"1924" - Lyrics and Such

Tracking on "1924" is almost over.  A few more subtle details, then it's off for the mixing. I can't express how grateful I am for all the hard work that everyone involved has put into this project. I am truly blessed to have these cats working by my side. 

Promo tracks, album art, music videos, and other cool things are one the way...so keep your eyes wide open and your waiting shoes on...

              ...for now, here are the lyrics to the entire album.  The order may change, but for now, it's where we stand...

                     ..."1924"...

                                     

                                 ...enjoy...

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Sink! Sink!

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I was lying there dying in a hospital room, in a hospital bed where I lay

Oh, just lying there dying in a hospital room

When I turned to my mother, took her hand and kind of struggled just to say:

I hope they bury me beneath the ocean

I hope they throw my body to the waves

All those fishes that I meet will have a fresh supply of meat

My body will sustain them like their flesh once sustained me

Oh, I hope they bury me beneath the sea, sea, sea

Oh, I hope they bury me beneath the sea

I hope they lay my body in an orchard

When it finally comes my time to die

All the worms can find a home digging holes into my bones

They will all live happily there somewhere deep inside of me

Oh, I hope they bury me beneath the trees, trees, trees

Oh, I hope they bury me beneath the trees

Oh, my mother I love you so

So take my hand before I go

I’ll be fine on the other side alone

I hope they freeze my body in a chamber

For research in some scientific lab

As an experimental tool to cure diseases oh, so cruel

And bring an end to the toils and their labor

Oh, I hope they freeze my body in a chamber, chamber, chamber

Oh, I hope they freeze my body in a chamber

Oh, my mother, I love you so

So take my hand before I go
I'll be fine on the other side alone

Oh, my mother, hold me close until my flesh turns into ghost

I’ll be fine on the other side alone

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Hold To Your Anchors

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Faithless promises that nothing is going to bring me down
Some things never mend - they sort of just stop being talked about
You promised me in time it would be over, over
and peace would turn all worry into light
Yet here with every hour growing older, older
I long only to feel once more alive

You said, "have a little faith - work on building hope and trust"
But it's hard to work on things that never really worked for us
You told me if I held onto my anchors, anchors
No storm this sinking ship could ever break
To die by putting faith in fallen saviors, saviors
and drown by trusting you was my mistake

You promised me the world - this bitter, cruel, and unlit place
Our heros must be fools - for who desires to hold such weight?
I once believed in love, but Dear, I'm so much older now
What's followed from afar will only leave you lost and turned around

You told me if I held onto my anchors, anchors
No storm this sinking ship could ever break
To die by putting faith in fallen saviors, saviors
and drown by trusting you was my mistake
You promised me in time it would be over, over
and peace would turn all worry into light
Yet here with every hour growing older, older
I long only to feel once more alive

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Holding Bloody Hands

--------------------------------

Darlin’ rest awhile for the sky seems to be storming

Won’t you anchor to me, child, for you’ve mended my torn heart

Let your problems vanish while I frighten far away the frightening things

I want you to believe that I’m not shaken by devotion

My dear, don’t be deceived to think that I’m going through the motions

I’m just trying to make sense of the unfamiliar emotions that you bring

I want to end your aimless searching

So you know you’re not alone

But one thing is still uncertain –

Is that blood on your hands? Is that blood on your hands?

Is that blood on your hands cause for worry or from carrying your own heart?

Trust me, I know trusting isn’t easy for our kind

But if you let me I’ll defend your heart much more than I will mine

I want to fight away the darkness ‘till your nightmares all subside and disappear

I want to end your aimless searching

So you know you’re not alone

I want to block your waves of your doubt to dry all your trembling bones

I want to hold your hand through fire

And go before you when the demons come

In the midst of all your trials, I want to be your home

Until there’s blood on my hands

If there is blood on my hands

If you see blood on my hands, never worry – it’s from fighting over you

If you see blood on my hands, never worry – it’s from fighting for your heart

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You Make Me Happy Enough

-----------------------------------------

I sat behind you in your sunday school seat
You had a paper airplane and I thought it was neat
So I spilled all your cool-aid as an excuse to meet
and maybe take that plane for a spin
Soon we became friends and soon we became grown
and it wasn't long 'till we were sneaking out our windows
so we could meet by the lake and talk about plans we'd make
and school and dreams and problems and such

(I though)
You make me happy enough to want to find out what being in love feels like
You make me feel safe enough to care

I just wanted you to fall down for me
so I could fall to my knee and beg you to please
come and carry my ring so we can live happily
through life in love together awhile
So we traded circles and you stole my last name
then rode off in the sunset through a rice covered rain
The times they got hard but we never complained
We just laughed at all the bills as they piled

You make me happy enough to never wonder what being in love feels like
You make me feel brave enough to tell you all the time
I can't accurately say how much you mean to me
For every time that I try it changes, you see 
to more and more and more and more and more...

We sit on the porch, staring up at the moon

You tell a stupid joke, I kind of make fun of you

I light up a smoke and you ask for one too

and say, "these things are gonna kill me"

I say, "it's probably true, but if I die next to you

then I'm fine passing through into the sky ever blue"

If they kill me they do - but it's fine because you

have been the only one who fulfills me

You make me happy enough to never wonder what being in love feels like
You make me feel brave enough to tell you all the time
I can't accurately say how much you mean to me
For every time that I try it changes, you see 
to more and more and more and more and more...

Here we are now in matching hospital beds

Telling jokes that simply go over the young nurses heads

I push back my tray full of yogurt and bread

to lean over and to kiss you goodnight
(and say)

You make me happy enough to never wonder what being in love feels like

You make me feel brave enough that I don't mind if I go tonight

You've taken my breath away, my dear

From day one to here, through tomorrow to nowhere

I can't accurately say how much you mean to me

For every time that I try it changes, you see 

to more and more and more and more and more...

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Audrey Hepburn Would'a Loved Me

------------------------------------------------

Darlin', pretty angel - don't you lean on me
For I'll only leave you lonely when I up and leave
The only thing for certain is uncertainty
So honey, pretty child don't depend on me
Darlin', pretty angel - don't you lean on me

I want to wake up every morning in a brand new town
You shouldn't really bother looking for I won't be found
Until they lay me in a coffin or they find me drowned
I want to wake up every morning in some new town
I want to wake up every morning in a brand new town

Some days have been better but they've sure been worse

Life is a young man's blessing and an old man's curse

I'm just trying to get wealthy if I don't die first

Wealth is an old man's blessing and a young man's curse

Ain't it weird how a blessing can become your curse?

So I'm leaving in the morning out to find my home

Between southern California or Ohio

You shouldn't really try to follow for I don't know

If I'm ever going to find a place to call my own

Between southern California and Ohio

I've got a young man's body and an old man's soul
and a tongue built for lying and a heart like coal
I want travel the world through the old Dustbowl
Writing songs about freedom with my storytelling soul
Until I leave this body for a heart like gold

So now you know, pretty darlin', not to lean on me
For I'll only leave you lonely when I up and leave
The only thing for certain is uncertainty
So darlin, pretty angel, don't depend on me
Unless you want to love a boy who always leaves
You say you've been looking for a man like me
Then darlin', pretty angel come and lean on me

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Away! My Weight, Aweigh!

--------------------------------------

Let an ocean of mercy flow through my veins
and quell my contentious dissolution of faith
I want to grow ever-stronger from these burdens I face
 - simply to feel they were worth it

Come peace overwhelming, possess my mind
and assure me there's ease for restlessness pure as mine
I want to know beyond doubt that if I struggle I'll find that for which I've been searching

Oh, I don't want to feel this weight holding on to me this way
I'm tired of this endless waiting for anything to keep me safe
Oh, I don't want to feel any weight anymore

So hope everlasting consume my soul...
   ...and carry me over...
       ...to where I'm told no worry surrounding can take control
- I want to feel something certain

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Who Cries Over Dead Spiders?

