Let’s get one thing straight before we begin: I have no idea where this is going. The tires are already screeching and every single word I hear has a question mark dangling from it. Where are you going, where have you been? How do you make money? What is this? What is your plan? The skeptics are already sipping hard seltzer from lawn chairs and working on their favorite “I told you so” line. Annoying, yes, but this isn’t for them, it’s for you. Something’s always going to be chasing us, might as well get in the moment and run.
There’s roughly 1,000 of you who signed up to receive this inaugural launch of what we’re calling Fresh Hell — because that’s really what it’ll be, a monthly dip into the periphery, something you won’t be getting anywhere else because every month we’re going to re-shake the bottle until it pops and then send it to you. There will be surf commentary and we’ll eventually make more surf videos, profile people, throw parties and premiere surfs vids, but for now, we’re letting it rip every month with something to read, watch, consider, cook, drink, listen to and think about. Hopefully it makes your surf existence more enriched. And judging by my correspondances with some of you, you already get it. You are those mad ones Ti Jean mentioned in On the Road. The spiders exploding across the sky ones. Never saying commonplace things, etc. The ones who are undeterred by the sterile, pander-happy, easy-route, gossipy, hum-drum dry cereal algorithm that makes its way into our lives disguised as good content. Undeterred but pissed! We’re hoping to be the toy in the stale cereal.
I recently caught a glimpse of a garage in San Clemente, California. Inside were all of life’s luxuries: Teslas, electric bikes, golf carts, unbreakable plastic surfboards, unbreakable soft surfboards and every single gadget one could imagine to make life and surfing easier. Safer. Smoother. Numbed of all experience. It made me want to jump in their dryer like Greg Browning in Focus and do a human spin cycle just to save them from their own predictability. Seeing this perfect garage made me sad because they’re trying to live life entirely without bummers. Without hiccups. They’re trying to get rid of the friction that makes for the unthinkable. Quit trying to be perfect! Perfect already happened in 1992 when Tom Curren rode this wave at J Bay and it had nothing to do with what his watch said his heart rate was. Let’s remember to feel. Anyway, I’m sure this garage has the warmest water rinse kit they make, the wetties are always dry, and the floor has never seen a single nurdle or grain of sand, but I’m hoping they aren’t missing the point of this surfin’ boogaloo altogether. Take the easy route when ordering pizza, but enjoy the whole ride in your surf life. That's what we'll do here: Jam our sandy toes into our shoes every morning, drop in and see what happens next. —Travis Ferré
There’s much lamenting over cooking for one. It’s boring. What’s the point in all the effort? We’ve all heard the negatives, told them to ourselves. But these days, it’s what we’ve got. Cooking at home, sometimes alone, is the hand that’s been dealt. So maybe we need to skip the sadness for a short while and make the most of it.
Think of the positives, OK? You can eat whatever the hell you want — no one to tell you what to eat, no one to make you eat your vegetables (um, you should), no partners or roommates to make a food compromise with. You can drink whatever you want, as much as you want. Maybe light a candle, put on some Django Reinehardt. You can even cook naked (not recommended, grease splatter, etc). At its best cooking and eating is a distraction, a reprieve from this rollercoaster world. Set a little mood and get to it.
As much as cooking for yourself is getting your mind right, this cooking for yourself thing, as far as the actual food goes, can go one of three ways: short and simple, long and grinding, or a sweet middle ground.
SHORT & SIMPLE:
You’ve got no time and an empty stomach, so fill it well — have you tried a cheese crusted grilled cheese? If you can make it to the couch to eat it instead of over the stove, cheese dripping on the floor, you have more willpower than me.
LONG & GRINDING:
Made for the weekend or the unemployed, it’s hard to beat Thai cooking for its layers, ingredients, and, for a westerner like me, sheer opportunity to learn new flavors. It’s a meal, yes, but it’s also sort of an art project, so approach it as such. Try one of these from Benjamin Cooper/Chin Chin Melbourne, and make sure to have some lagers on hand to fuel your creativity.
SWEET MIDDLE GROUND:
Try risotto. It seems fancy, but it’s really just rice with whatever flavor you’re in the mood for. It’s super easy, super cheap to make, but requires constant attention for 30 minutes (no Instagram or pandemic thoughts equal a clearer head). I love the accessibility, ease, and full flavor of this roasted tomato risotto. Once you get the hang of it, you can freestyle with whatever’s in your fridge to invent your own. Treat yourself.
Joshua Tree National Park is nestled in the Mojave Desert of Southern California, a little over a hundred miles from Los Angeles on the Interstate 10 Highway headed east. It takes about two hours to get there on a weekday morning, after rush hour, when highways headed past the City of Industry to nowhere remain predominantly empty. As the California 62 Highway approaches in the distance, gargantuan white windmills that look like helicopter propellers lay scattered on the hillsides surrounding the roads. This is the wind farm of the San Gorgonio Pass, and the first indicator that the desert is nearby. Next come the Joshua trees. Binomial name Yucca brevifolia. Cartoon characters straight out of the mind of Theodor Seuss Geise. These spiky, tree-like organisms are everywhere, hence the name of the park, and synonymous with the image of the California desert. According to National Park Services, Mormon immigrants crossing the Colorado River named these silly guys “after the biblical figure, Joshua, seeing the limbs of the tree as outstretched in supplication, guiding the travelers westward.” Joshua trees remind me of those absurd inflatable tube dancers commonly seen at car dealerships, only frozen in ridiculous positions, arms raised in invitation to the wonders and magnificence of the Mojave.
