released the new record online only. Skinny jeans are cool. Times have changed.

15. It never was perfect, and nothing ever will be.

16. I’ve been extremely blessed to get to do this for so long.

17. I got to do what I dreamed of doing as a kid.

18. It was nothing like I thought it would be.

19. I feel like music is something I’m really good at and I feel frustrated that I can’t make a living doing it.

20. Something about riding in a van all day makes me tired no matter how much rest I’ve had.

21. The food I bring with me in order to save money is never as appetizing as the food that everyone else is eating from a restaurant.

22. I never need everything I pack—especially books. Every time, I bring three or four books. I end up having time to read three or four chapters. I never did learn that lesson.

23. I’ll probably never know what it’s like to have someone else set up my stuff and not walk out on stage until the house music stops and the lights go out. I’m okay with that, but, man, wouldn’t that be cool?

24. I miss playing drums a whole, whole lot.

25. I will never stop coming up with new song ideas even if there is no way to see them come to fruition. It’s just a part of who I am.

In all seriousness, I did finish The Killer Angels that day. I was fighting back tears as I read the epilogue detailing what each of the generals went on to accomplish—if they lived on. I could not get my mind out of the book even when the lunch rush came and the book was finished. I really did feel like I was bracing for battle. I just wanted peace to process this huge part of our country’s history, but I was bombarded with bankers wanting soup and a half sandwich.

It hit me then how trivial my job is; how trivial cups of coffee and pastries are. Everyday somewhere people are fighting and dying and everyday someone gets upset with me because we’re all out of orange croissants.

I’ve prayed and I’ve asked God what it all means? Not just that day. Many days.  Why are some jobs so important and others aren’t. Why do some people get paid for things they are passionate about while others get paid hardly anything for doing a hard job so they can afford to do the thing they are passionate about? Why do some people’s lives consist of survival and others’ consist of achieving a greater level of comfort? Where do I actually fall in that spectrum?

And His answer?  I think it goes something like this: “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.”  I don’t think God cares as much about our vocation as we do. Some of us will be generals, some of us will be slaves, and some of us will serve coffee and pastries. Whatever our lot in life, the best thing we can do is serve as if we are serving the Lord and not men. If we can help improve someone else’s lot in life, I think we should.
 
Does that mean we go to war for them?
I really don’t know.
Our war is not against flesh and blood, right?

All I do know is that it’s hard enough for me to abide in Christ without solving someone else’s problems. A man can’t bear to wait two minutes for his skinny latte. I can’t bear to be torn away from my book. Somewhere people are being killed for something they believe in. Somewhere else people are dying for something their nation’s leaders believe in. It’s so hard for us to see beyond our limited perspective. At the end of the day, if I can think about Jesus and how Jesus would treat you while I’m serving you your pastry, I see that as a victory. That’s more powerful than the Union battery.
 
When I’m out of my current situation and God has moved Brandy and I onto the next thing, we’ll be able to see more of God’s hand in all of this. Just like we understand wars better twenty years, or a hundred and fifty years after they were fought.  I’m learning.

How did I get from a road trip, to a novel, to a coffee shop, to the pondering of life’s deepest questions? Well, I think everything is always pointing that way to begin with. Rather, everything is always pointing to the answer of life’s deepest questions. The Way, the Truth, and the Life. The Answer. The Reason. The End.

In that two to two and a half hour lull (hereafter referred to as “The Lull”) at Petite, it gets boring. So, I started bringing books to work. I realize that this probably isn’t the most professional thing to do, but hardly anyone at all comes during The Lull. I have found if I stand behind the counter with my book on top of the cash register, I can see when a customer is approaching and it gives me enough time to put the book away before they get to the counter. To them, it just looks like I’m doing something important on the cash register.

I read most of The Killer Angels at home, but the last few chapters were read at Provence in the aforementioned Lull. I got down to the point that I only had two chapters left in the book. It was the night before the final showdown at Gettysburg.
I had disciplined myself to not venture to Wikipedia to find out what happened on that last day of battle. I wanted the story to unfold before me from the perspectives of Generals Lee, Longstreet, and Chamberlain. So, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew who “won”, but I knew no details. And by this point, I was very attached to the Generals on both sides of the field. This is not to say that I supported their causes (namely slavery), but as human beings, I had grown attached to them.

It’s probably important for you to know that I am the sort of person who gets lost in a book and lives vicariously through the protagonist. It started early on for me when I read The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. I also do the same thing with movies. This is not a voluntary exercise on my part but rather how I am wired.  I come out of a movie feeling exhilarated or depressed depending on the sort of movie I saw. For this very reason I saw each of the Lord of the Rings movies by myself in the theater because I knew I would be in no state to have conversations about where to eat after living in Middle Earth for three hours.

