It's been nearly a year since I last sat down to write one of these all-encompassing journals, and as you can see, much has changed. My web presence has changed, my home address has changed, the country has changed. But in my own self-absorbed universe, perhaps the biggest change is this: It used to be that I had no immediate outlet for my literary aspirations. Now, with the creation of bryanbellerdotcom, the only obstacle to releasing my every literary whim upon the public is trying to figure out where on this byzantine website to post it. Yes, things have changed…and so for the better.

Let's start with the website. Most Keneally.com'ers have paid a visit or two, and for that I humbly thank the longtime faithful. But now the URL is appearing in the byline of my column in Bass Player, and lots of new folks—many of whom have never heard Keneally's music—are stopping by. I'm not sure if this is impressive or not, but I'm going to tell you anyway: last month bryanbellerdotcom got just under 100,000 hits, and 5,500 unique visits. Not bad for a site that only got to the top of the "bryan+beller" Google search page last month. For those reading along, whether or not you've dropped me a line, you may now picture a text bubble that says "thanks, kind folks" next to my picture on the front page. How thrilling for all of us.

As you can imagine, writing the text for this ridiculously large site sapped my literary strength for a while. Thus the magic of the Screed Du Jour; I can fire off short bursts without feeling the burden of the dreaded long form. I actually got hooked on the cuteness of it, and wondered if I'd ever write something in this format again. After all, I was throwing all the material I'd use for the LOB into the Screed anyway. Then came the trip to Frankfurt, followed by the Taylor clinic tour with Keneally…and the subsequent death of my laptop. So, four months later—and summarily chastened by my addiction to cheap little Screeds—I return to you, ye olde faithful LOB format, and bathe in your luxurious, expansive landscape.

The Webmistress I Mentioned…

This may not be so unusual in the digital age we now live in, but it was disconcerting to me nonetheless: the entirety of bryanbellerdotcom was constructed by myself and a young lady that, as of two months ago, I'd never met. This situation was happily rectified in late February, when she came out to L.A. for a visit and preview of her hometown-to-be (as of June). Then, a short three weeks later, I saw her again when she hopped in the car and drove three hours to see our Taylor clinic in Tulsa. Can one man handle such exquisite privilege?

I couldn't have found a better partner in the venture that is this website. During the initial construction, I'd always had in my head the deadline of 12/31/01. When the beginning of December rolled around and we were maybe 65% done—after five months of work—it wasn't because of her. It was due to my travels with Keneally and other work-related distractions. Few people have witnessed me at my most obsessive-compulsive, as I tend to shut out the world and pull 19-20 hour days to accomplish whatever goal my deadline-crazed mind is set to reaching. I did it when I wrote the novel, I did it when preparing the debut of the SWR Mo' Bass for the 2000 NAMM show, and I ended up doing it with this site. This girl kept pace with me every step of the way. We're talking waking up at 8:00 AM every day over the Christmas holiday weekend, exchanging a "good morning" e-mail, and firing files back and forth until midnight, with short breaks for food intake and power naps…for days on end. She was incredible. The more I think about it, the more in awe of her I am. The most common response I get on the site is, "How did you ever compile so much material? It's just huge!" It never would have happened if it wasn't for her bottomless capacity for quality work. I've praised her before; consider this the official version.

Business Before Pleasure

This trip I just took seemed like a surefire recipe for a mental flameout. Fly from L.A. to Frankfurt, Germany, do a week-long stint at the biggest M.I. industry trade show in the world, then fly directly to Dallas, TX for a two-week all-driving Taylor clinic tour through the upper and lower Midwest, with a payoff drive back to L.A. from Omaha, Nebraska. I'm delighted to tell you that I returned home with the least amount of road-rash of any such venture abroad. As you may know from reading the Screed Du Jour, SWR won two M.I.P.A. awards (the equivalent to a worldwide industry Grammy) at this year's Frankfurt MusikMesse: one for Best Bass Cab, and another for Best Bass Amp: the Mo' Bass. That really meant a lot to me, as that thing occupied most of my life in 2000 and was an intense labor of love for all involved. Oh, let's just see that picture again, shall we?

SWR President/CEO Daryl Jamison thanks the academy, while I model a worn pair of jeans.