-----------------------------------------

I fell in love far too young to realize that evil lies within the silver plated tongue
It broke my heart- but brokenness repaired is often stronger than the product at the start
So I'm a better man, for I've been places that without losing you I know I never would have been
Now these broken feet can walk and not only stand

My, oh my, a man can not deny
That depression will kill you just as fast as dying
My, oh my, a heart can't ignore the signs
Sometimes it ain't even worth the crying 

I found freedom in a prison cell
and sweet release within a world that only offered me hell
So now I can smile - for I've felt comfort in a world where comfort only feels denial
My life sucks but I think I'll stay awhile

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I'll Stay

-----------

You don't have to be so scared of me
Even though your past results have taught you you should be
I will be whatever is going to set you free
I want to mend you gracefully
You don't have to be so scared of me

You don't have to always be okay
We're all cowards sometimes - my little fearless one, so brave
There's no shame, so go on and be afraid - everybody's felt that way
You don't have to always be okay

Baby, are those dark clouds a'coming?
Darlin', do your skies look grey?
Do they leave you worrying and wondering who's gonna stay?
I'll stay

You don't have to fight all on your own
Even though it contradicts everything that you've been shown
You're not alone, you're not alone
I know your heart's hard to let go
You don't have to fight all on your own

When it's hard to tell your demons from shadows
and true danger from what's just in your mind
When every smile hides the fact you're crumbling 
Who's at your side? 

I am

-------

1924

------

Momma, the radio is playing all the sad songs

The kind that make a grown man like me want to cry
Sometimes I take my heart and tear it off my sleeve
To wash it down and ring it out and hang it up to dry
oh oh, oh oh

Oh no, Darlin' don't you know?
You could have my heart forever if you never let me go
No, no, no, no - Darlin' don't you know?
Please, don't ever let me go

Some pray for blessings while others simply steal
All the sinners, slowly dying, hope to God that he isn't real
But me, I only hope and me, I only pray
That you and I will be together on my dying day

But what about my heart?
Was it ever mine at all?
But if you give a reason then you know that I can fall - I can fall for you
What about my heart?
Was it ever really mine?
If you have the answer then you know I have the time
But if you fear the answers then, baby, I can lie
But if you just need confessions, pretty girl, I've got the lines for you

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The Wolves

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Sometimes I hide behind my blankets
wishing you'd come and lay your body next to mine
A subtle fortress I create to keep me safe from all the wolves waiting outside
They've been howling and prowling and scouring the room for fools like me
If cloth and wool keep me protected, then imagine in your arms how safe I'd be?

Won't you lift me to my feet and keep me from crawling
on my hands and bleeding knees like I've been for so long?

My father always taught me, "boy, you've got to build some castles in your heart."
So I did, but now I feel like they've been under siege and burned and torn apart
If my faith made up the mortar and my confidence was in each brick that I laid
Then perhaps I tore down my own walls to find a good stone for my grave

Won't you lift me to my feet and keep me from crawling

on my hands and bleeding knees like I've been for so long?

Won't you take this weight from me? for I've been desperately calling

Show me how to be a better man in spite of all the things that I've done wrong

Won't you repair me? - for I've grown tired of mending myself
What peace can you bring to nullify how much I've failed?

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Overwhelming Sense

----------------------------

I fear I'm far less fearless than I claim
Still I face the shame and I keep striving to be great
Come rain, through mountain storms and flooding
I once would stand in olden days - now I feel I'll simply break

Lately down is the one direction I've been running
Like I'm stuck inside a wheel where forward I can not progress
I hear the sound of a saviour a' coming
So I guess that I'll keep stumbling on until face to face we've met

I've got an overwhelming sense of falling down again
Like I'm falling down again
I've got an overwhelming sense of falling down again
Like I'm falling to my calloused knees again

A mighty presence of really anything sweep over
and assure me there's consistency in grace's eternal love
Because from here in this hell it seems like heaven must be vacant
For all the sinners and the vagrants and the crawling ones like us

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Southern Angel

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I'm not going to feel - not going to feel anymore
For my old, torn, fighter's heart has grown tired of blood soaked floors
Oh, is there no reward in fighting?
Do I wrap my hands just to be brought to my knees?

Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh - I'm not scared of dying - just of going o'er alone
Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh - won't my own, sweet, southern angel take me home

I hear that nothing is free but dying and the hope of finding grace
So take this penny for your old smile and my heart for ne'er to change
Oh, I'll set your memories all to burning
with an ember from our once exquisite flame

Out here the good men get forgotten - left holding someone else's chains
While the ever-haunting angels over memory's kingdom reignOh, what happened to you savior that made it so I don't feel safe with you?

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Forever Shine Your Light

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Until I find my way back home, forever shine your light
Through the vast, into the tempest - glow
Pierce the deep, aphotic night
Until the oceans cease their tormenting flow
and the wavess decrease their height
Leave a pillow by the fire, dear
Forever shine your light
Oh, forever shine your light

I've searched through the howl and the all consuming waves
to find shelter upon your shore
So emit through these lightless, disheartening days
until my shadow I cast over your beckoning door
Oh, forever shine your light

Baby, Are Those Dark Clouds A'Coming?

Whatever happened to decency? I heard she took ill and moved south for fairer weather. Everybody questions. Everybody wonders; and the bombs keep rumbling and fear survives. I once heard this rumor of rumors of war, where nothing felt honest and safety seemed a tale of ancient wonder. Rumor has it that the rumors aren't just rumors anymore. I guess we aren't safe really anywhere, these days. I think we feel safe. As Americans, we aren't used to someone infringing on our security - when they do, the harsh reality that most countries face each day takes hold. No one expects the bus to bring home one less child because the battlefield playground traded twigs and fingers for real guns today. No one predicts street corner explosions will leave you with one less limb tomorrow. These are things we read about in magazines, or see on TV between Sportscenter and "reality" shows; only to duck back within our shells when the truth gets far too dark. Then suddenly it's here and everyone feels mortal. You see through the makeup to the swollen eyes on Liberty and notice the age spots and frail bones of Uncle Sam. For the first time, you feel honest. Everybody calls their loved ones, holds their family close, and feels things a little deeper for a while. We all speak of unity, resilience, and setting aside differences to walk tall through adversity - and that's all perfect - until the weeks go by and we never truly address the problem.

     We claim we're this great country, with total liberty - the envy of the world. Perhaps we are. Perhaps we should be - but when the doors are closed and the lights come up, everybody's searching. We've spent so many years breeding an ambiguous culture of total acceptance and selfish independence, that roots are long forgotten and identities have vanished. What's left to hold onto when your anchors have gone? When religion, and family, and gender, and heritage are blurred into an all-consuming, mesh of "be what you want and call bigotry on those with spoken conviction" - where does personal recognition play in? Where are beliefs centered and truths grounded? From where does integrity rise, and what sparks hope when the dark comes creeping in? Hearts are void meaning, the world is Godless and the effects of such vacancies result in desperate attempts for self-fulfillment. The un-grounded long for structure, and the frightened seek control - and so we turn to things to make ourselves feel less powerless. Whether through the numbing calm of illicit sex or drugs, or by harming ourselves or those around simply for spite, attention, or unaddressed, social aggression, those void of sure identity lack the foundational stability and self-security to address the confusions of the present world in a positive and non-harmful way - desperate pleas for self-fulfillment will ultimately result in physical or emotional harm to either one's self or those surrounding - and we wonder why bombs go off?
     When families are non-existent, churches are spiritless, values are belittled, and morality is deemed "closed-mindedness," where then does humanity come from? The "Great Melting Pot" of America has lost it's cultural relevance and become nothing more than a cluttered pool of all-accepting weakness. We've become the middle-school, bully's parents - too afraid to say no; so terrified of being disliked, that we allow all, ignore misconduct and step around words that may bring conflict like "wrong", "sin", or "guilty." We're too afraid of tantrums to stop socially harmful practices, we're too worried about public opinion to oppose immorality, and too arrogant to accept the fact that our criminals are criminals and more than simply "socially handicapped" or "mentally unstable."  We've become a society where misconduct is no longer punished, but rewarded with an acronym'd disease, a bottle of pills, and an easier alternative. You never have to mend your flaws, you simply come up with a name, a vague reason you have it, and ride the excuse until a child is found dead in your closet.