And finally, the boulders. The otherworldly mounds of rocks so colossal they look as if they were purposely placed one on top of the other by mechanical cranes. The presence of these boulders is unbelievable, like a sight from another dimension, and yet there they are, a physical, tangible representation of the geological process of tectonic shifts in the Earth’s crust over millions of years.
(To geek out on some geology knowledge, watch the video.)
Still, despite its close proximity to the city, Joshua Tree National Park feels like another planet. And I don’t mean the topography. Not surprisingly, a lot of forests and deserts and natural escapes with waterfalls and hikes and trails are only a short drive away, no matter where you live. But we often find ourselves inhibited by practical realities of life, and driving to the desert on a whim can sound impractical, unfeasible, and unrealistic. The need for nature, the kind of nature you can get lost in, has never been stronger. If the pandemic has taught us anything it’s how to make better use of our time, and what better way to spend a day than a spontaneous trip to the desert.
A couple weeks ago, I did exactly that. Got in my car and drove to Joshua Tree National Park on a whim. The night before, it had snowed in the desert. As I scanned through my Instagram the next morning, gawking at photos of those silly looking Joshua trees covered in snow, beckoning and inviting me to the desert like iridescent ice sculptures, I knew I had to see them in real life. For myself. Not through a picture on a screen. Snow in the California desert is a paradox to our conditioned minds. Somehow the desert, though it is full of life, symbolizes the absence of it. To then see the absence of life buried beneath a blanket of white snow will take your breath away. There’s no equivalent to the desert in snowfall, the stillness it conjures despite the melting ice crystals falling from the sky. That day, I had no requirements to check emails or answer phone calls or any of those inhibitions from real life affecting my decision. My car had a full tank of gas. The weather app on my phone showed a bright yellow sun, meaning my chances of seeing snow on the ground were growing slimmer by the hour.
““The paradox of snow in the desert. I knew that the heat of the sun would melt the ice by the next day, and if I wanted to catch that rare, paradoxical glimpse, the time was now or never. I grabbed my camera and a water bottle and a joint for the road, and headed east. Two hours on the Interstate 10 Highway headed nowhere.””
By the time I drove past the white windmills, past those very first Joshua trees, their inflatable tube poses making me smile, I felt like I had already achieved a great accomplishment. The sky was a clear, freezing, pale blue, with the slightest hint of dusty rose bouncing off the desert earth. Snowcapped mountaintops welcomed me in the distance. I bought an annual pass at the gate to the park, insistent that I’d return again soon, knowing that even one trip back justified an extra $25.00 over the $30.00 single vehicle rate. I thought of the entrance fee as a concert ticket – remember concerts? – and the boulders as the headlining band. Snow covered the ground and sprinkled over the boulders and rocks and other desert plants like powdered sugar. The Joshua trees stood frozen in their poses with stripes of snow streaked down their inviting arms. In that moment, those silly cartoon characters were my best friends, and a reminder of the intense power of nature in the time of solitude.
Editor’s Note: CS Louis spent the majority of his life serving the Gods of core. He was an ex-pat in one of the most wave-rich realms in the world. Twice. He does nice things for his shaper. He doesn’t give you waves. He appreciates the subtle things that make surfing the ridiculous mess it is. His core score is always rising and he nearly always wears a hood. But, he has recently been relegated to an inland lifestyle. He wrote to us. —Travis
I’m sad and I just want to sand surfboards in between breaking them. I used to think that a lot whenever I was gloomy. Or bored. Or that the world had done me wrong. Now I think it daily. I think I am depressed. I am depressed. I placed a sun-kissed image of a beachie wedge I know intimately on my computer’s desktop a couple days ago. Better than a distorted Microsoft logo I thought. Better than being generic. Stand for something, etc. Maybe that will cheer me up I thought. The image now haunts me.
THE IMAGE:
I carry its wounds even when not partially obscured through an array of scattered icons. I am in the frame of the photo, but am now lost in it. That it is not my life anymore. And why and for what?
““Surely there was a handshake signaling a fair deal had occurred when I chose to leave the ocean. I’ll be gaining an amount equal to what I’m sacrificing, right?””
Experience. Education. Techniques beyond rote methods that a modern employer might value that can be parlayed into earning extra bucks and returning to the sea at my convenience. My memory fails me, lost in the fuzz of the daily mundane.
I’m sad and I just want to sand surfboards in between breaking them. And be cold. Like a kid before they knew wetsuits existed, smiling through blue-lip shivers. Cold like when the wind is fierce and you are submerged in ice water and cower as sand-laden gusts crash off the beach. Sharing a calm serene smirk with a mystified face tucked in a neighboring hood. When you’re not cold but freezing and keep paddling and duck diving and know you cannot stop or you will be required by sensibility to exit the water. On to land where you have a chance to warm up. But the wedges! The righteous wedges. A lottery of side waves converging at a single time and place and you maybe being there for the crescendo. And getting fucked and hitting the bottom and laughing and screaming and sucked into the rip near the rocks. Swimming hard to avoid actual danger.
