Cole Mitchell: News

I come from a mongrel world of ragtag friendships, patchwork love affairs, and darned appreciation of the niceties of life--real life. I have walked ten miles in the shoes of those I claim and I have slept in the bosom of the earth and upon stacks of mattresses a hundred feet high and my rest was undisturbed and honest, without shame. I walk with confidence through back alleys, in the wood, on the open plain. Recognizable by those who walk the same, bright-eyed, tattered, regal, unadorned, gifted, rough, peaceful warriors… Curs.

There used to be a place called Jack’s, just west down Central Boulevard from the University towards downtown, which was one of the last bastions of true alcoholism in this land of political correctness. Where you could walk in at the crack of noon and order up a glass of whiskey and get a complementary short pull of beer to back it up. Hell, you could do the same thing at seven a.m. if you wanted or needed it; and if you did, you wouldn’t be by yourself. Jack’s was a place where you never had to drink alone.

The world just doesn’t seem to be as cold when you got someone to drink with, whether you speak or not. In this den, you could find all the vampires, drunks, junkies, working girls and the like. It was a den of contemplation; whether you were reviewing actions taken, regretting a past squandered, or plotting some illicit scheme, believe me, you weren’t the first. Many waited day upon day, night upon night for that elusive opportunity that never appears, they waited nervous but patient, until they starved out or some small opportunity opened up to change their luck. They were interchangeable, one would leave and another one would show up to take their place. Every day it was the same, on the throne at the bar or in a booth at the back, we were holding court, seeing and being seen.

There was a space in time when someone had discarded a mattress by the dumpster behind Jack’s, and the garbage truck would come each week and dump the dumpster and leave the mattress. It was out there in the back of the parking lot for what seemed like months. One Navaho woman used it to turn tricks until she earned more money than she could drink up and bought a bus ticket back to the reservation.

There is a thread running through each of these stories that makes everyone the same. Strip away how unique each of us felt, the suffering and silence or the obvious screams of pain. Each and every one was there for refuge, for rescue. Each was asking for forgiveness, reaching for help, saying throw me line, someone please throw me a line. Pull me in from this raging sea of suffering. The comical aspect of all this is, through all the routine comings and goings, some never even knew they needed or wanted help. Now take this dismal scene and transplant it… anywhere, Anytown USA, any town throughout the world, and there will be those who feel they are trapped there, trapped like flies stuck to a strip of fly tape hanging from a west Texas gas station ceiling.

Primordial reckoning in this context is dealing with one’s past in the mist from whence we came and after doing so hopefully recognizing the light that illuminates the exit from this stage to the next. Now this is no small feat, to even slow down long enough to recognize what’s always been there. For we as human beings move as instinctively to distraction as a herd of cattle going to water, almost mindless, or with no mind fullness. So familiar are we with the mind of distraction that it is effortless to find. Slowing down long enough to recall, much less study, the history we have at our grasp can be tedious, almost painful, especially when we are trying to highlight the mistakes and misdeeds that have caused us misfortune. With careful contemplation, it is without question always ourselves who are the culprits of blame.

So vigorously do we try to shirk responsibility for these actions that the recountings become more and more elaborate as time goes on until our rose-colored history is woven into the fabrics of our minds. Mindfulness and contemplation, avoiding distraction, slowing down and going inside to study what has actually gone on and why, although extremely difficult, is necessary to keep from committing the same mistakes over and over and therefor reducing the difficulties we create for ourselves.

A primordial reckoning may sound like a one-time housecleaning, organizing our thoughts and memories into an understanding of what has and will happen; but, once the reckoning has begun, one is locked into a continuous analytical process the duration of which hinges solely on the effort applied. To this end, we spend our lives on the path seeking illumination from entrance to exit, one stage to the next, and one moment to the next. If our contemplation has been correct, we will have realized early on that to make a journey so long and tedious it’s a pretty good idea to have an experienced guide, one who’s made the trip, who knows the way.