     Just as children are raised by parents, countries are raised by leaders; politicians, pastors, teachers, common souls. Weak children are nursed, bad children are punished, and all children are taught proper social behavior and expected to carry such into adulthood - those who aren't are considered, "sickly", "spoiled", and "abnormal". By accepting this, "hands off", "cool parent" approach to society, we've created a sickly, spoiled, abnormal social environment, that breeds contempt for authority, longs for self-gratification and feels so superior to everyone else, that we're unable to see our own world-shattering, abnormality. We've allowed the misbehaving 6th grader to become a delinquent teen - only to turn from his problems, ignore his endless questions, smile through his pleas for help, and then scratch our heads in wonder when his face and list of victims makes the front page. We don't have a problem with society - we have a problem with the roots of society;
     A tree with rotting roots can stand - for years, sometimes. It often looks fine despite its dying interior. Those expected to nurture and maintain the tree may not even recognize or chose to regard the state of its decay - until it dies. Yet even in death the tree may stand. Leaves may fade and its limbs become brittle, but still it stands. It will stand until pushed or pulled by storm or tempest - perhaps those far weaker than ones it once stood through in times before - yet its lack of rooted security caused a body wide decay that resulted in the crumbling of a once great thing. Had the problem been addressed, perhaps its life could have been saved. Perhaps its roots would burrow deeper and its strength would be increased. Instead it was left alone, standing with the appearance of greatness while lifeless deep within. The ungrounded are easily broken, and those without roots collapse.

     I fear that answers will never truly come; and questions will arise to the answers that we now possess.  The world is a darkened place, and some things can never be explained. Nevertheless, within confusion, internal peace must be the rock that brings us hope. Without identity, we are nothing more than aimless faces, searching to find a purpose. Become yourself; know your convictions and why you have them, defend your beliefs and the proven truths you've built them on, speak out against wrong doing, and develop those still left unsure. Society is broken, but not deceased, and its roots can still be restored. Rebuilding requires secure foundation; find those roots and find repair. Change starts from within...

                                                                        ...I have nothing further but to wait...

Keep Your Trousers on and Your Head Held High...

Today was a weird day; things go down and problems arise - yet still we stumble on; and so we did. 10 hours of recording and more accomplished than humanly possible. After today, we have officially tracked all 13 songs for the album. We went in heads down and knuckles whitened; it's mind-blowing how much you can get done when you don't stop for anything. It's all the little stuff now; only two more sessions and it all wraps down. It's been amazing to watch these things grow from little, acoustic ditties, into full grown, big boy songs with heart and toughness.  We've tracked washboard through Metallica wah pedals, spinning wind tubes, synced alarm clocks, cannons shooting bells, kicking boxes, breaking bottles, and shaking anything and everything that makes a sound - and, by the grace of God alone, managed to do it all (rather) tastefully...I'm really excited about the way things have panned out. It's been a lot of fun and I hope you think the finished product is as good as I think it will be...

...on a strangely horrifyingly awesome note, I stopped at the gas station on my way to the studio today. It was my sole and pure intention to pick up Dr Pepper, pay the gnarled hag, and be on my merry way - all whilst all parties remained fully clothed.  Easy enough, eh?  - Debatable.   Continue. 

As I approached the counter to pay said, aforementioned hag, a conversation began regarding the lighthouse on my forearm. This crazy dame just kept rambling on and on and wouldn't shut up about how bright and precise it was. I kept trying to pay her, but before I knew what was happening, she un-tucked her shirt, dropped her pants to her knees, pointed to her butt and shouted, "I got this here phoenix on my thigh six months ago and it already looks faded." 

Now, I have never stumbled upon this scenario before; and am not sure if I was more in awe of the fact that the 40 year old cashier was no longer wearing pants, or at how horribly mangled the softball sized, awkward shaped, "phoenix?" tattoo was - but it didn't matter - for even my quick wit and cunning sarcasm were no match for machine gun talking, speedy-McYapYap...

             ...and the wench spoke on....

"I don't know how you get  yours to look so good. You must go to somebody. I done mine in the kitchen with a sewing needle and some ink I got from the internet."  - Huh - because that doesn't answer your question entirely.

The only thing I could think to say (well besides "...and you were last diagnosed with gangrene when?") was,

 "That reminds me, do you sell needles here? I'm trying to contract hepatitis A through E in a single outing and may have found the answer." 

Without hesitation, miss wonder-broad turned around, pulled a stitch-kit from the wall, handed me the needles and said, "if it's for a school science thing you can just take 'em, honey." 

True fact. She missed the joke and gave me needles. She gave me needles. 

My mind exploded, my heart burst with rapture, and the world was complete. Look out perfect ending, for you've been outdone...

Two is twice as nice.  There is a giant sign outside of Clarksville that says, "We have 50,000 tulips - because two lips are twice as nice"  All I think of every time I se it is,

"That's 100,000 lips...is that 100,000 times as nice? What if one of them sells? Do they change the sign, or do they have backstock that is not included in their advertised inventory? Why advertise so specifically? Many sports arenas couldn't hold 100,000 lips. But 50,000 tulips? - that's like an anthophobic's personal haunted mansion. Anthophobia is a weird word. I can't imagine 50,000 of anything I'm afraid of - who would deal with such an astronomical horror? What's the fear of astronomy called? I wonder what Galileo was afraid of? I should buy a telescope..."  

....It never truly stops, really; just an endless connection of ideas and thoughts, one to another. Similarities and counterpoints, and things that vaguely attach one to another, to another, and on again. Analyzing, questioning, and breaking it all apart until it's something so far from the original that it's original and something. I guess that's creation...I guess that's how it goes...

C'est La Vie, Mon Amour...

Today I learned about half-birthdays.  I'm not sure that I believe in them.  The midway point between one birthday and the next? It works, I guess. Nonetheless, we celebrated it a bit more than half-heartedly.  I want a half funeral. Gather 'round for the mid-way point to dying; the halfway mark to life. There's a party for you. Hell, we could serve fruit and ginger-ale; what a great night we'd enjoy.
Tonight would be perfect; it's beautiful, with tinges of a storm a'brewin'. A good night for minds to wander; a good night to reminisce. There are so many places we could go and so many holes we've been to...

          ...I've decided that I want a coon-skin cap. No reason, really - I just feel like one per household should be required by law. Kind of the same way dogs should be allowed in bars; it's strange, but in a way it all makes sense.

                     ...memory is a weird thing, it'll eat you alive or set you free...

  ...it's funny, there's this black and turquoise flower peering out from behind my sleeve and stretching its scaring leaves about my wrist. It goes up awhile, through waves and words o'er a storm covered beacon. I guess I look different now - even my hair is longer and I'm told I smile more often. It hit me oddly; you knew the dark in me, and witnessed the light out shining. But to think you know so little of me now - even of my outsides. How much has changed with you? What intriguing thoughts a'birthing.  Here today, far gone tomorrow. Be gone worry, be gone woe, these beds hold no rest for you now...

     ...wander on, for peace now here abides...

                                ....what a comfort that though brings...

                    ...what strangely peaceful voids...

        ...it's funny, time is...

                       ....it's timeless, you know...