And possibly breaking your board. Cause they’re brittle when it’s cold. No one talks about that. When the deck buckles or tail falls off the back completely. And then you get warm and fix them. First a coarse pass to roughen the edges and remove laitance. Create a surface the fiberglass can bond to mechanically. Mix it hot so it cures quickly and can be sanded again soon. The carcinogenic aromas. Another coarse pass to roughen the tack that forms when the laminating resin’s outer surface is retarded by oxygen. But rigidly cured below and awaiting the final matt of glass. Ideally one would use sanding resin here for its wax content to encapsulate the outer surface from oxygen so it may fully cure and not tack. And then you sand again, and it is satisfying — lawn mowing satisfying. Ditch digging cathartic. Thoughtless, focused, intense. A smooth surface is achieved by sequentially using finer paper. Say a flight 80-120-180-240 grits. Average sand particles per square inch is the unit of grit. Sanding beyond the functionally smooth is a superbly vain act. It’s dying for praise. While within you know the polished surface carries veiled flaws. Weaker than if you had stopped at 180. Weaker than if you had stopped when the surface began to blister. When your vanity compelled you to patch your patch from the burn thru. To be momentarily impressive to a passerby.
I just want to sand surfboards in between breaking them. I cannot imagine I decisively left the ocean and I miss it. I’ve purged many memories lately to survive and declare happiness. Mission accomplished. “I do not need the ocean, damnit!” I thought I’d yell. I felt that was necessary to prove at some point. Ascetic enlightenment. And now the perspective of hindsight. A fair accounting of my time without the sea. I’ve concealed my life’s most blissful moments and crawled into a cave and got fat and stressed. I’ll surely die younger for this folly. My hair is dull and dandruffed. Complexion dismal and dreary. I am a member of the general public. My worst fear. I freely traded my health for responsibility. And a façade of ambition. And this old picture taunts me. I miss warm land breezes at sunset grooming frigid wedges. And caring for little beyond the routine of breaking surfboards and sanding them.
NAME: Ian Crane | AGE: 27 | HOME: San Clemente, CA
PHOTO: Nate Lawrence
Ian Crane is patient. He’s spent nearly a decade in his own shadow. In Kolohe’s shadow. In San Clemente’ shadow. He’s always been there, right there, ripping, but for whatever nonsensical reason, his surfing hasn’t been given it’s due. But that all seems to be changing.
Last year Crane spent nearly 6 months in Indonesia working on a film project. He won Stab High. He’s able to take what he learns in the pools to the sea. He’s dominant at Lowers. He fucking hates the WSL. He’s a throwback to a time when our favorite pro surfers were fun, had good style and a vibe you want to be around and watch.
“He’s like a labrador,” says Kolohe Andino. “He gets invited on every trip now because everyone wants to be around him.” And I can’t imagine a better way of putting it. We had lunch with Ian and made him answer a silly questionnaire but it’s pretty funny and he deserves all the attention we can give him. He’s waited long enough.
Photo: Nate Lawrence
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Surfing with buddies.
What is your greatest fear?
Being in LA, and then having the earthquake, like the big one happens, the one they always talk about. I dread that I’m up there around all those humans and things and the big one hits. I always think about that every time I’m going to LAX. And I’ll be stuck in LA with all these people.
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
I hate that I’m getting upper shoulder and back hair.
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
I can’t stand when people are one-sided in everything and don’t listen or hear and just talk to hear themselves and don’t give a fuck about any other outlook.
Which living person do you most admire?
Mason Ho. 100 percent Mason Ho. He’s completely the coolest guy in the world. And actually, Michael Ho too. Mason and Mike.
Photo: Brandon Guilmette
What is your greatest extravagance?
Surfing. I’ll drop serious cash to go on a surf trip. I’ll spend my retirement to continue going on surf trips.
What is your current state of mind?
Frazzled. Completely mind blown and completely overwhelmed. I’ve been putting off every aspect of adulthood and it’s all coming down to one month and it’s right now. Car. House. Money. Travel. Bills. Contracts. Everything. And I just don’t know how to deal with it.
What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Self control. I think when people are out of control you get a more compelling outcome. Especially in surfing, art or music or anything cool that has expression and emotion.
On what occasion do you lie?
I lie to get out of situations that are uncomfortable.
What do you most dislike about your appearance?
I fucking hate my swollen toes. I can’t even wear shoes, these things are double the size right now.
Which living person do you most despise?
Eric Logan. I don’t know him but he’s a good person to blame for a lot.
What is the quality you most like in a man?
A deep voice.
What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Charming smile.
Ian with San Clemente from Crosby Colapinto, San Clemente, 2021. Photo: Brandon Guilmette
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Fuckin. And it’s worse than saying “like” after every word.
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Surfing.
When and where were you happiest?
Surfing. In Indo. On a boat. With my friends.
Which talent would you most like to have?
I wish I could write. That would be pretty cool. Because I can’t write. Or spell. Actually, I’d love to be able to storytell, I want to be a great storyteller. That would be sick.