They say a person is only as good as their word so here it is, as promised, our new release. Check it out.


http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/colemitchell4
We’ve been at work all summer fine tuning this fresh bunch of songs, around the camp fire beneath the stars and I think we’ve got ‘em just where we want them to be. Damn near as raw and alive as they’d be if you were sitting around the fire with us. Looking forward to your feedback because it’s all those thirsty ears that keep us riding and playing in the first place. We’ve enjoyed all your comments over the past few months. About house concerts, our recordings and especially the lively repartee having to do with my news journal entries. http://colemitchellmusic.com/news.html Stay tuned to colemitchellmusic.com for new journal entries, tour dates and all the news that’s fit to print. Thank you for allowing us to do what we do out there on the twilight trail.

It’s hard to say if it hurts or not because it’s been going on as long as I can remember. The hide toughens after it heals from each scar and after awhile pain is almost irrelevant. Some would say that those who keep diving back into the boiling oil are masochists. Personally, I’m not necessarily fond of pain, even though I continue to play with fire. There are some things that I won’t do and some that I will continue to do as long as there is breath in my lungs.
For instance, I will not sell my integrity for whatever that’s worth but I will continue to caress the muse for it’s been with me longer than anything or anyone in my life, save for the members of my family that are still alive. Therefore, my skin has thickened into armor akin to the hide of a rhinoceros. If you happen to ask, most folks agree that I’m a pretty good egg in spite of all the reckless years I’ve spent way out on the other side; out on the edge, the fringe of blue collar Americana. There are cynics, though, folks that think I’ll never live up to my potential; I tend to look at these as short-sighted individuals or maybe just middle-of-the-road as far as taste and creativity are concerned.
The funny part of all of this is that I can no more refuse the call to write then I can the age-old call to water; my thirsts will be quenched simultaneously when I move beyond this life. Then there is always the question of dues: Have you paid your dues? Will you pay your dues before you make it? My answer to this question is, “yes I’ve paid my dues, and I’ll be paying till the cows come home.” For I live my art, I don’t consider it a job, though it is work, 24 hours a day. I eat, drink and bleed the words, and I get out of it exactly what I put into it. I believed I’d “made it” the moment I realized there was nothing else I could do; the moment I let it take me over, never to return. So what are the options in living up to my potential? Who dictates the measure? I like it when others are able to enjoy the work but that’s not the reason for doing it; it’s done because I can’t not do it. Though it’s only good for this lifetime, it is the greater part of who I am. In my mind, I have no laurels to lean upon so I will continue to perfect it as long as I am able. For those who watch me toil in disbelief, I have but one thing to say: I’m going to get it right, come hell or high water.

It’s two thousand and nine, the year of our salvation, or at least salvation for some. This year, New Mexico’s legislatures have repealed the death penalty. Not that our tax dollars have made us party to a killing in a good long while but at least in this state it won’t happen again; hopefully not in my lifetime. That’s certainly not the case for our larger sibling to the east, Texas, a whole other country. You’ve got that right, ‘The stars at night are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas.’ Except for our majestic mountains majesty and our world famous green chili, Texas has everything that New Mexico has in spades- bigger and better. I say this in all honesty, for I love my brethren in the great state of Texas. My fellow musicians and artists, of whom there are so many. For the most part I think they are an honorable bunch, merely hoodwinked by politicians and oil tycoons and what would you expect in a country as big as Texas. There’s certainly enough room to hold some of the greatest songwriters and artists who ever lived as well as a great expanse of polluted oil fields. From the beautiful hill country around Kerrville, to the cesspool coast around Port Arthur, from Kinky Friedman’s animal rescue to the Walls at Huntsville, where more people are killed each year by tax dollars then anywhere in the world. The tide is changing though, one small step at a time. Even though New Mexico is one of the largest states in the union, we hold one of the smallest populations at a million five. Though it’s always been an artistic and spiritual Mecca the film industry, Californians and New Yorkers are starting to set up shop in our fair wild western state, and it feels good to think we are actually moving in a progressive manner. Who knows maybe wind and solar generated electricity will catch on and all those folks living off the grid in the hinterlands will be considered progressive examples of how to live a liberally conservative lifestyle.