"1924" - A Tiny Hint of Progress

I am glad to announce that production on my upcoming record "1924" is coming along flawlessly.  I have never been so pleased and excited about a project that I've created as I am with this one.  From the upbeat, front-porch hymns, to the brooding slow songs, and dark, 4-on-the-floor, angsty, folk tunes I've become good at, every song has grown and developed into something I'm thrilled to show off.  I wish I could just post everything now and get it over with.  Much thanks to everyone involved; Drew and Allen have worked their ears off making me sound stellar, John made us all giggle like coquettish school-girls with his stupidly-haunting steel lines, and the amazing, miss Lauren Strahm blows me away more and more each time she sings beside me. I am truly bless beyond measure to be working with such incredible, professional, and overall great people.  I can't wait to have this record on a shelf, hear it on the radio and grow from your reactions - both good and bad.  I'm working to meet all of the love and support I've received in the past few years with an album that is 100% honest, real and the best product I can humanly produce at this point in my career. I want to offer only my greatest effort to give back a project that not only makes me proud, but brings joy, truth, and reflection to those who care enough to listen.

Ah, screw it - here's a video of me laying down the ground-work track for "Southern Angel".  Enjoy

The Life and Times of Joel Prush

Someone asked me if I'd ever truly known who I was.  I've felt for years, confused, misled and uncertain.  These days, I'm more confident than ever in who I am. No facades, no attempts to please or satisfy another - I'm Jordan Eastman, and don't really care what you think of it.  I'm 24 years old. I'm a runaway musician with giant dreams, stubborn determination, and a will stronger than all creation. Despite doubts, fears, and cynicism - I am a Christian. I'm flawed, restless, analytical and hesitant to believe without proof. I love music. I'm a writer. I am an artist. I have 12 tattoos, like Katy Perry, Audrey Hepburn, and smoke a pipe on the regular. I'm dark - but not hopeless. I cry. I make people cry.  I break things that were perfect, to build something else less flawless with the pieces and hang them up somewhere. I want things. I feel tense with too much structure. I can sew, cook, and touch my head to the ground by doing a back bend. My brothers call me Joel Prush. I hate arrogance nearly as much as poor songwriting and want to defend people I trust. I drink 4-5 litres of Dr Pepper a day and used to feel afraid of everything. It's hard for me to let things go. Nothing really scares me, anymore. There are sides of me I've never shown and things I've never spoken of. I live in Nashville, TN.  I can't say, "I love you" - but deeply love things - just not very many; and only the well deserved.  I have the greatest family in existence. I have incredible friends and support beyond measure. I'm not good at trusting. My Dad is the strongest man alive. I am blessed. I'm over critical, but feel like perfection is faux reality. I hate good singers, climb everything, and, chances are, if you give me something, I'm going to make something else out of it. I'm direct to a point of offensiveness. I will talk about anything and few things make me uncomfortable. I am happy. My favorite song in the whole dark, world is "If I Had a Boat" by Lyle Lovett. Tomorrow makes me smile and yesterday is a bit exaggerated. Don't ask me what my songs are about. I kick boxes and shake everything in stores to see what kind of sound they make. I'm colorblind. I can convince you of anything. I want to help people and have caused more hurt than imaginable. There are still two songs that bring back things I don't want to visit. I'll leave the room when they begin. I live on $7 a day. I am far from innocent. I'm forgiven and some people still won't talk to me. I've been in love twice. I'm not in love now. I have scars on my knuckles. Most of my friends are girls. I hate co-writing because I feel like I'm better at it than you. I play 26 instruments. I've read 6 dictionaries, 3 thesauruses, and 2 encyclopedia sets cover to cover. I use words people don't know and make jokes that no-one understands. I don't shut up sometimes. I'm a performer, I'm a realist, and tell stories about the un-reality I desire. I lied to everyone for years. I'm finally honest. I don't need anyone else. I want to know things and am way older than my age. I'm better now...or at least working on it...

This Post Has a Title. This is it.

There seems this endless desire to know me. To talk of repercussions and consequences like past mistakes set fire to future destinations. Like old haunts black tomorrow and days past can't be escaped. From what I've learned, the past is nothing more than fragments to collect and stare back on whenever some new being gets close enough to force you to dig them up. Selfish taker, what gives you the right to search through me like an old, found, journal; learn my lines to tuck me safely away, beneath your bed - forgotten, but a comfort knowing I'm nearby? Selfish taker, I'll Bogart shove you on a plane and urge you to forget me, while you swear you care and fly away - I'll be your fragment soon; whenever some foul, wretch encroaches on your troubled past. You'll find me. Haunts roam like that. So crush them smaller, Darling, stomp through the shards and shattered glass until they're more like salt and pure like sand. Light the drifters and burn the pages and maybe soon, we'll all be free. Perhaps we already are. Hold fast, for here exists by time old somewheres; but sometimes somewhere is someplace someone shouldn't speak of. It makes us human - it makes us, us - isn't that good enough without revelation? Leave me silent and love the truths you earn. Who cares what the legos are made of, just build something timeless and enjoy the standing castle...

Portuguese Starfish and a Pale, British Jesus

Everything was beautiful and senseless and dark - until you came around, spreading your hope and light like some kind of all-entrenching plague. I don't want your clarity - who feels with clarity and sense? Clock ticking  echos and you were gone - like air beneath waves - dispersed. All things end and all things vanish; I just didn't see it folding out this way. I doubt the Heat did either - 27 games is a strong run to shatter. No matter, they'll win the title and move on to better things.
Speaking of better things, I compiled a list of "Better Things to do Than Post Your Uninformed Political Opinion on Facebook".

The list is as follows:

 "Better Things to do Than Post Your Uninformed Political Opinion on Facebook"

1)  Anything

There is this show on TV called "The Bible".  I attempted watching it and, despite the gaping holes in story-line, pale skin and over-dramatic acting, what amazed me most was the incredibly spot on, british accents EVERYONE had. I understand that the most predominant translation of the Bible is the King James - but just because it was translated into olde English, doesn't mean that they really spoke that way. It astounds me that they seemed to overlook the fact that they were all Jewish...exceptionally Jewish, for that matter.

Follow:

I am a 24 year old, caucasian, American, male.  I dress like a punk rock cowboy and my life is a story. I've traveled, played tours, wrestled bears, jumped trains, slept places, seen things and ate stuff most people wouldn't. Now, imagine a Portuguese starfish finds my story in some unwritten journal somewhere...or even this blog, for that matter. He is intrigued, "what a fascinating and assumably charming individual this Jordan was". He thinks to himself. "I've never heard of a stronger, wiser, more sensually desirable man than he. Women swoon in his presence and Clark Gable wished to be him - I must tell the world of this glorious legend!" Excited, he leaps from his coral bed and awakens his servants. Being the Monarch he is, he hires a half dozen hundred starfish, slave, monks - commonly referred to as Starmonks - to translate the tale into 12th Century, Old Gutnish - the most commonly shared dialect within the Portuguese starfish community.
Alright, let's skip ahead awhile - maybe, 26-800 years from now, give or take a few weeks - my story is internationally renowned, it's been translated into nearly every language in the world, every hotel room has a copy and my name is banned in schools...but encouraged in prisons...but walked around in politics...but sworn by in court...but debated by scholars...but used as an excuse for insurance companies to avoid responsibility...There are myriad tellings of my life - but, the MSV (Monarch Starfish Version) is the most famous, as it was the first and most accurate translation. Someone decides to make a film of my life, based of the MSV. It will be perfect, the whole journey, beginning to end, a telling of my entire story. Millions of dollars are poured into this project; the costumes must be perfect, the story must be accurate, the scenes, setting and names must be in order. Research is researched, reading is read and studies are studied - this is going to be 100% accurate and every detail will be just as it really happened. The flick is released, the lights go down, the scenes play out and the story is debatably close - I am portrayed as a young American, I dress like a punk rock cowboy, I sing, dance, play and travel, I am exceptionally suave and women adore me - but - despite all attempts at perfection, I am played by a Portuguese Starfish and speak a Nordic language that I've never heard and has been dead for centuries. Accuracy - shattered.

Say what you want, I understand doing "The Bible" in English - it's relatable and far more watchable.
I'm fine with that - but still, why have British accents and cast the wrong race entirely?
I don't care what tradition tells you, I'll never be a Portuguese Starfish with a Viking accent...