I was no different while I was reading The Killer Angels, which got confusing emotionally since the protagonist was constantly changing. One minute I’m General Longstreet, the next I’m shooting at General Longstreet. All the while, I’m not down with slavery. Confusing.

So, it came down to my last day of The Killer Angels and the last day of the battle. I could sense the end was near. Neither side could hold out much longer. Losses on both sides were great, and the soldiers were weary. Some of the men had marched all night, fought all day, and were preparing to fight again. Weary. Disheartened. No, this battle wouldn’t last much longer. Plus, there weren’t many pages left.

I had resisted the urge to finish the book at home the night before. I was saving it for The Lull.  The Battle of the Lull will live on in my memory for years to come. As the weary Union braced to repel one final attack atop Little Round Top and the Confederate soldiers lined up to race across Cemetery Ridge in waves, I stood my ground behind the cash register, ready for any banker or underwriter who may need coffee at 10:30 in the morning.

The Union cannons were lined up with what little ammunition was left, the wounded far behind the lines. The overly formal ,”Good luck out there” had been exchanged among the Generals, knowing that it may be the last time they spoke to one another in this life. I had two extra pots of coffee brewed for an unforeseen rush. All was in place.

As the first wave of Confederates filed out across the field, not yet in sight of the Union battery, I could see the enemy in the distance—ascending the escalator.  I sized my foe up quickly. Woman, late thirties, business casual.  This is no stranger from off the street who happened upon Petite Provence. She works here. In this building. She is highly trained and has done this many times before.

You can always tell a vet by the way they carry themselves. Confident, head high but not too high, slow, even pace toward the register. She did not look at the menu on the wall or survey the pastry case—she knew exactly what she had come for. My guess was coffee. I braced myself, typing in the manager code and arming the register for whatever transaction was necessary.

As the gap between the businesswoman and me closed, she gazed straight at me and gave me a knowing smile, as if to say, “Bring it on, barista.” There was only one question now—What size of coffee was she going to order?

My guess was a small. She was rather petite herself, and plus it was already 10:30am. This only needed to get her through to lunch when she could get reinforcement.

“Hey there.” (That’s almost always how I greet them.)

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.”  (Alright, missy, let’s keep this short and to the point.)

“Pretty slow this morning?” (Was she taunting me? Did she really just say that? She thinks I’m inexperienced. Calm down, Nicks. Don’t let her get the best of you. Stay focused. )

“Well, we had a rush about an hour ago, but I’ve kind of hit a lull now.”  (I can’t hide the fact that there are no other customers, but I’ve got to let her know that I’m experienced. This is not my first transaction. Enough small talk. Let’s do this.)

“What can I get for you?”

“I’m just going to get a small coffee…”
(I knew it! My finger was already on the button. Bam!)
“…and I’ll also get a blueberry muffin.”

(I was blindsided. I didn’t see the muffin coming. Why wasn’t I ready for that? Oldest trick in the book. She didn’t need to look in the pastry case because she’s a regular. She already knew what pastry she wanted. She does not care about spoiling her appetite. She’s going straight for the muffin. A muffin! Coffee I can handle because it’s self-serve. I don’t even have to hand her the cup. But for a muffin, I’ve got to get tongs, open the pastry case, tong the muffin, and then get it into an itty-bitty bag without touching the muffin. If there were another customer behind her, this could slow me down enough that I wouldn’t have time to finish my book before the lunch rush. These seemingly small events are what win or lose the battle. Not only the battle—the WHOLE WAR!)

“Anything else? “

“Nope that’s it.”

She paid me and then retreated back to her office. She had fought bravely, but she was unable to get through my dense line of coffee and pastries. I knew she would be back, though. Maybe next shift. Maybe next week. Who knows, next time she may try to flank me with some complicated latte order. For now I would regroup and see to my pastries. I had to make sure they were ready for the imminent next wave.

And so began the Battle of the Lull.

TO BE CONTINUED

If you don’t know, I work at a café called Provence in Nashville. (Pronounced /pro-vonce/) It’s a French café that serves really good bread, pastries and food.  And, of course, we have really good Intelligentsia coffee.  If you’re in the area, you should check it out. The one in Hillsboro Village is the best—plus, I may be the one plating your food or making your drink. (Or washing your dishes.)

I worked a full-time job at the print shop of an insurance company for over a year. It was really a blessing for a time. It was pretty good pay and really good benefits. It’s just what Brandy and I needed then, but I had no time to play music or tour.  I started to lose myself, and I felt like I was living for a job that I had no passion for.  Maybe you’ve been there?