I also managed to steal a musical moment with drummer and fellow Keneally band member Nick D'Virgilio. We put on an impromptu bass-and-drums-only show of NDV and Keneally tunes (Nick's "The River Is Wide"; Keneally's "Show Yourself", "Naked Horse" and "The Knife and Drum") for about 100 screaming Nick fanatics in a small hall at the Messe. They didn't know who the hell I was—and very few of them had even heard of Keneally, for that matter—but Nick was The God of Spock's Beard, and they treated him accordingly. It was fun to watch, but not nearly as much fun as stumbling across this larger-than-life-sized glossy poster of Nick on the Messe show floor at the Meinl Cymbals booth. I mean, after seeing this sexy shot, I think even I want his a-aa-a-aaa-aaa-a-aassssss in my hot little hands. Just look at those pouting lips and tell me you don't agree. (Nick's wife, Tiffany, will probably have a tart retort for me in short order.)

Who's your daddy? In Europe, Nick D'Virgilio is.

And for those of you who think that all of Europe is a charming, old-world vista of quaint sights and sounds, here's what the area surrounding the Messe—and our hotel—looked like. I've always thought of Frankfurt as Europe's equivalent to downtown Houston, a dreary business city perennially under construction. Now you see why.

After completing my 20-hour travel itinerary from Frankfurt to Washington, D.C. to Dallas (you haven't lived until you've gone through security on an international flight arriving in D.C.'s Dulles Airport), I happily joined up with the Keneally Touring Entourage, Jr. It would be just Mike, myself, and Tour Manager Hillary Manning for the duration. Exowax CEO Scott Chatfield was there in Dallas, but unhappily left for home to tend to business shortly thereafter. He missed out on the most mellow tour I've ever done. The people were great, the routing wasn't unduly punitive, and Keneally and I kept the musical watermark high enough to feel pretty damned good about ourselves. I even felt satisfied (read: I didn't suck) about a solo piece I did in most locations, a cover of John Patitucci's "Backwoods." As for Mike, he continues to amaze me more with each passing year. A lucky boy am I.

Hillary Manning, me, Keneally—or, as we referred to each other, Momma, Daddy and Poppa. Any family that poses together at a La Quinta Inn must be happy.

Hillary was amazing. Nothing shakes this independent, urbanite woman from Pasadena. She's cool under any kind of pressure. Everything was handled spendidly. Hell, in Louisville, Kentucky, after we checked into what was by far the scummiest hotel of the whole tour (the Economy Inn on Bardstown Road; avoid it at all costs), she even got my clothes out of the dryer and folded them neatly in a pile. I'd like to see Ozzy's tour manager pull that off.

 
Momma Manning does Daddy's drawers.

I can't leave Louisville behind without mentioning that the reason we ended up in that shithole hotel was because both a truck show and a Kid Rock concert was happening in town that weekend. Keneally alumnus Tricia Steel, a Louisville native, was the beneficiary of an abusive cell phone call from yours truly, during which I said that "her shit-kicking relatives" and their taste for monster trucks and white-trash music were the cause of our horrid accommodations. I'm not sure her father—a preacher, mind you—would have appreciated that, so I'm fessing up in public. I think she knew I was kidding.

Let's blaze through four more shots and then move on. First, we have the refreshments available in the back office at Tulsa House of Guitars, where sole proprietor Bob (not pictured; deities don't show up on camera) redefines the concept of "master of his domain."

Beer before liquor before beer before…

On the way to Milwaukee, through frigid conditions and a driving snowstorm, I wondered how it was that some of the country's nicest people lived in such unbearable conditions. It had been quite a while since I'd been out in put-your-head-down-and-run-from-the-car-to-the-hotel-room cold, but Mequon, Wisconsin reminded me what it felt like. Uh, what are you people thinking?

My face hurts. Let me in.

A hastily-arranged radio interview saw us land at the headquarters of hard rock station 97x in Davenport, Iowa. Nice guys, good interview. But what got my attention was the schedule board in the control room that said MANDATORY METALLICA—10:00. Every night at 10:00 sharp, they did a three-song Metallica rock block. Every night. Could I choose the tunes tonight, I asked? They said yes, and I pushed the limits of radio programming by picking Master Of Puppets' "Disposable Heroes" (8:14), And Justice For All's "The Frayed Ends Of Sanity" (7:40), and a shorter, newer tune from Re-Load called "Bad Seed." That night at 10:00, while we were eating, I ran out to the car to check and see if they'd adhered to my wishes. To their credit, they did start off with "The Frayed Ends Of Sanity," but then they played…"Sad But True"?! My purist's heart broken, I turned off the radio for the evening.