But Who Will Save the Savior?

I once had these dreams and aspirations that were crushed and stomped out by new dreams and aspirations.

All I could think was, "What's the point of dreaming if I'm only to out-dream myself?"
But before I finished dreaming, I dreamed some bigger thing and forgot those tired, old dreams all together.

Then time went on and dreams turned to calloused stones and birthed the doubt that living wasn’t worth the endless effort. But despite my growing faithlessness, I still have hope in saviors. I’ve been haunted by these demons and graceless fallen angels - but there’s an antonym for everything, so there must be something beautiful reaching down to drag me out while all these terrors fight to claim my longing soul - at least I think so. My knees are bleeding from the rocks and falls and there’s dirt beneath my fingernails from how I’ve crawled and clawed through the soil to dig my own deep and early grave. But Hell still hasn’t claimed me yet and I’m nobody’s slave. So I stick my hands inside of my chest and tear out my crying heart and try to nurse it back to life and wash away the filth to no avail. I can’t save my falling self - I can’t do it; I just fail.

Still I beat against the rocks to try to break the calloused shell; but nothing works.

Instead my hands just start bleeding. I'm in need of something because right now I feel defeated.

So I stumble to this churchyard, but find it’s been set fire by the raging flame of apathy.

No one cares to rescue me - for the congregation is too preoccupied with some new social gathering to realize that they’re all just dying together - unaware that their shelter is burning down. I stagger in with my bloody clothes and my iron heart but no one seems to see a problem.
I scream, “I’ve got these dire needs and I need somebody to solve them!”
But no one has an answer or solution to absolve them - they just hug me and say, “We’re praying for you, son. It’s going to be okay.” Then, instead of washing off my wounds, they condemn my injured faith and whisper of how far I’ve fallen and sad it is that it’s now a mystery if I’ll be saved.

But I know that answers can be found and heard that mercy never falters.

So I take what pieces I could salvage from the walls of the church’s ashes and neglected altars and tie them together with rope from the flagpole; and use what’s left of the tattered banner as a sail atop the fragile ship that I created. Church and state are integrated as I cast my timid vessel to the arms of the raging sea.

For the first time in awhile I believe that I’ll be free again - or that I’ll at least die trying to find what my father told me comforts him. Waves beat hard and the wind batters my tiny ship to pieces. I scream for help - I scream for Jesus! Then, out of nowhere, this hand grabs firmly to mine and drags me onto this rock in the middle of the ocean somewhere. There’s still endless commotion everywhere, but I feel at peace despite the violent, vicious storm. You throw my iron heart to the ocean floor. I watch it sink and break apart and float back up as something pure and innocent. You act as if I’ve never let you down before - and I swear I never will again. Now, when I look back on the shipwrecks, I don’t see hurt - I see survival

I feared damnation, but revival sparks a flame that recreates the burned down churches and builds walls stronger than the tempest’s spiral. Healing comes in stages. Pain hurts and scars can change us. My haunts are all on burning pages, but they brought me to whatever shore I’m found today. I’m stronger for the fractures and no shattered legs can keep me from climbing all these mountains that I’ll claim. Still, my past is full of sinners and my future’s filled with error, I’m afraid. But if cells can re-create themselves and forests grow from fallen seeds that should have withered  - then I have faith in a forgiver.

Even Jesus Christ himself once prayed for saving - but no one saved the savior so the world could one day feel the grace of changing. Falls are part of living and everyone needs saving.

We're all in need of saving

We're all in need of saving

Nothing Wrong With Shyness. In Fact, You're Quite Adorable

Have you ever felt that presence? You know, the one that ticks within your mind and keeps you just lucid enough to deprive you of sanity? Tick tick tick. I'll tear out the walls for the source of irritation. It's not right, rotate my bed and arrange the books in the corner. That's not right either. Re-order the things how they were. Maybe if I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling long enough it will all go away and everything will just be over. Maybe I won't wonder anymore and all that driving senselessness will disperse. It won't. It's become normality, these raging mental wars and doubts and unbalanced, pulsing heart beats. I wonder, sometimes, amidst all the questions and wondering, if there's more than endless struggle and a pointless, dreamer's existence? What if that undefined deep, gripping, nothingness that keeps me grasping for something and hoping that someday, somehow I'll make it is really just a backlash of insecurity and tragic, emotional misunderstanding? It's senselessness, it all. It's been hours or weeks or minutes or days - it doesn't matter - I've been sitting here, staring at the white, painted ceiling for what feels like a dozen lifetimes. It's a prison cell and I'm allowed to walk free; and that's what's heinous about the whole thing; I walk free. I sing and talk and move about but face the consciousness of being caged and held and tortured by whatever unseen thing will haunt me. I run and tour; but it's always present. It stops sometimes, the ever-revolving constant. It rests, building steam and plowing full speed ahead - until she walks in the room. She calms me and the demons hide awhile. It isn't love; just a presence that sees the soul. I'm not an artist or a writer or poet or liar or singer or anything much more than nothing to her - I'm just this kid from Florida with wide eyed dreams and irrational aspirations. I'm more than fictitious hope and faux-confidence that I'll reach the lights and the long nights and the ten thousand voices screaming beneath the monstrous, engulfing stages. It's not a blurry, twisted, fight to trudge on and keep from falling but a literal existence to her. Existence, you hear? I exist beyond paper and struggle and amplified reality broken down to glorified pieces of something in poetry. Maybe I don't. Either way it's calming and I'm not calm now. Maybe I'm tired. I haven't slept in three days and everything seems distant. What's it really matter anyway? Kings and paupers and poets - we're all just hoping for purity and our portion of grace eternal come judgement day. Sure the living matters, but what of the greatness? I'll die alone and reach the same immortal end as if I passed in the loving arms of thousands. I don't want to be great; I just want to be heard. If greatness accompanies, so be it. If not, no pride will be hurt. I'm too shameful for pride regardless. What do dirty hands and tattered souls know of arrogance. Perhaps too much too often.
I keep staring at the door with this sort of desperate hope that it'll open and you'll walk in and save me. Maybe we'll just sit in the corner and sing for awhile. You always sing so grippingly. You're timid and shy and the way you blush and tremble when you perform is more endearing than embarrassing. I love that you almost need me and use my faith to get through the frightening lines. No need for nerves, my dear - I'll guard your heart and keep all the critics at bay. You sound amazing and look even better than I claim. So lock stares with mine and we'll play through the night 'till your stormy eyes close for their resting. Dream sweet, my dear. Dream sweet...

I Won't Let You Down; I'll Always Let You Down Again...