In March of 2010, we decided to step out in faith and try music again. The plan was to tour as much as I could and get a part time job to supplement my income. That’s how I ended up at Provence. It has been good for the most part. I don’t get paid much and I don’t have benefits, but I do get a lot of free bread and pastries and my boss is amazing about letting me off for shows. Now we don’t trust in my paychecks and benefits. We pray a lot more for provision, and I think that’s good—to remember where it’s really coming from.

A few months ago when I got to work I discovered that the store I was working at was being closed in two days. Bummer. I really liked working at that store and I was comfortable there. I’m a creature of habit and I don’t necessarily adapt to change all that well. Ironically enough, I’ve always enjoyed touring, which consists of constant change and no routine whatsoever. But that’s not what we were talking about was it?

My store closed. So, they moved me to the main Provence in Hillsboro Village. It’s a lot busier and the clientele and co-workers are not nearly as friendly. To be honest, I’m still not quite adjusted to it yet but it’s fine. The problem is that I’m not getting many hours there.
 
Since I’ve been recording the new record [if you don’t know, I’ve been recording a new record], I haven’t been playing any. That means my only income has been Provence. It’s getting tight financially, so I asked my boss for more hours. He has started giving me some hours at yet another location.
 
This location is called Petite Provence because it’s little. It’s in a nook on the first floor of an office building downtown. Our only customers are people who work in or around the building. I usually have a big rush of people wanting coffee in the morning and then a big lunch rush. Other than that it’s pretty slow. I work by myself and I usually have a lot of down time from 9-11:30am.

So, what does this have to do with The Civil War??? Well, I’ll tell you…later.

TO BE CONTINUED

I recently finished one of the best books I’ve ever read. It’s called The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara.  I know it sounds strange if you don’t know what it is, so I’ll tell you. It’s a historical novel about the Battle of Gettysburg. Now it just sounds boring or a bit dorky, right? What if I told you that it won the Pulitzer Prize? Shaara spent seven years writing the book and studying not just the facts of the battle, but also the lives of the men themselves.

Whether you’re interested in history and war or not, The Killer Angels is a compelling read because it is so human. Shaara highlights the internal struggles of a man at war—especially a war that is in essence being fought over foreign slaves.  He also draws emphasis to the small, seemingly arbitrary details that lead to winning or losing a battle. I am a slow reader in general, but I think I read this book faster than any other book I’ve ever read. Not so much because it was easy to read but because I read it non-stop.

My good friend John Schofield turned me onto the book. You may know John because of his formidable bass prowess with the band The Myriad. He came all the way from Seattle to Tennessee to visit me last summer and his only request was that we visit some Civil War battlefields.

I have to admit that I have completely taken for granted the history that is all around me. I think I went to a couple Civil War battlefields with the family when I was smaller, but I didn’t care about it (except when they were firing cannons.) We played in Gettysburg a couple of times and it didn’t even occur to me to go check out the battlefield. It wouldn’t have meant much then.

Now that I’m older, I wish I had paid more attention in history class and taken advantage of all the amazing things that are within driving distance from my home. [I’ll be moving away soon—but I’ll leave that tale for another Tumbl.] Now I am interested in learning about these things, but I find I have so little time to learn it on my own. Again—slow reader.

John’s zeal for history is contagious. I joined him in the quest for experiential knowledge. We literally drove the width of TN in search of waterfalls, battlefields, and a Mastodon show. (That was historical in itself. Baroness + Mastodon + two wussy dudes who get stoked on well-executed metal = geekfest) We managed to make it to Stones River Battlefield and to Shiloh Battlefield. Both were amazing experiences.

Brandy joined us at Stones River because it’s only about 45 minutes away and she didn’t have to take off work. Together the three of us read the graves at Hell’s Half Acre, had a picnic, and frolicked in the treeline, where men fought and died, running from mosquitoes and shouting what we imagined the Rebel Yell probably sounded like. 

Shiloh was a long drive almost to Mississippi. John and I listened to sermons and had deep conversations. I’m glad we went to Stones River first because while it was pretty interesting, Shiloh was massive—and impressive. There were monuments and cannons everywhere.

John and I walked in the hot sun, seeing sight after sight of what is left of one of the bloodiest battles the world, and certainly America, has ever seen. John could see it all in his head. He would take me up on a hill and show me where the Union would have been and where they were coming from. I learned so much that day. It was really moving and inspiring. John’s knowledge and passion for the subject sparked something in me.

I was hooked. I wanted to learn more. I wanted to know what all these men fought for and why they died. I wanted to know more than the basics that I knew in fourth grade. John bought me a copy of The Killer Angels in the battlefield souvenir shop. I’m so glad he did.

TO BE CONTINUED

Yesterday, Brandy and I had our first free Saturday in about two months, so we had a coffee shop date. That’s one of our favorite things to do together. We go get cozy somewhere, sip coffee, talk, and read. Yesterday was especially nice because we had a huge block of time and we were in no rush. We both read our Bibles and talked about how weird and cryptic parts of the Old Testament are. She crocheted for a while and I edited some music on my computer. 