Kicking rocks down the road of a thousand sins may or may not be a legitimate form of education but an education nonetheless, and only the keenest of the road scholars will survive with their hearts intact. The alumni are many: some have chosen but most have unwittingly stumbled into their studies; a few have received one or more degrees from “legitimate” universities before realizing that life is as treacherous as it looks. Fiction and textbooks are far more forgiving. Any way it happens, our students begin wandering the laboratory of life.

The lowest percentile think they are teaching themselves, that they are learning life’s lessons all on their own; while the middle percentile accept the fact that for learning to occur a teacher is generally needed, and they spend their time searching for qualified instructors. It is only the cream of the crop, the upper one to five percent of the school of hard knocks, life’s university, the true road scholars who are able to realize that everyone they meet, every situation they find, every success and every failure, are their teachers.

I guess I found myself enrolled unwittingly and for awhile I thought I was under my own tutelage. Although I was a good student, it took awhile to realize where the teachings where coming from and where the focus should be trained. This may sound like I rolled out of a sleeping bag one morning with a light bulb glowing above my head or arose from a meditation cushion with profound realizations. Let’s not be hasty. I’m as ignorant as they come about many things, and while the early years of my study where filled with arrogance and foolhardy mistakes, I was led by a mind of passion and a contradictory kind heart. Living by your wits ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, and not nearly as romantic as the retelling of these events may lead you to believe (films, novels… folk songs?). The lessons, though, have been profound; and after ruminating on the consequences of my actions I can see how some may have believed I had no conscience. This couldn’t have been further from the truth, so this became a joke to protect my integrity. I would say I was living the no conscious blues, and I ignored the ones who put this label upon me as if it didn’t matter.

If you’re following me, you’re beginning to understand how tough exteriors, promiscuous leanings, and an out-and-out defiance of authority are merely walls. These structures are feverishly thrown up to protect us, seemingly, from those around us but really from our own minds. Of course this appears to be going on without our knowledge and this is where it begins, the testing process. This is the most difficult part for a road scholar, for you need to slow down for the lessons to catch up with you. You have to go inside and take inventory. If ever … most of us only get to this point on our death-bed. And so for me, imminent death and blindness are what it took to cool my jets, and let the passionate mind mix with the kind heart.

Now I believe I am in the testing mode for the duration, writing my thesis, throwing out the bad ideas and highlighting the good ones. Getting rid of the no conscience blues facade and replacing it with tales from this rough and rocky road that’s got me here. Wisdom coming, although I’ve got a long way to go…………………….

From us to you,
Greetings from the high desert where cactus is in bloom:

May in New Mexico always brings new vigor and hope that we try to build upon through out the year. Thanks for all the e-mails and requests for performances in your neck of the woods. We have just begun the season with a couple of shows in Dallas which come under the house concert/song writer series umbrella. Thanks for the invitations. We will try to fulfill all your requests as the year progresses. Keep those cards and letters, ok, emails coming. If you haven’t visited our cyber bunkhouse (http://www.colemitchellmusic.com/) feel free to do so. We have some fresh items in the new store (http://www.thebizmo.com/flash/bizmo.swf?u=1484962&topbanner=true) such as 'Nobodies Blues' poster Tee shirts and hoodies as well as down loadable images and ring tones of all the classic tunes and some that are out of print or if you checkout the journal page (http://www.colemitchellmusic.com/news.html ) you will find some entries which are elaborations on previously released material, unreleased songs and those in the works. Kind of a heads up on what’s coming! This brings me to Primordial Reckoning.
We’ve kept ourselves busy over the winter recording this album and we are extremely excited about it. This is an all acoustic project recorded with some very good friends and family. The core of the band features a trio of youngsters which I am very proud to work with and would like to introduce to the Americana community. August Johnson (22) playing a trap kit with brushes, as a 70 year old jazz drummer might. Shelby Lee Means, (22) playing stand up base and singing with a voice beyond her years and Jacob means, (20) on hotrod mandolin as if he were Jethro Burns incarnate. Which leads me to the final member of this extraordinary band of Curs, I am pleased to reintroduce, a fine singer/songwriter in his own right, playing lead guitar, Mr. Johnny Burns. Son of afore mentioned Jethro Burns, nephew of Chet Atkins, and former band leader/guitarist, with John Prine for ten years. Guest appearances by Michelle Collins, previously with Shine Cherries and Nels Andrews’ El Paso Eye Patch, Henry Bruner on accordion and Mat Sneddon on dobro. All this leads up to a fine down home acoustic recording. Mixing starts around the middle of May, looking towards an October release. We’ll be hitting the road for a tour of select cities late winter and into 2010. Until then check the calendar (http://www.colemitchellmusic.com/calendar.html) for upcoming dates with the acoustic Curs or me and my guitar, the loan wolf out there on the twilight trail bringing you tails from the fringe of blue collar Americana.
See you around the campfire.

HPD (high planes drifter),

Cole Mitchell

For those in Albuquerque, drop into 3rd St. Arts Listening Room, 711 3rd St SW, on Friday the 22nd of May for a solo appearance with old friend Nels Andrews. (http://nelsandrews.com/)
Check out the review for ‘Nobodies Blues’ in the June issue of New Mexico Magazine. (http://www.nmmagazine.com/music_mitchell_june09.php)

I would imagine that if you live in or come from a metropolis or any town or village with a thousand-plus population, you may not be familiar with the rustic side. I would wager that if you are rushing off to work in the morning in a suit and tie or business skirt and heels, that you aren’t familiar with the pristine air that fills your lungs as you are walking outside your front door at 8,000 feet with the clouds swirling around your head, like fog rolling in off of the ocean. The scent of pinõn and juniper that boils out of the stove pipe in this thin atmosphere can be breath taking, with nights so clear that the stars stand out and it seems that you can touch them. Twinkling like diamonds against a black velvet sky and on a full moon evening, the terrain is lit up so clear that man and beast alike move freely, unobstructed by the night. These are just a few of the beauties of the rustic side of life.
I’ve done time on some backed-up boulevards and spent hazy days when you couldn’t see the sun and long surreal nights where the stars were outshone by manmade lights. There’s beauty in the warm neon buzz and the short horizons of a city skyline, and I’m fortunate to have seen these sights and to have lived among and observed those who inhabit these landscapes, whether it be Sunset Boulevard, Market Street, or the Great White Way.
Few have known the absolute awe inspiring beauty of the Gila Wilderness or being on horseback where no motor driven vehicle has ever rolled a tire. In this setting you can just as easily scare up an elk on the edge of a mountain and before you have the wherewithal to decide if you want to shake out a loop or take a picture, the bull has slid on his hocks down the face of the cliff. Maybe you’re riding up a draw that empties into a canyon; you ride back and rim up on an untraveled path. Reaching three quarters the way to the top you come upon a small cave opening. Standing on the sheer slope of the mountain you peer in to see a simple metate, with the grinding stone still in it that no man has seen since it was last used by the native who left it there. These are sights that people in populated areas cannot fathom. When one is struck by beauty in any form the mental picture snapped by that individual can’t be duplicated; it can only be described second hand or be reconstructed as a museum mockup.
So as I am giving you my second hand description of the rustic side of life, the point I am driving home is that we should live life to its fullest and see whatever we can see, whether it be lying on your back near the edge of a cliff at 9,000 feet with your pony hobbled behind you and seeing two military fighter jets swoop past you barely fifty yards above, or walking in the middle of San Francisco’s seven square miles of absolute beauty amid the swirling sights and tastes of most of the world’s cultures.
It could be considered a true act of generosity to take a mountain man into your home in the great city of New York and let him live and experience your life, or to take an L.A. girl into your two-room cabin in the middle of the wilderness and allow her to experience the grandeur of your life there. For someone who has lived a pretty colorful life—to be polite—I have lived my travels close to the bone, existing in the places and with the people I’ve come across.
After living this way most of my life I still find it exhilarating to wander among new people in different places, like taking a room a couple of flights up on Rue Claire in Paris and breathing the air, tasting the food and hearing the way my guitar sounds in a foreign climate. Such are the dilemmas of a chameleon, and I don’t use that term meaning to hide; I use it meaning to get along with all and get along with every culture.
Walking in the middle of the punch westerns—the cowboys, the rancher types—they always said, “Why, you are kind of a hippy-looking son of a buck aren’t ya?” but I knew the code, and I was capable and talented in their world so I walked among them with only the occasional raised eyebrow.
Then there was the dirt hippie crowd; the rainbow people. I walked freely among them because I knew their lingo and I had a lot of the same proclivities and conversed comfortably with them. So when I walked among them I was hardly recognized or maybe wholly recognized famous or infamous…what’s the difference? I also have many life-long brethren from the biker faction and here I got along famously: although they rode horses of iron and worshipped that lifestyle, I rode horses of flesh and knew how to handle both.
For this reason I have been constantly pulled from the rustic side, the way of life I was born into. I’ve studied at the heart of the human condition and been able to empathize and feel a person’s plight. Because of this I’ve gravitated towards the populous to tell the stories that are engraved upon my mind like ancient stone etchings. That, and my ambition to have the world hear these stories, is what keeps me in this technological age, mingling with those who have inspired these tales and the hungry ears who long for their retelling.