Everything stopped. Nothing was moving. My mind was stagnant. I felt emotionless. That's brilliant for some. For me it was homicide. Like infection on the brink of cure; it couldn't last forever - I hoped. How cancerous can stagnancy become? Asphyxiate. Suffocate. Contemplate. Knock knock. Shatter shatter. The Harriet Tubman of imagination arrived to release my soul to freedom - thank God. The faucet turned on and ink, like bleeding wounds, ran rampant. It covered the pages, it tore through the paper as if searching for some buried secret and wouldn't rest until all was uncovered. I found it. Deep within the wells of conscience, it was. Flooding out like fountains, it poured. I drowned in it. It covered me. My hands looked like a typesetter and my white heart grew speckled with black oil and fingerprints. The billows grew. growing, growING, grOWING, GROWING! Splash, splash, splash! I swam through the streaming muses and clung to my pen to stay afloat in the churning waves of flowing thought. Undertows dragged me to the ocean floor. sink! Sink! SINK! Blackness. Everything was black there. Tiny fish lived in tiny houses with tiny front doors and tiny windows. They wore tiny sweaters and drove tiny, little cars to their respective work-places. Where was I? Did I die? I couldn't have. All I was doing was writing a ridiculous story. BANG! Biting claws. Bright light. I was torn from the inkwell and ripped through the sky and up to some place high above everything. Dear God, it felt windy. Flying. I looked down on the storm and the waves and the ships being eaten alive by the monstrous ocean of devouring ink I'd created. It all seemed so brooding. I smiled. Black rain poured from even blacker drawings of ever growing storm clouds. Screaming, childish, letters clung desperately to pages for safety - while the pages, growing soggy from the fluid, fought heroically to stay afloat despite the added weight. Pirate ships and princesses from other sonnets and stories soon appeared; washed in by the raging vastness, I suppose. What a gathering. Serpents climbed from the deep to swallow prose and consume full paragraphs of things that I had written. I fought to find structure in the chaos of beauty and destruction. CRASH! Lightning. Thunder boomed. I covered my ears. I fell. Down. down? DOWN! and onto some random island. Shivering, frightened, Rhymes gathered in groups, hiding from the rain and consoling younger Lines near the fading shoreline. The rain poured violently. What was left anymore? I walked the island but soon discovered it to be merely a dinner plate lost within the ever rising flow of endless endlessness. I didn't see it ending. "We're all lost!" faithless Lyics cried. The rain poured in and the plate kept sinking. Soon there was no one left. Alone. I floated a while - clutching to whatever helpless substance floated by; a wasted thought or a drowning fragment, a lifeless phrase or broken piece of tainted inspiration. Finally, I guess it all ended; or I just got rather sick of it all. I found myself back on the couch, mindlessly flipping through photographs and questioning my ability to reason. No ink. No source of brilliance or clever composition. Just vastness. My hands are no longer black with toil and my paper looks pure and un-attended. It's raining now; fitting for such an occasion. Some black&white film skips across the television and reminds me of black and white pictures in some black and white story about black ink oceans and white dinner plates I once read somewhere. Penguins fit quite easily here. Killer Whales too. It went like that for awhile; my cluttered thoughts and memories. Then everything stopped. Nothing was moving. My mind was stagnant. I felt emotionless. That's brilliant for some. For me it was homicide...

If It Weren't For the Wrong, All Would Be Right in the World

I don't even know where to begin. In the last 6 weeks I've been to 14 states, played two dozen shows, written 17 songs, met some incredible performers, got $2 from (and had a conversation with) Lionel Richey, broke both thumbnails, and have been in more fights than I have in the (combined) year plus that I've lived in a truck. 

I started a blog with all of my lyrics. If you're into my music, you should check it out and follow it. It's called www.jordaneastmanlyrics.blogspot.com. There are links to YouTube clips and other such hidden gems as well

I met a new producer the other day. We've been tossing around the idea of recording a new EP. Maybe 5 or 6 songs in a well produced, minimalist sort of way. I'd love to track another record. I'd do one ever 6 months if I had the resources. I'm thinking 1924, Holding Bloody Hands, Who Cries Over Dead Spiders, Redemption?, and Audrey Hepburn Would'a Loved Me for this one? Let me know if you have any suggestions for songs you'd like to hear on it. There are too many songs I'd like to record...maybe I'll do Maybe It Will All Make Sense When We're Grown...I don't know...maybe Sink! Sink!...

Ellipses after an exclamation point look weird.

What stream of consciousness I've written in.  I keep staring at this girl with Texas-large hair at the table across from me. She probably thinks she's beautiful.  She probably thinks that I think that she's beautiful. I think that she thinks too much and needs to think about calming her hair down and think about looking presentable before thinking about being beautiful. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder - but in her case the beholder can't get past the huge, monster tall, space monkey hair that's breeding on top of her tiny little mouse sized head. I bet her head is normal sized beneath that monstrosity of cannibalistic self indulgence. I should go talk to her. Did you see what I just did? I made a joke about her being able to speak english instead of the Jupiter strange language spoken in whatever black abyss she fell from.

I think I played one of the most fun shows of my life in Indianapolis last night. My shows for the weekend had been canceled, so I found a last minute gig and had an amazing time. Great PA, awesomely responsive crowd and got to meet some really cool guys; one of which managed to keep up with (and often surpass) me in a conversation about the Clash, Guthrie and Dylan. He even gave me a dollar for a CD that I'd given him for free. 

If it weren't for the wrong, all would be right in the world...

Dust Clouds on the Neverland Horizon

It's August 14. I've lived in my truck before, I've run away before, this year alone I've toured nearly 5 1/2 months...and still I felt terrifyingly apprehensive in quitting my day job, leaving my apartment and heading out of Nashville to God only knows where. I knew I would; nothing held me this time. But any great opportunity starts with the crippling hurdle of fear. 26 days ago, I broke it. I'm an outlaw again, praise Jesus. Be gone worry, be gone woe, all restlessness depart me, for these are rough lands, the Wild West - full of dust clouds and over-romanticized dreams of danger and endless freedom. What a glorious adventure life becomes when you let it. There's no direction, really. No tour this time, no scheduled stops; just me in a truck-bed, running where I go and winding up anywhere but somewhere certain. I travel a lot, there is just always a road-map and a budget and seventy six million things to account for. For now, the road signs don't matter and time is irrelevant. I jumped a train for miles, from some town deep in Arkansas. I spent a whole day finding my way back to my belongings. I've been through cities, through states, under bridges and estuaries; at one point, I leapt from a train, off a railway bridge and into the churning waters below. For a brief moment, everything seemed silent. The contrast of subtle peace and the horrifying reality that my legs might shatter and leave me a victim to the violent waves felt flawless. I just sort of fell for awhile...3-2-1...I hit the waves, fell to the bottom and realized, I'm not afraid to die. That's the only reason I'm even alive anymore. I rolled down river, over rocks and old pines to some place calm enough to escape. What a feeling. I'd like the be found in a river one day. Wouldn't that be a fitting end? There's something about drowning that just feels honest.

Days pass and the deserts feel haunting; like ghosts of old times past still roam the hills and bring the sensation that living is still worth the effort. It's beautiful. I haven't slept indoors and, apart from creek falls and lake beds, haven't bathed in a fortnight. I'm dirty and poor, walking cities and driving aimlessly. I'm in Oklahoma, Missouri, Texas, Arizona, California one day, then wherever...running away...isn't it what everyone really wants to do anyway? Run away? Most simply do it in bottles and pill-packs - I choose to do it on dirty plains and railway cars. I'll tell you one thing, I have never felt more freaking God-bless-ed-American than I do right now. There is no luxury, no commodity. Just time and place and the freedom to dive into cities and experience life in the way it was meant to be experienced. Not the bastardized, over-indulgent, version we've all grown accustomed to. Things will all change in awhile. I'll tour again. I'll clean up again. I'll grow up and grow old and find love and some home and we'll all settle down and be happy. But for now, for these few, brief moments, while the sun beats down and the world falls to pieces and everyone tries to find something to cling to - I'm not. I want my freedom. I want to hope and have peace and see things and go farther and live life for the stories that no one will believe - so I do. I can't wait for some suit in some office to give me my shot at freedom. I do it myself. It hurts awhile, but not like the sting of office chairs and blue-tone wallpaper. Paperclips and post-it notes become prison cells to most. No one's ever really ready for this kind of thing. We all were born ready for this kind of thing. We're all outlaws and runaways in our own, quiet ways; most of us are just too grown up to admit it. I grew up once, perhaps far too quickly. I think this time, I'll just outgrow the world...

4

July 4th. I sat on some bridge, among some stupid crowd, watching colors explode and wondering why I was in some new town west of anywhere certain.  Some independence. My phone rang. I saw your name and turned you down. You texted me. You called me "Dearest" and said you missed me. It's weird to think how that may be the last time we talk for awhile. "Dearest Jo," you called me - some last words.  I still want you around. I still kind of hope I'll run into you in some random town and it'll all start over like new. Stranger things have happened, I guess. Some bright-eyed, over-romantic, too young to know life's not all that pretty sort of broad told me that people act indifferent to prove how much they care. What if they if they really just don't care?