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
My toes. At the moment, that’s my biggest problem.
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Maintaining a childhood dream.
If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?
Maybe a labrador. I think if you asked the labrador they’d say human.
Where would you most like to live?
I wouldn’t want to live in one place. I don’t really want to live here, but it’s a nice place to be based out of. I’m happy here when I’m able to travel, but if I lived here and didn’t travel I’d be pretty baffled.
What is your most treasured possession?
Ummmm….surfboards, but they’re always rotating, car...don’t care. I have a bunch of trinkets, but too many to care. I just have a bunch of crap and some surfboards.
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Locked up abroad. Doing something stupid in a foreign country and being locked up.
What is your favorite occupation?
Glass blower. That has to be the sickest thing ever.
What is your most marked characteristic?
That I’m always happy. People always say that. But I’m pretty volatile. I always bounce back to happy pretty quick, but I’m not that even-keeled really.
What do you most value in your friends?
I have friends that are like family, that’s valuable.
Who are your favorite writers?
What’s the guy who wrote The Rum Diary? Hunter S. Thompson. Makes me want to go to Puerto Rico. Do people really drink like that? So wild. J.K. Rowling too. But apparently her story is fake?
Photo: Nate Lawrence
Who is your hero of fiction?
Harry Potter is pretty cool.
Which historical figure do you most identify with?
I don’t know enough historical figures to know who I identify with.
Who are your heroes in real life?
It’s for sure pro surfers. Taj Burrow. Dane Reynolds. Michael Ho. Derek Ho. Barney. Guys who are doing fun stuff.
What are your favorite names?
I have a friend named Yasmine who’s really into this, I should have her answer this.
What is it that you most dislike?
Gentrification.
What is your greatest regret?
Blocking people out.
How would you like to die?
Comfortably.
What is your motto?
Have fun.
I work in a surf shop now. The biggest surf shop in New England apparently. Full of all the latest surf fashion from brands whose clothing I haven’t bought in years. Full of tantalizingly scented Sex Wax and new neoprene and shiny pearly white or resin-tinted boards, but mostly full of offensively bright-colored softies.
Thirty-years-old, married and here I am patiently explaining the difference between FCS and Futures fin systems with a dumb smile plastered on my face to a man who will never put them through a proper bottom turn anyway.
I didn’t always work in the surf shop, but now I feel like it’s the only thing I can do. Not for lack of qualification, education, or IQ. Ambition, maybe. Two years ago I was earning six figures as a Sales Director for a young hip online art auction company on the Lower East Side. I quit and they folded, good fucken riddance. Like seeing an ex-girlfriend who has let herself go after a couple of years and witnessing her once pretty face succumbed to that brutal bitch Time. I have either quit (unceremoniously) or been fired from pretty much every job I’ve ever held. My resume and professional references are mostly fiction anyway; I have a knack for burning bridges and letting things go that I find quite admirable.
So anyway, now I welcome customers with a friendly, warm greeting and ask if they’re looking for anything in particular. I put this rich high school kid’s leash on for him and waxed up his new $1,200 stick because he didn’t know how. I am here to make the fat man upstairs rich. Both the store owner and manager are grossly fat, if not obese. I’m told the owner used to surf back in his day, whenever that was. I’m doubtful. The manager has never tried surfing in his life, there’s no way he could. XXXL.
A girl comes in with a board that is far too small for her, the entire nose snapped off, and asks if I’ll fix it for her or if we have any ding repair kits for sale. I won’t fix it for her (I barely fix my own dings) but we do have ding repair kits for sale. We have everything for sale. I recognize her from Instagram. She drives a Tesla and her feed is full of her posing suggestively on the beach with her seafoam green Trimcraft fish. I’ve never seen any evidence of her actually in the water.
““It may surprise you to learn that I don’t loathe this job. I don’t even loathe myself for making the fat man rich whilst pedaling softies and overcrowding the already limited and inconsistent line up with flailing, clueless kooks.””
It kind of contradicts my support for the philosophy of “If you don’t surf, don’t start,” but what can I do? I’ve always been conflicted about one thing or another.
It’s an early winter morning. The death cold bites the bones and stings the face, the weak sun providing little comfort, if any. There is a playground of chest high, punchy peaks popping up all along the quiet beach. They break close to the sand and are sweetly caressed by the gentle but frigid offshore whisper. Wetsuit quality improves every year, they become more accessible, and that means there’s already a herd of rubberized bodies littering the backline, even on this freezing dawn. I don’t waste any time, wrestle on my hood, strap on my leash, fight to roll on my mits and eventually wade into the icy green Atlantic. The rip that runs along the cliff pulls me into the lineup without getting my face wet. I spy a fun-looking, less-busy peak a little way down the beach and decide to paddle over.
“Hey man, how’s it going? Pretty fun out here this morning huh?”
