On Presence & Permanence
“Let’s not be so precious about it. Let’s not try to keep everything in some kind of perfect order. Some of that is fine–it’s good, it’s necessary. But not too much. That's not the point. Nothing lasts forever.” (Unknown)

I.
I’m getting ready to leave home for a week to play shows in cities I haven’t played in for a long time. What can I say about this? I’m leaving behind my wife who is 30 weeks pregnant, and our cat whose love defies words. I’m seeing friends I haven’t seen since before the pandemic, people I’ve considered family for twenty-five, thirty years, an incredible amount of time, one of the best parts about getting older.

II.
Strangely, the older I get, the more nervous I get playing shows. I noticed it in my early thirties, after I’d been playing out for over half my life. At first glance, the motivation seemed obvious: it was after an almost five-year break. But I picked it back up, and the feeling persisted, to varying degrees, sure, but it never completely went away. At the very least, it taps me on the shoulder when I’m unpacking the car at a venue, or when I’m trying to decide what shirt to wear. Maybe it’s an example of neuroplasticity or something adjacent to that, though it feels more like the shrimp allergy I acquired in my twenties, something that wasn’t there until one day it was. Maybe those two things are the same. Whatever it is, it’s where I’m at.

III..
I keep thinking about this essay George Saunders wrote for the New Yorker several years ago. He recounts a time in grad school when he went up to his friend and mentor Tobias Wolff, and said: “I am no longer writing the silly humorous crap I applied to the program with, i.e., the stuff that had gotten me into the program in the first place. Now I am writing more seriously, more realistically, nothing made up, nothing silly, everything directly from life, no exaggeration or humor—you know: ‘real writing.’”

“Well, good!” [Wolff] says. “Just don’t lose the magic.

The magic, in Saunders’s case, is honest writing (you can read the piece for a much less facile explanation), but I’ve told this story to other people countless times and everyone gets it, artists and non-artists alike. We all know what the magic is. But here’s my question: How do you know if it’s moving forward or losing the magic?

IV. .
Eighteen years ago I was at band practice, halfway through running a set for an upcoming show and halfway through a twenty-two ounce Budweiser, a little stoned, feeling more present than I’d ever felt in my life. I’d joined that band hoping to get signed, put out records, tour–all of it. But in that moment I looked at the four other people in the room with me, locked in and gripped, and wondered what the point was. Nothing else felt as important as what we were doing, right then and there. Who cares about playing shows? Who cares about getting signed? All that mattered was the sound we were making. I can remember that sound, albeit hazily – the idea of the sound. Electric, for sure, but flowing and organic, water more than dirt, the sky more than the ground. I definitely don’t remember the show we were practicing for.

V.
We sold out of our records and needed something to sell on the road, so we burned CDs. We decided to make collages for the artwork. John’s more experienced with this than I am, but I’ve gone through phases. Within a couple of days, he was sending me picture after picture of what he’d made. They were brilliant, in my opinion, so immediately evocative. I made a few that I was ambivalent about. When I went over to his house for practice, he showed me some more, and I asked about his approach. He told me and made another right there. He said I should make one too, so I did, trying to emulate his way. He made a second one before I finished.

“How do you know when to stop?” I asked.
“Just pick a number,” he said. “Don’t overthink it.”

VI.
It’s never not strange to feel more than one thing at once. Also, I wonder why the weight in my gut, the heft in my chest – the anticipation of disconnecting, if only for a moment – didn’t show up until now. .

VII.
The songs on this CD came from changes to our routines, part planned and part out of our hands. None of them, I’d say, came out as intended, which is of course okay, the point, maybe. They all lent themselves to changing stages and passing time. When the pandemic hit we, like many others, started passing tracks back and forth, a description of the process that still inspires ineffable warmth. Tracks 1-4 represent that.

Track 5 is different. It was a version of a set we’d been playing. It was sounding good; really good. I thought, why don’t we record a version of this, put it out, let it go. It seemed in step with how we work, part of what this band is. But we kept playing it. It changed, of course – form, structure, and other things – but it hasn’t gone away. Maybe it never will – maybe it’s the only thing we’ll ever play again. Maybe our path as a band is one of playing and recording this thing over and over, until we get it right, or until it decides we’ve gotten it right. Or something else. If you’re reading this, chances are you saw us play it.

VIII.
I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if we had started Tacoma Park twenty years ago. But then I remember that before we did start Tacoma Park, the band did not exist. I don’t know; just don’t lose the magic.
-Ben Felton, July 2023