Something tells me that Mike Keneally has never been to a Metallica concert.

For most of the tour, Hillary, Mike and I watched over each other to make sure we didn't slide headlong into the abyss of road food. Having made it through most of the tour with culinary respect for ourselves in the morning, we indulged at a T.G.I. Friday's in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Then again, in Cedar Rapids, this is probably as close to living on the edge as one can get.

Friday's calls this the Ultimate Mudslide. Perfect for double dates and acoustic duos.

All in all, a great trip filled with great people. If you were there, I'm talking about you. Thanks, thanks, thanks.

The Return Of Brad Dahl

Longtime Life Of Bryan devotees know the legend of Brad Dahl, but some may need a refresher course. He mans the phones at a Poison Control Center in a state that shall remain nameless, and while at work, he comes across the most fascinating people. Dahl's stated mission is anti-Darwinist by nature in that he's actually slowing down the process of natural selection by "keeping the weak and stupid alive" for at least one more day. How does he do it? In his own words, I give to you once again, the one and only Brad Dahl:

(the following took place over a period of 24 hours)

* * * * *

This guy calls saying he went to Taco Bell last night, got a chicken burrito (yum), took it home, sat in bed and took a bite.  It didn't taste good, so he put it under his bed and went to sleep.  He woke up this morning (great blues lyric happening here), pulled out the burrito and ate the whole thing.  He says that it still did not taste good, but he was hungry, so he ate it anyway.

He now feels sick. Me too.

Another call about Taco Bell. This one had nothing to do with the food though (other than the attraction it has to a certain aspect of the population).  This woman woke up this morning with a hankering for a Chalupa, got to Taco Bell and realized she hadn't had her daily heroin fix, so she shoots a load of smack in the parking lot, goes inside and while standing there deciding whether it will be the Chalupa Santa Fe or the Chalupa Supreme, she face plants on the floor.

They call 911, an ambulance picks her up and brings her to the hospital (with a police escort; apparently eating pseudo-Mexican take out food while under the influence is against the law here) where they give her the antidote for heroin OD.  She wakes up and is really pissed off because she didn't get her Chalupa.  In the meantime, the police are making her reservation at the Gray Bar Hotel.

She got the "Go to Jail, do not pass Go, do not get a Chalupa" Card.

I just got a call about one of my other annual favorites, the kid who finds the Easter Egg that no one else found and eats it, after it has been sitting out for almost a week.

OK, they just keep coming today. A 29-year-old woman put a tube of Superglue in the pocket of her jeans.  It leaked.  Now her pants are glued to her thigh and she can't get them off.  This gives me a great idea if I ever have a teenage daughter.

On a related note:  A woman had spilled some Superglue on her desk at work and accidentally put her hand on it.  It was quitting time and she was stuck to her desk.  Playing the part of McGuyver, her boss got a saw and cut the corner of the desk, where her hand was stuck, off.  She went home with that piece of desk stuck to her hand.

Now please explain to me why everything I have ever glued with Superglue comes apart immediately!

* * * * *

Brad, we missed you.

A Happy, Happy Wrap-Up

Often in the past I had some kind of deep, philosophical message that accompanied my scribblings here. Maybe misery makes for better writing, maybe not, but all I know is that I'm happier than I've been in years. The column in Bass Player continues to bring me great creative joy and new readers every month. Working with Keneally is a dream, and the Quartet is due to enter the studio soon to officially memorialize the magic that occurred on last year's tour. We've also got some local gigs coming up, and they’re listed over at the Coming Attractions. Life at SWR, to paraphrase Joe Walsh, has been good to me so far. (The only thing that's got me down right now is the madness in the Middle East, and while I plan on saving those thoughts for a separate political piece, I can say that the people with whom I agree on this issue has got me a little worried. But like I said, that's for another time.)

Most of all, this beautiful, gorgeous, pristine mountain setting in which I live has changed my life so completely it's difficult to relate in words. I'm very fortunate at this point in my life, and for now, that will have to do in the philosophy department. Maybe this picture, taken by my friend Wes Wehmiller just a mile from my home office window, will say the thousand words I think of every time I come home.

Counting my blessings,

Bryan Beller

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