Fuck, it’s the man who doesn’t know which fin system is in his ugly Surftech funboard paddling towards me. Out the corner of my eye I notice a set approaching just over the man’s shoulder. It’s easy enough to feign deafness or dumbness or plain lack of recognition when everyone is in 3mm skull caps. I give a fake half-smile, a quick nod and paddle past and to his inside. I’m now in the perfect inside position for the first wave of the set, a jacking right-hander, looking like the wall will taper and peel all the way to the sand. The man gives a half-hearted attempt at a paddle for what is rightfully his wave but pulls back quickly when I snarl and bark him off. I feel nothing for him as I pop up directly into a smooth bottom to top turn, releasing my fins over the feathering lip as it rains spray all over him.
I drop in on the kid who didn’t know how to fix his leash or to wax in small circular motions in order to get small, perfectly beaded bumps. I don’t ever see Instagram girl in the water. If I did I would burn her too, but with less contempt. She has a nice ass. It’s nothing personal.
My wife gets upset with me as I regale her with my accounts of bravely defending surf heritage, history and spirit. “Surfing is for everyone,” she says. But we know better. We know that surfing is not for everyone, it never has been. Surfing was and is and always will be the Sport of Kings. Reserved for royalty, KAHUNA’S, KAMEHAMEHA’S, KA'AHUMANUS, and me. A ritual of a life dedicated to sacrifice and celebration.
I will see all these same hopeless characters in the shop later and I’ll smile and ask how their board is going and if they’ve been getting any. I’ll take their money for the new Dave Rastovich keels and keep making the fat man rich, and I won’t even mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll burn them all again tomorrow.
*Every month we’re going to get a photographer to send us five photos from their last 30 days. To kick it off, we’re taking it from the top with our pal Nate Lawrence. Nate is obviously an elite photographer, easily one of the best there is or ever was, but the part of Nate’s work that’s truly wild and under-appreciated is how quietly he can go about his work, snapping iconic frozen moments in time without the slightest hint of pretension. He’s got ninja-like abilities to discreetly snap away without making a big scene. He’ll stop for a sec, pull out a little point and shoot and snap: Boom! A powerful moment is saved. Doesn't matter the camera. Doesn't matter what’s going on. He sees the world move in a truly unique way and his photos let us in on that. Nate spends most of the year living in Bali with his wife and kids but comes back to his hometown of Santa Cruz, CA for a few months a year to see his family and we had him take time out to shoot five just for us. Who’s next?
[Check out Nate Lawrence’s website and buy some prints for your house here. And if you don’t already own his book, City Surf, grab it here.]
Dane Reynolds. Photo: Nate Lawrence
[Editor’s Note]: I recently had a conversation with Brad Gerlach in which he dropped a line that stuck with me: “Ya know, I’ve been talking to Rasta [Dave Rastovich] about surfing without trying to throw spray…” he said. Immediately the thought of Gerr and Rasta discussing that — two guys who surf with tons of power and style — and something clicked. The thought of carving clean and what that might lead to. What did he mean exactly? I was obsessed. I had to hear more, so I asked Brad to sit down and bang the keys. What’s here might change your style forever. —Travis
I have a tiger inside that wants to rip the fucking hell out of every single wave I ride. I know this. And I’m good with this. I am not a cruiser. I want to rip and tear. But my experience has taught me that even though my surfing comes with limitations now, I still have that fucking tiger to deal with. I have learned by now that I will never grow out of it, or be too old and let the pilot light go out. That is a good thing. But he still fucks up a lot of waves for me. Honestly, most of the waves I’ve fucked up in my life were because of this tiger — but some of the best waves were because of this tiger too. But what it all boils down to is trying too hard. You know that old Buk quote, “Don’t Try.” Well it applies to surfing too. Hear me out.
““I grew up trying to throw as much water off of every turn as I could. You know, the whole surf, slash, and destroy vibe. It’s all over our nomenclature.””
But every turn doesn’t require trying to throw water. Some turns are much better when there isn’t so much pressure against the water. With the ability to accelerate at will you can learn to play with the most critical parts of each wave and use them to your advantage. And the last thing you want to do is try too hard.
In order to change my demeanor on a wave, I started to picture surfing without throwing spray. Like surfing on ice skates. Completely frictionless. How would that feel? Speedy and effortless. Better timing, and less body tweaks. But what about this tiger? The one that wants to rip and tear? Well, I know that if I can harness and leverage the tiger’s energy within myself I have a better chance of harmonizing with the waves. “If” being the key word here. If I can be more aware and slow down to the tempo of the waves no matter the size or conditions I have a better chance of releasing that tiger with full effect. Then I can choose to bite, maul and play with my prey.
By cultivating this ability you will get better at allowing the wave to be your source of power. You will get better at using gravity to pick up maximum speed on the drop — the drop becoming exactly that: a real sensation of the body dropping with no tension. Then on the bottom turn you can become the pinball that bounces off the bumper with double the speed it had going into it. I know this dates me but I am not ashamed of that. Take a look at MR or Rabbit Bartholomew playing pinball in Freeride or one of those ‘70s movies.
This is what led me to the philosophy or idea of surfing without throwing spray. Or surfing with the intention of not throwing spray.
Let’s look at a roundhouse cutback for instance: If you are doing the cutback with the intention of throwing spray you will probably slow down and not get a decent rebound. And the top turn? If you try to throw spray you may stay on your back foot too long and get stuck at the top of the wave. I see this all the time and don’t get me wrong, it is fun to ollie off the lip, tail first on the way down, but if you are surfing a fast wave your chance of making the wave lowers and you may be left doing a bunch of wiggles at the bottom of the wave to get around it. The gouge stall being the first domino that falls leaving you behind the power source.