Interview With Florida Music Magazine

Here's an interview I got to do with a local music magazine in St. Augustine, FL during my last tour.  It's sad, but I honestly can't remember what the mag was called. I think it was Fuse or Fuze...or Muse, maybe?...something like that...maybe it was Fuel...I'll post it once I find out. 

Anyway, here's the article that came out this week: 

---------------------------------------------------------

Interview With Nashville Folk Artist Jordan Eastman

By Dan London

I recently was fortunate enough to discover a booming new folk/indie artist from Nashville, TN called Jordan Eastman.  I was impressed by his open writing and had been following him for a few months, when I realized he would be playing several dates around Central Florida. I managed to get in touch with him and he agreed to sit down with me and do an interview. 

It was about 2:30pm when I arrived for our meeting and Jordan was already there. When I walked up, he was sitting on a bench, smoking a pipe and looking more punk rock than the hipster, folk singer I expected. Despite the fact that it was nearly 100 degrees outside, he was dressed in all black – apart from his red socks and brown hat - and had a coat thrown over the back of the bench like he’d just taken it off.  I turned on my recorder, introduced myself and he quickly jumped up to shake my hand as we dove right in.

Me:  expecting it to cool down?

Jordan Eastman:  (laughing) Nah, I feel like I always have a jacket. I just like to be prepared, you know? I’ve also got a lighter to start some fires later and a rope belt in case I need to swing across a canyon or something.

Me:  …and the pipe?

JE:  It helps me solve mysteries and look nostalgic.

Me: It smells good

JE: It should. This stuff was like $10 an ounce from this shop down on George st.  I got my first pipe ever there, actually.

Me:  Well thanks for coming all the way up here. I know it’s out of the way.  

JE: No problem, man. I love St. Augustine. It’s always been one of my favorite cities. It’s kind of been a sort of “run to” point for me for awhile. I used to drive up here when I was a kid whenever I just wanted to get away and think for awhile. It’s so calming.

Me: So you grew up here?

JE: I kind of grew up all over Florida, really. I was born in Titusville but feel like I spent most of my time in Melbourne; Tampa in later years, but mostly Melbourne growing up.

Me:  So what brought you to Nashville?

JE:  Ah man, I don’t really know, Impulse, maybe? I’d lived in Florida and California, then back in Florida and was touring around and it just kind of happened. A bunch of little things led up to it, I guess, but essentially I just left on a whim. I think it was a Wednesday when I decided to go and left Thursday morning sometime.

Me:  Wow, so nothing to do with it being Music City or the connections or anything?

JE:  Not really. I’m sure it played into it, but really I just wanted to leave. I kind of came up with nothing and just lived in my truck for 6 months. Honestly, it was one of the best experiences of my life. I think I needed it.

Me:  So tell me about the tours. Where have you covered so far.

JE:  Man, I’ve been all over the place. I was gone all of February and March doing a Midwest/Northeast run so that was Chicago, Indy, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, down to D.C., Philly, New York…I think I covered 23 states. You name it and I probably went there. It was something stupid like 45 shows in 41 days or something like that; not to mention It was all through the absolute coldest places I could find in the middle of winter and all by myself.  I pretty much pointed at the map and said, “no one else would ever go there this time of the year.” Have you ever been to Lake Eerie in the middle of February? It’s stupid. I actually thought I was booking a southeast tour but didn’t realize till after it was booked that I’d been holding the map upside down. (laughing) Anyway, as far as this trip goes, though, it’s been really short. I’ve only been out since last Friday and I have 5 or 6 shows left after tonight.

Me: Then back to Nashville?

JE:  Yes Sir.

Me: Let’s talk about your writing style. It’s very personal and very open. Is it hard to write that way?

JE:  It’s not necessarily hard to write that way. I just think by being that confessional and open, it takes a lot more guts to perform; mainly because you have no walls. You’re just kind of up there telling everybody what you’d never say to them in person, you know? But I like it that way. I feel like everybody presents themselves in a certain light that they want to be presented in and, often times, its plastic and a complete façade.  Like we want to present ourselves in such an acceptable and perfect manner that we lose track of who we are. I hate that. I know I have walls up, and I think writing, for me, is a chance to take down everything and say what I’m generally terrified of saying.  It’s scary but comforting at the same time. I guess because if I get called out on it I can always say it was just a song. It’s kind of a safety net to replace the walls I removed, if that makes sense to you.

Me: Completely.  I notice you use a lot of imagery and references to death and afterlife. Are you worried about dying?

JE:  Oh absolutely not. It’s what we live for, isn’t it? Our entire lives are based on trying to do things right before we die. It’s like a stopwatch and we’re all trying to do the best we can before our time runs out.  To me dying is beautiful. It’s the end of all the misery and suffering everybody struggles through. It’s a reward.  I don’t mean like, “congratulations, you made it, you’re dead now” kind of reward; but it’s an accomplishment of successfully living your life to the end.  The fact that I believe in a heaven makes dying even greater. What would be the purpose of living if death wasn’t in the picture?  We’d just go on and on and on and on and, honestly, that’s more depressing than fading out.

Me: So you feel like death is a reward?

JE: I feel like it’s a comforting end to hold on to. Knowing that no matter how dark things get or how rough a situation might be, there is an end; at best things get resolved and you live on happily – at worst you die and have no more pain.  There’s no darkness that way. If the worst thing that can happen to you brings the most beautiful result, what is there to fear?

Me:  That’s a good point. I’ve never really thought of it that way.  Was that the central theme in, “Sing, Sweet Broken Hearted?” You seem to swing back and forth between dark and hopeful throughout the album. Even the title says that.

JE:  Yeah, for sure. Life’s dark. You’re born, you live for awhile, and then you die. Most people don’t even live. You spend your whole life in a cubicle laying groundwork for a the next generation to benefit from and periodically take a few days off from working to halfway live on a cruise ship somewhere. You want to talk about dark, that’s more depressing than anything I can write. Life is full of heartache; whether it’s menial with bills or working or something heavy like depression or disease, we all have troubles. Every movie and every story on a bookshelf is about those troubles. That’s what makes us different from fish or lizards or something. If they have a problem it results in them dying. If we have problems, we have the option to resolve it or dwell in it. That’s what I wanted this record to say. I wanted it to convey the message that no matter what you’re going through, keep going. It’s going to get better. If you’re only happy during happy situations, you were never happy to begin with. Joy should be un-situational. When joy is situational, when the situation turns south you’re left with nothing. That’ll kill you. Issues come and go, situations change; joy has to be constant. Sometimes life’s so dark that the only light anyone can find is dying. I’m not scared of death, it’s an invitation to something far better. I hope nobody cries at my funeral unless they’re crying because I beat ‘em home. I wanted this record to be have the conflicting emotions that life often gives us

Me:  That’s interesting and I think makes it relatable. What are some of the things that you feel set you apart from other writers?

JE: You mean genre wise or songwriting?

Me: Either, just overall.

JE: Well, I don’t think too many people travel around the world stomping on a box and kicking tambourines on a nightly basis. That’s different. Apart from that, I think just sincerity.  I feel like a lot of music today just isn’t honest anymore. It’s all about drink this, do that, dance here, bang there and it loses all sense of conviction. It’s just shallow and vapid and makes me want to vomit.  At least if I can stand up every night and sing something I believe in, I feel like I’m fighting that trend.  Whether I’m the best songwriter or the best lyricist or the best whatever I couldn’t give a crap – I just want to say something I believe.  I feel like guys like Joe Strummer or Bob Dylan had so much to say and their stuff is so timeless that it reaches everyone in every generation. That’s what I want to do. I want to say something that’s timeless, in a genre that’s timeless and gives people a reason to listen. My 9 year old sister can get up and right a one dimensional, three and a half minute pop song about nothing. Whether it’s “radio friendly” or not, I want to write something I feel based off something I’ve experienced, no matter how dark or happy or sad or poppy it is. I just want every line to mean something and resonate.