‘Meanwhile Back at the Ranch…’

Ranch? We use the term loosely to mean headquarters, compound, hideout, or generally anywhere we happen to hole up to lick our wounds, celebrate triumphs, or contemplate creative endeavors, and to divide loot and booty that comes from the glamorous lifestyle of curs and renegades. But as the Rio Grande flows from the high desert down to the Badlands and along the Great Divide past the Gila Wilderness, wherever we happen to be or call home in the Wild Wild West will hereafter be known as the Ranch.
Now that we’re a little more familiar than we wish to be, I’ll get right down to the business of this newsletter, the brass tacks as it were: Cole Mitchell Music/Wasteland Records www.colemitchellmusic.com would like to share with our compadres, old and new, as much authentic Southwestern roots music, fine art, photography, and related schwag as possible before the relics are buried and the young guns are all roped and branded by the big outfits. There are still a few of us high plains drifters and independent upstarts across this country: 1%ers as the iron horsemen call it.

We are: American Roots. American Real. Before this starts to sound like a diatribe, I will extract tongue from cheek. We have had a very good year and are much obliged to all the loyal fans who searched us out, even when we weren’t that easy to find. And radio has been very good to us; as good as they could possibly be, considering that our publicity has been delivered by Pony Express (August 4 found ‘Nobody’s Blues’ at no. 22 on the national Roots Music Report- Roots Rock Chart and no. 1 on the New Mexico Roots Chart). So, here’s a shout out to all of you on the front lines who’ve come to the shows and for your tremendous response to Nobody’s Blues http://nimbitmusic.com/colemitchell . In an attempt to repay your kindness and loyalty, we’re doing the very best we can to fulfill all of the requests to visit your neck of the woods, so keep those e-mails coming.

