Travel Maps and Photographs

Joshua Powell & the Great Train Robbery Summer Tour
We’ve plastered this puppy up all over the social web, but we wanted to make sure it’s here on our central hub as well. We’re going all over the West and we’d love to see as many of you as can make it out to a show!

We also wanted to share a few choice photographs from our friend Tiernae Salley. You can check out her site here. She’s a wonderful person and artist and she took these! Thanks Tiernae!
Joshua Powell & the Great Train Robbery

Joshua Powell & the Great Train Robbery

Joshua Powell & the Great Train Robbery

Perspective

Let me tell you. Today sucked.

Jacob and I woke up at a luxurious pace and went to work in our parents’ condo’s kitchen over a breakfast of champions. Momma toiled over the waffle iron, making rhythmic injections of peanut butter into the batter in her culinary modus operandi. I added cream to a bowl of eggs, sautéing an amalgamation of chopped onion, heirloom tomato, sharp cheddar cheese into the mix. We dripped a blend of coffee I had roasted back in Anderson with beans from Sumatra, Costa Rica, Panama. We listened to Gregory Alan Isakov and watched the sun try to shoulder its way through wintery clouds over the Johnson Bayou.

We were coming off a whole week of Christmas vacation spent at our folks’ pad in Panama City and left the breakfast table to go to our respective rooms to pack backpacks and banjos, stowing presents and pillows. (Forgive my alliterative foray—my father is a pastor and he uses it the way granddad used butter.) But we threw the whole mess in the van and hit the road.
Sunset on the Bay
En route to New Orleans, I leafed through Wallace’s Infinite Jest, and I’m past the 200-page mark, so it’s beginning to make a modicum of sense. I spun the new Caribou record and highly regretted the fact that I’d already written up my “Best of 2014” article before I heard it. Seriously, go listen to the new Caribou LP.

Now I’m a bad multi-tasker. My psychologically-inclined friends are quick to remind me that multi-tasking is a myth. In that case, I’m still just a bad fake-multitasker. Usually I hate talking on the phone because I miss the conversational cues of face-to-face conversation, and I generally end up just sitting on the couch talking to a hot little device pressed against the side of my head for an hour or whatever. But I’ve found that when I drive long stretches of interstate, I really dig talking on the phone. So today I caught up with my friend Erin for an hour and it was great to hear about her journeys. Then I had a little virtual meeting with one Jonathan Class, the producer we’ve recruited to cut our new record next month and we discussed rhythm sessions, vinyl pressing, creative vision, etc. I seriously can’t wait to get in the studio with Jacob, Michael, and that guy. He’s Richard Swiftian in that he becomes a new band member on every record he makes.

Off the phone, I watched the light the setting sun cast across golden reeds in the coastal Alabama dusk. We drove over bridges that seemed a hundred miles long, laughing at the GPS screen that showed one pink strip of road bifurcating a map of otherwise uninterrupted blue. Gas sold for under two dollars and a clerk waved me out the door without charging me for my cup of coffee.

Nearly six hours later, we arrived at the coffeeshop venue for the night and immediately realized that Jacob’s snare drum and stick bag weren’t in the car. Actually we realized they were in our parents’ garage back in Florida. We waited just long enough in the upstairs common room to confirm our suspicion that zero people would attend our strangely sequestered little performance. See, there’s usually a yoga class that meets up there and after our 7pm “show,” there was to be a meeting for a Narcotics Anonymous group. So I threw the guitar back in the car after a half hour of cussing our luck, knowing it’d be at least a month before we could laugh at ourselves for this. Maybe more.

As I type this modest entry from the passenger seat of the Quest, being carried by the Southern interstate back over our own steps, I can’t help but think about the mileage I’m putting on my new Christmas tires. But I’m a pretty serious person usually, and I know it’s good for my mental health to be able to laugh at this whole situation, even if it’s forced. I was about to vomit tonight I was so sick about our oversight, but you know what? I get to watch the sun set on the Gulf coast again tomorrow. I get to cook breakfast in a cast iron skillet and hug my parents again. A friend of mine used to chant, “Perspective is everything,” and while I’ll bet there’s probably a bit more to life, I can’t help but to admit that it is a good chunk. So I’m choosing to focus on Caribou and free coffee and some really cool bridges instead of mileage and time. I guess today didn’t suck all that badly after all.