I think the main point is that trying to throw spray and accelerating don’t work together. Key word is “trying” — there’s that fucking tiger again. I want to reiterate this does not mean surfing without getting radical or surfing critically. On the contrary, this philosophy will put you in critical places without getting stuck. Visualize gliding around an ice rink. You may well find you’re naturally throwing more spray. And one last thing, when a friend is paddling out: know you have the option to stomp on the tail at will and spray them. It’s the only time it’s OK. Put all your eggs in and throw buckets at all costs.
[If you’re a good surfer of any age looking for ways to refine and enhance your approach, consider Brad Gerlach’s Wave Ki program. His philosophy leads the way in this anti-jock approach to improving your surfing.]
Here’s the thing about content: there’s too much of it and most of it is absolute dogshit. You log online and spend two hours trying to find the least dogshit option, only to succumb to a brain-splitting headache, induced by the sheer terror of an overabundance of choice. To avoid this, we introduce Words to Live By. Let Eleanor take you on a media journey: she decides the curriculum, so you don’t have to.
Reading Assignment: The National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Mushrooms
Familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Pay attention to the granular details, like the differences between an edible mushroom and its potentially lethal lookalike. Evaluate your position in the ecosystem and contemplate your insignificance. Try to persuade yourself that there is no creator and that what you are seeing is merely a convenient accident. If, after some time, you remain unconvinced, pretend you are the creator and mentally decorate the terrain as you see fit. Are you emboldened by the responsibility or do you bow?
Reading Assignment: Cormac McCarthy’s All The Pretty Horses
Learn how to become an alpha and assume your position as pack leader. Consider humanity’s propensity to create stories and weigh whether this might serve some arcane evolutionary role. Defeat this function by momentarily acquiescing to this function. Cry, if you must, but as soon as your tears dry, pick yourself up off the floor. Prolonged bouts of sentimentality are futile and unseemly. Relegate heartache and pain to your brain’s animalistic and inaccessible interior.
Reading Assignment: Nico Walker’s Cherry
Acknowledge that even though you are an alpha, you are not special and you will never be special. Tell yourself, “I am not special.” Look at your hands. Hold them up to the sun. Appreciate them for their prehensile capabilities. Remember that your hands are only utensils; they can caress just as easily as they can erase. Commit this mantra to memory: There are no happy endings. And do not forget: you are not special and the United States Government (USG) does not give a shit about you and certainly not anyone else (not even their own progeny). As an absolute imperative: refuse to watch Apple’s MKULTRA-adjacent adaptation of this woebegone book.
Reading Assignment: Ishmael Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo
Now that you know that you’re not special and that USG (our eminent multinational corporatocracy) doesn’t give a shit about you beyond your ability to accumulate, find recompense in the realization that we are all not special, together. Begin to question if anything below the surface ever changes. Tap into your pituitary gland and dance with the Mind-at-Large. Interrogate the forces that compel you to feel special and challenge their motives.
Reading Assignment: Valdimir Nabokov’s The Eye
What if you never existed? What if you watched yourself live and breed and die only to discover that the spirit you call Me was just an extraordinarily cogent hallucination? Now that you know you’re not special and that, in fact, you’re completely replicable: Test your newfound resolve.
Reading Assignment: Clarice Lispector’s The Passion According to G.H.
Stop asking questions. Eat the cockroach. Let go.
Danny Lee Blackwell of Night Beats.
A few months before the onset of the pandemic, roughly March of 2020, Danny Lee Blackwell of Night Beats left his hometown in Texas and moved back to Los Angeles. He’s lived here before, in various lengths and capacities, but never when the city was on lockdown. In a time when Los Angeles was at its most antithetical to its fundamentals – bars closed, nightlife done, casual depravity on permanent pause – Danny found solace in sudden isolation and his creativity thrived. Maybe it was the absence of hedonism, or his breakup with alcohol, but Danny’s perspective on Los Angeles had changed. “There’s a focus I find in this city that’s unlike any other,” he told me. That focus manifested itself into “Outlaw R&B,” Night Beats’ fifth LP out May 7th on Fuzz Club Records. A beautiful blending of genres, the album pulls “all these different colors and shades on the sonic spectrum to elicit an unpredictability or a nondescript, undefined sound.” The songs go from Phil Spector pop anthems to bare-boned, haunting country ballads, to classic acid psych jams synonymous with the Night Beats sound. It’s a powerful reminder of the creative burst that oftentimes accompanies extreme change.
Danny isn’t always an open book. I remember interviewing him in the green room of the Echo years ago, and he was quiet, soft spoken, and meticulous with his words. “I don’t really share too much with too many people,” he told me recently. “I use music as my sharing mechanism.” A few weeks ago, I got Danny on the phone on the morning of his album release announcement. We had a generous conversation about his music and the sounds that he now shares with the world. “When I moved here and everything changed, I went basically back to basics.” Which meant writing and recording music. And focusing, despite the pounding heart of a city gripped by a racial awakening. “It’s a beautiful world,” he says, “when you have the experiences in your life and you can take something and make the best of it.”