Me:  I notice in both your album, “Sing, Sweet Broken Hearted” and in your live performances, you sing a lot about being alone and people leaving. Is that from personal experience or just a perception?

JE: (laughing) yeah, about that…like everything else, I think it’s a little of both. I had a pretty rough stretch awhile ago where a lot of painful things happened that lead up those songs. I’m far less jaded now then I was back then, but I think it’s an emotion that’s still easy for me to channel so it’s easy for me to write about. I think trust is an issue I’ve always struggled with, though.  

Me: So do you feel like it’s affected your current relationships? 

JE:  They say the only thing harder than keeping a relationship together is keeping a band together. In case you didn’t notice, I’m touring alone.  So…

Me: (laughing) so no relationship?

JE:  No relationship. (laughs) I’d love to figure something out with a friend of mine back home, but I’m not getting into that with someone I just met on a park bench. I think when you write 900 songs about not trusting and thousand more about leaving town, maybe one of them hits home.

Me: I’m sure. So what do you think brought about your sound today? You look punk and there are tinges of that angst in the music, but at the same time it hints more at old country and folk and a million things in between. How does something like that come around?

JE:  It’s street music, man. Making do with what you have. I grew up playing punk and tried to do the whole band thing for years. It just takes too much dependency. Depending on musicians is such a gamble; depending on punk musicians is like trusting Hitler with your dark haired baby. It just seemed like we’d always get to a point where things were looking up then something would happen, so I decided to do something I could do alone because I’m not going to quit.  For a while I tried to make everything punk. I’d write these folksy, outlaw-country songs and then speed them up to sound more punk rock. It worked, I guess, but everything looses a lot of honesty when played like that. I wanted to express something and found that, when I played by myself on the couch, it was easy – but when I played for a crowd at double the tempo it didn’t translate well. They liked the performance aspect, but the sincerity wasn’t there.   Honestly, not trying to still ride the whole relationship thing, but realistically I think my ex-wife had a lot to do with it.  She was an amazing girl, but flat out hated my music. She always made fun of the way I sang or how I tried to swing everything punk and because I couldn’t stop writing, I started trying to write all of these country songs for her. I absolutely hated them and they were just some awkward kind of rockabilly at first, but eventually I found something all my own that was just something I sort of kept to myself. To me, people wanted to hear rock and roll, you know? After she left, I was pretty torn up and started writing all of these really great songs that just didn’t work sped up. After awhile, a light bulb went on and I recorded all these songs just raw and honest, how I wrote them. When I heard them, they felt so much more real than the bastardized versions I’d been doing live. Since I had this overwhelming sense of apathy toward everything anyway,  when I started playing out around again, I didn’t try to make anything tough and I just played the songs the way I wrote them and didn’t care if people liked them or if they sounded too slow or country or folk or pop or whatever. People loved it. So I kept doing it. Eventually, when I came to Nashville, I started playing out on the street and taking things from street performers and just kind of drawing from whatever I could. I remember seeing a duo with a guitar and a kid on a cajon with a tambourine. I thought, “I can do that by myself”.  So the next day I dragged this giant, old box and a tambourine down Broadway and made $400 in just a few hours. For the first time, people were crowded all around me and actually listening and telling me how great I was. I was like, “people listened to my words because I did the same thing in a different way.” I think that’s when I realized that people just want something different enough to feel like they’re branching out, but still familiar enough to not feel like they’re stepping too far from what they’re comfortable with.  Honestly, I’m not really doing anything different from anyone else; I’m just doing something nobody else is really doing.

Me: It’s funny how things come around like that. One thing leads to another until it makes something new.  So what artists do you think have influenced that the most?

JE:  I get a lot of Dylan comparisons. I think mainly because I play acoustic guitar and harmonica and write songs that say something to people. It’s not just, “dance, dance” or “let’s get drunk,” but rather something I’m passionate about and I’m not afraid to point fingers or say what I’m feeling at the moment. I think any time anyone comes along and does that, with songs like that, they get compared to Dylan. That’s what’s so great about him; he’s one of the best. He’s timeless enough to transcend generations and be the writer the good writers are compared to. I get Cash and Joe Strummer a lot too; probably because I seem dark and angry or something like that. Really though, anyone who is passionate and lets that passion convey I’m intrigued by. I think the Gaslight Anthem and the Killers both do that pretty well. Not Bright Eyes though.

Me: What’s wrong with Bright Eyes?

JE:  Nothing, he’s just plastic and insincere. I’d love to work with him though. Great writer.

Me: (laughing) would you ever work with Coldplay?

JE: No

Me: never?

JE:  No. Not unless we were working on a song that would end their career.

Me: (laughing) I’ll remember that.  What would you say is your favorite stuff to write? Online you post a lot of slower material, but live you seem to do primarily upbeat, rowdier songs.  Does that go back to the punk roots?

JE:  I don’t know…probably. It’s still hard for me to do slow songs live.  I feel like my best songs are the slow ones. Every time I do a YouTube video for a song or play a radio interview it’s usually a dark, slower one I turn to. I find that I still have to force myself to do the slow ones live.

Me: I think it’s hard for most artists to do slow songs live.

Je:  I think we’re afraid of losing the audience. I’m at the point now where I’m comfortable doing 4 or 5 in every set and, when I do, they’re the ones that seem to grab the audience the most. People forget about the upbeat ones once the show’s over; but the slow songs are the ones I always have people come up and talk to me about when I’m done. I just forget that between nights, I guess.

Me: Do you ever get bad responses to your live show?

JE:  Oh yeah. They hate me in New York, man.  I can play in Hoboken and have no problems; but in New York, I’m like some hillbilly wrecking ball.  I got booed off stage…well, I never left stage…but I got booed and cleared the room in Manhattan one night.  I was playing between two metal bands and started out with a packed room and, after being called everything you can think of, people started leaving.  By the time I was done there was one guy sitting back in the corner.  They stole all my merch too; which is ironic.

Me: (laughing) Well, maybe you’ll see some metal kid blaring your album next time you go up there.

JE: I fully expect that.

Me: That’d be awesome Well man, that’s all I’ve got for you. Thanks again for coming all the way up here. Where can people find your music?

JE: Yeah, for sure. Any time. Just go to

www.facebook.com/jordaneastmanmusic or www.reverbnation.com/jordaneastmanmusic and you can find the record on iTunes or Amazon. I think it’s on a few other sites as well. 

Me: Thanks again and best of luck to you. 

Tour Dates

upcoming tour dates for a short southeastern run.

6/15 - Woodpark, GA

6/16 - Bowling Green, KY

6/18 - Knoxville, TN

6/18 - Atlanta, GA

6/19 - Daytona Beach, FL

6/22 - Winterpark, FL

6/23 - Ybor City, FL
6/25 - Nashville, TN

1924 (Acoustic)

Here's a video of me doing "1924" in my bedroom last night. I got a lot of the lyrics mixed up...but it's my song so who cares...Enjoy!

"1924"

(copyright 2012)

Momma, the radio keeps playing all the sad songs

The kind that make a grown man like me want to cry

Sometimes I take my heart and tear it off my sleeve

Then wash it off and ring it out and hang it up to dry

Oh oh, darlin' don't you know

You can have my heart forever if you never let me go

Oh oh oh oh

Please, don't ever let me go

Some pray for blessings while others simply steal

As the sinners on their death beds hope to God He isn't real

But me, I only hope and me, I only pray

That you and I will be together on my dying day

But what about my heart? Was it ever really mine?

If you've got the answers then you know I've got the time

If you fear all the answers then you know I've got the lies

But if you want confessions, baby girl, I've got the lines 

oh oh oh oh

Haunt Me No More

check out this video for a live/acoustic version of my new song,

 "Haunt Me No More"

Let me know what you think. 

Been booking 3 more tours. I'll post the dates soon.