Dustin and my friends in Harrisonburg respected me as a songwriter. I followed Dustin to Nashville, under the pretense of recording my music in a friend’s studio. We had made serious headway on a couple of songs, but Dustin moved back to Virginia. I tried recording with my new friends in the Nashville crowd, but I couldn’t make much progress.

1996 was a year of great upheaval in my life. Before I moved to Nashville, I spent a week there to find an apartment. My time was not managed well. I smoked too much pot. I kept fucking with the mini-blinds.

Living in the little crud hole in East Nashville for five years, I wrote a lot of songs. The discipline to learn and perform the songs was elusive, unfortunately. My friend Clay—who grew up with a father in the music business—had to sit through my horrible renditions of songs that I thought were pretty cool compositions.

There were no pretentions of getting discovered and getting a recording contract. In fact, the inner punk hated the thought. I wanted to circumvent the music industry—to make a name for myself by making my own cassettes and relying on college radio for promotion.

Clay had told me several times that he didn’t want to record my music, but I kept trying to push the idea. I never got over Dustin leaving. Too much time was wasted in Clay’s family studio. I was never prepared, assuming that the magic of the studio would make everything come out groovy and happening.

One time at a social get together, my friend Tony played a song he had written. When he was done, Clay said that it sounded commercial. I was waiting for Tony to punch him in the face. Apparently, that’s not an insult in Music City.

Here is some of my music: Cinder Harvest.