Inherent Bummer: When did you move back to L.A?
Danny Lee Blackwell: About a year and a couple of months ago. I was in Texas before that.
You’re from Texas, right?
Yeah, I was born and raised in Dallas-Forth Worth. I moved to Seattle in 2007, basically started Night Beats out there and then lived nomadically for around eight years or so after I left. But I went home and took care of my father for a little while. All my family was dispersed at that time, so there was no one really there and he needs an at-home type of care, so I had to go back and figure that out for a couple of years. That was interwoven with tours and records and all that stuff. I was kind of going a little crazy, but we stabilized the situation and L.A. was calling so I came.
What was calling you?
L.A had an appeal to me because of Valentine. Valentine Recordings is a studio that I had worked in briefly, but it basically opened up when I left L.A. the last time [around 2015]. And I really wanted to record again with my friend Nic [Jodoin]. He runs Valentine. So that was kind of calling me, but also I just wanted to be in a place where I could 100 percent immerse myself in what I am about. There's a focus that I find in this city that's unlike any other city. And it's strange because I don't go out, I don't socialize, I don't really do anything... I mean, I used to go to a few shows. And I have some friends here, so that was definitely a pulling factor. My buddy Caleb was in this building here in Hollywood where I live and he was a good force of reckoning for me to actually do it. So I live in this tiny little apartment by my lonesome here. I’m used to sleeping on top of my instruments.
I was going to ask, do you have all your instruments in your apartment?
Yeah, I mean it's only a keyboard, my guitars and percussion instruments, but I don't need much. I'll play great songs I've written with very few means, easily. In Dallas I was getting too distracted by my own bullshit and also my family stuff. Essentially L.A. was a place where I could work on myself but have the option of studios that I’m personally attached to.
Were you going to Valentine during the pandemic?
I'm not sure exactly how much I can say about that. But the record was made at Valentine, during the pandemic. And also the Black Lives Matter protests and the general chaos that was happening specifically in my neighborhood.
How long were you working on the album?
I come to a studio pretty prepared, so I only spent about a week at Valentine. Actually less than that– for the recording process. The writing was done and basically in my head. So yeah, I went in there and recorded all of it by myself. There were maybe two or three tracks that I had someone put the gems on, and it was more to kind of shake it up just to get a different feel. Night Beats is my own creation but I play with the band live and I have other people that I entrust with helping me deliver a message. So that even takes place in the recording process. I don't want it to just be all about me, that can get really boring, it can get really vain, it could turn into a very egocentric process and I don't like that. Listening to your demos over and over again is vain enough. Separating yourself from your product, from your creation, is important. Because you have to live, you have to enjoy life, you have to enjoy the outside world. To a certain extent. L.A. really has a lot to offer as far as places to record, and there’s a lot of musicians in this town.
Tell me about the new album?
Well it’s called “Outlaw R&B”. Actually, that's the sound that I've always been intrigued by, the merging of outlaw country and R&B. And when people hear “outlaw” they need to think about what that really means: it's anti-establishment, it's against the grain of industry; it’s like when Willie Nelson, all those players in The Outlaws, when they created that sound, it was really a “fuck you” to the music industry. It’s for the weirdos, it’s for the outsiders, it's for the people that don't fit in. And R&B is like water. So those two worlds become Outlaw R&B. And I've always been a fan of records that title themselves something that's kind of encyclopedic, like Ray Charles [did with “Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music”]. It’s modern, and country, and Western music. That record is like — you can look it up in the encyclopedia and you'll know exactly what it is, but you won't. Because when you hear it, it's not obvious what he's doing. Outlaw R&B isn't obvious. The first track has a little bit of a Phil Spector feel. A little bit of a Beach Boys, Brian Wilson type of thing. But another song has kind of a Marty Robbins feel and then another song has a Bauhaus feel. So it's pulling all these different colors and shades on the sonic spectrum to elicit an unpredictability or a nondescript, undefined sound. Like when people talk about psych music they talk about, “Oh, this is really psychedelic and whatever because it has reverb…” — now you got me talking about psychedelic rock. I hope you have enough space on your phone to record this. What were we talking about? [Laughter]
Outlaw R&B.
I think in the quest of putting this record together, “Outlaw R&B” just made the most sense to me because I do love R&B and soul music. That's the rib of the band. It was named after Sam Cooke’s record for fuck’s sake. [Sam Cooke’s Night Beat was released in 1963]. I started off as a drummer and I love rhythm and beat and everything that goes into R&B. So the first track that we kind of leaked or released was called, “That's All You Got.” It's not on the album, it's just on the single. I feel like that's a really good representation [of outlaw R&B]. It was co-written by Robert [Levon Been] from Black Rebel [Motorcycle Club] so that was a huge influence in the sense of the meeting of the minds to accomplish this weird magical thing.
You wrote it with him?
Yeah. He co-wrote it with me. Actually [we wrote it] in the desert, a month before I went into the studio.
Where in the desert?
Joshua Tree. All the rumors are true about that place.
And you intentionally wanted the track to be a single, you didn't want it to be part of the album?