I had headphones on and I was staring at my computer screen, so I was mostly oblivious to what was going on around me. Occasionally I looked up and I noticed a guy setting up a mixer and some monitors. Later I saw stools in the corner and then guitar cases. When my computer finally died, I took my headphones off and closed my computer to discover a girl playing guitar and singing in the corner. Her voice was almost swallowed up by the murmur of twenty different conversations and the hum of espresso being ground and milk steamed.

I leaned over to Brandy and said, “Is she really playing or is this just a sound check?” 
“She’s really playing. She told everyone hi and thanks before she started.”

At this point I pulled out my huge T.S. Elliott book and began to read almost-hunder-year-old poetry. I know, it’s pretty cliche; sitting at a coffee shop reading poetry while someone sits on a stool playing guitar and singing in the corner. But that’s what happened.

At first I found my self slightly annoyed at the distraction of a human being playing music just a few feet away. I just wanted some quiet so I could try to understand what Mr. Elliott was communicating, but every few stanzas I would find myself looking around. From what I could tell no one was there to hear this girl and no one seemed to be paying much attention. Brandy and I were sitting facing her, so I tried to look up and make eye contact with her occasionally as if to say, “I’m aware that you’re here and I’m listening.” We made sure to clap after every song and at least gave her our attention between songs when we knew she was looking up. We felt sorry for her.

At some point, I began to actually listen and take in the situation. I realized that she wasn’t there to be background noise for our conversation or a soundtrack to my book. It wasn’t just a weekend job because she wasn’t getting paid at all. She was playing her own songs that she had poured herself into. She spent as much time working on these songs as I spend on mine and they are every bit as important to her. And you know what? She was pretty good.

These weren’t pop songs that she was trying to sell or license to some one hour drama. These were songs born from her experience. Songs sparked by the hope that they could do for someone else what a song had once done for her. She just wanted to be heard. To be honest there was nothing about her or her music that was very different from any other girl strumming a guitar in a coffee shop, but I respected her for doing it. I realized that I know exactly what that’s like—to sit by yourself and play songs that come from the deepest parts of your heart to a room full (or half-full in some cases) of people who may or may not care at all.

No one who is passionate enough to write a song and vulnerable enough to share it deserves to be background noise.

When Brandon, Jason, and I were recording “Demo Schmemo” just a few months after Cool Hand Luke began, I remember having a conversation in the studio about who would get married first. We all immediately said, “Brandon!” He was a hopeless romantic, plus he was the only one of us who had a girlfriend. I was to be second, followed by Jason, who was only 17 at the time.

We couldn’t have been more wrong. Jason got married in 2004 (before I had even had a real girlfriend).  I was married a little over two years ago, the day before I turned thirty. Finally, Brandon was married last Saturday.

Our predictions about the timing of our weddings were all wrong, but we all got hitched sooner or later. One prediction that Jason used to always have did turn out right, though: “Our wives are going to be hot.”

When “Wake Up, O Sleeper” was released, the label got some CHL travel mugs with “Wake Up, O Sleeper” printed on the side as promotion. Wake up—get it? Yeah, pretty clever. We bought some to sell on the road. By the way, if you’re in a band and you’re looking for a new merch idea, don’t get travel mugs. Not only are they expensive, but they also take up a ton of room in your van. Plus, no one buys them and you lug them around for a year.

Anyway, our friend Kristen bought one (probably out of pity) at a festival, but she forgot to actually take it with her. She was going to be in Orlando a few weeks later, so we decided to leave the mug with a friend while we were touring down there. Brandon and I decided that we shouldn’t just leave the mug with a friend—we should bury it. But the more we talked about it, we couldn’t just bury it. We had to bury lots of things and include clues that led her to the mug.

The adventure started with directions to our friend Jeremiah’s apartment. Jeremiah then gave Kristen directions to the first burial location. When she found the spot, she had to dig where she discovered a “prize” and directions to the next location. She went from place to place digging up buried treasure until she got her travel mug. The prizes included a clock radio, a skateboard, a crow puppet, and of course, the mug.

The journey led Kristen to a cemetery, a parking lot on Full Sail’s campus (where Brandon and I got busted burying the skateboard), the base of a billboard that read, “Call before you dig—it’s the law”, and finally back to the apartment where she started. Cool, huh?

Months later when we were on tour in FL again, Kristen returned the favor with a scavenger hunt that started with us digging up pirate hats that we had to wear for the rest of the journey. It ended behind a Steak-N-Shake where we dug up coupons for free milkshakes. There was a note inside that read, “Gitchya some shakes.”