I thought it was too obvious to have on the album. And that's another thing, it's about... it's like my love of onions, it's like...
Your love of onions?
Oh, I love onions. I eat onions like apples, they’re so good. I use onions instead of chips. Like tortilla chips, I just interchange them with onions.
I mean, they are good for you.
They're healthy for you, it's what I hear. So I'm doing something good. But yeah, it's got layers, and its got twists and turns.
Wait, go back to Joshua Tree. What does the desert make you think of?
Space. Honestly. That's the first answer that comes to mind. When I think of desert landscapes and the life of the desert, is that kind of it? Yeah. It makes me look up a lot more, and it's ironic that in a city where we have tall buildings and light pools and statues and all these things, we barely ever look up, have you ever noticed that?
We're less inclined to look up because there’s so much going on.
I could write a whole thing about that, but the desert and that rare beautiful unfiltered light and world makes me connect with the.... the universe, not a great word to use here but, space. This planet that we live on and we die on is just a beautiful canvas and we have the gift of music that can put that feeling and put that connection, the inter dimensional connection between stars and planets and canyons and sand and dirt and scorpions and all these things. It's a weird connection that's hard to describe. But I definitely feel more connected to my previous alien life or origins, I would say. There's just a lot of potential, and it's like seeing something for the first time every time, it's seeing the world for what it is, it’s seeing the sun dancing off the gravel or the dirt or the way that I don't think other places really have that effect.
Have you ever noticed that the sky looks pink because of the color bouncing off the rocks and sand?
Yeah, absolutely. They say the sky is blue because it reflects off the ocean. I did learn something form geography class. But yeah, the beautiful pink textures from Mother Earth are right in front of you. I was just there, too.
Tell me about your trip?
I'm actually scouting for a desert session at the moment so I had an excuse to drive out there and to just go on my own adventure, which I like to do a lot. I took some pictures and I think I found a location for the film. So that's exciting.
For a music video?
For a live performance of the whole set. Other bands do it — not that that's a deterrent because at the end of the day your music is your own thing – but I think it will be special when we do it. I need to find a generator for cheap.
Check Craiglist.
Oh I'm always on Craigslist, I'm a Craig head. This location is beautiful. It's funny though, when I got there I was getting a virtual tour basically on the phone, because I just recently upgraded to an iPhone and it's kind of blowing my mind, it's a little scary but it's all right. Technology freaks me out, like FaceTime! Holy shit. I don’t think I really figured out the etiquette of it though.
Why do you say that?
I’ll FaceTime a buddy and be like, “Hey” and he’ll be like, “What are you doing?” And I didn’t even get a chance to put on my shirt.
Last question. How do you feel about L.A. as a creative city?
I could say a lot about how there’s an image of L.A. and there's an idea of what L.A is, and then there's the reality of what L.A. is, and at the end of the day it is what you want it to be. This isn't my first rodeo. L.A. is a city of bars and rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, so ingrained and intertwined with booze and drugs and partying. And it became so close in proximity to me. I'm still kind of getting used to talking about this. I think it could help other people, that’s the only reason why I would bring it into a conversation. But I quit drinking two months before the... well actually in February [of 2020], so it's a year now.
How does it feel to talk about it?
There's always this fear and maybe shame or embarrassment to people that were drinkers or someone who dealt with substance abuse. And I think it's important to destigmatize that because the only thing that matters is for people to live and to have love in their lives. I was a highly functional alcoholic. I was able to tour, I was able to write, I was able to make records and I was able to survive through that time. It’s a killer for people like me, and when you can share that you are on the other side and you're better and you're stronger and you're happier and you're more of yourself and you got back to a source of joy and thrill, then that’s a good thing.
Now that Valentine's Day has properly been put to rest, let's celebrate the lonely, the brokenhearted, the cheaters, the cheated, the lovestruck, and the lustful, with a playlist that goes through all the emotions. Love hurts, man. Listen to some songs about it.
Best enjoyed still shivering. Wetsuit, 3mm hood and booties still on. Ravenous hunger on the horizon. Nothing less than a bison burger. But for now, the tailgate is down, the sky is plummeting into a darker grey every 60 seconds as evening approaches. Waves are still rolling in and those remaining in the lineup grab what they can before it’s too late. The IPA you grab from the cooler doesn’t even feel cold in your hand. Dripping frozen water, the beer and you are one. Frozen on frozen. But its bright sparkle on your lips is bliss. It’s cold but it warms you. Everything inside feels alive even though you are without feeling. It’s February and this is tropical paradise.
PHOTO: Chenoweth
PHOTO: Chenoweth
Kolohe Andino, San Clemente, CA. 2021. Photo: Brandon Guilmette
PHOTO: Chenoweth
PHOTO: Chenoweth
Paris September 2020. Photo: Ben Kwock
PHOTO: Chenoweth
PHOTO: Chenoweth
PHOTO: Chenoweth
Dion and Chippa, Reno Room, Long Beach, CA. Early 2020. Photo: Travis Ferré
PHOTO: Chenoweth
PHOTO: Chenoweth
PHOTO: Chenoweth
PHOTO: Chenoweth
SPECIAL THANKS TO:
Ben Kwock
CS Louis