We are exploring other creative ways to bring the music to you—house concerts have always been a great experience for us. We get to play for all the wranglers who actually want to hear the music, and we can get up close and personal with each and every one of you. Our friends outside of Memphis, in Mississippi, Dallas, Albuquerque, Denver, Laramie, and the San Francisco Bay Area have always been very supportive in these ventures, and we’d like to add your house to the tour schedule. Let us know if you’d like to host a party and we’ll put this plan into action. We have been getting a great response to the stripped down shows: hearing the songs the way they were written has a depth and warmth that many prefer. And as one of my compadres is fond of saying we are certainly grateful for those “big folk bucks.” As fond as we all are of sitting around the cookfire here at the Ranch, spinning tales about those broncs that couldn’t be rode and the bronc fighters that searched them out, there’s always another camp down the road. So here’s hoping our paths cross soon out on the Twilight Trail.

Big warning: there's a newsletter on the way, so any of you who wish to flee must do so soon. But if you're interested in receiving this newsletter, feel free to join the mailing list, easily accessible by visiting colemitchellmusic.com. And tell all your friends, enemies, ex-laws, and outlaws: anyone who's in need of an authentic roots music fix to join up now. This newsletter will be archived here for anyone who wishes to visit for some outhouse reading and will also be distributed through our mailing list. Extra, extra read all about!

It seems I’m always moving East, against all odds, jetting like moth to flame into the rising sun, to then migrate West; this has been a reoccurring theme. Back to the land of my birth, this reentry. The first trek I recall was from my beloved wild west: the bad lands of New Mexico to the deep antebellum South, the heart, the heart of Dixie. While I spent those formative years in the Dismal Gardens, the eighth wonder of the world, I began to feel the need for retreat, feeling choked by a subtly uncomfortable social climate like Kudzo constricting my chest and throat. I fled via many highway and byway. I zigzagged my way back west, the long road home? This was the first cycle, although I think differently now. Over and over I gravitate East, and again retreat for the sake of renewing old friendships, rekindling old loves, reinventing myself…for music! … For music!! … For music?
And yet there’s a light that has always flickered to draw me towards the trail, to keep me moving towards the path. Something stronger than all of my previous thoughts of what I wanted or needed--even music, music which is my life, my language. There is a primordial pull that keeps me moving East, towards a dim recollection of home, a purer state, a primordial reckoning if you will.

i am certainly looking forward to road food, bad coffee, and the sweet smiles from every waitress I see. Preparing for a short house concert run through Denver to Laramie and back to Albuquerque! With a couple days of recording sessions which begins the tale of my "Primordial Reckoning" more on that as the months progress, but let's not jump the gun. I haven't forgotten the blues. Who's blues? "Nobody's Blues" and neither have you and we here at Cole Mitchell Music sure do appereciate that "Nobody's Blues" entered the Roots Rock Chart at #38 and has jumped this week to #26! Pleased to know that you dig the work! That's what makes us want to create more hence, the run to Laramie. So keep supporting your favorite roots music and join me as we all try to keep the shiny side up and the oily side down!!!

Looking forward to meeting you all in one sense or the other. Keep your ears open for 'Nobody's Blues' coming to airwaves or podcasts that I'm sure will reach you, no matter what corner of the globe you happen to be in. We're happy to be working with Shut Eye records in this venture and certainly looking forward to hearing from you all. Come back often. There will be a new post happening sporadically entitled 'From West to East'. These will be the first ramblings before an editor gets ahold of it. Raw and uncensored.

Just a couple months late, not too bad for this buisiness. Why do you think they call it the blues afterall? Cole Mitchell and the Curs/ 'Nobody's Blues'- certainly not a blues recording. If we have to be pigeonholed, I guess we are still under the Americana umbrella. Hot off the presses, 'Nobody's Blues' will be released on Saturday, May 17th in my favorite hometown venue, 3rd St. Arts listening room. Stay tuned for press as it rolls in, and check the calendar as we will be prowling the states for a while. If you just can't make it to the store, check these links:

The Apple iTunes link is:
http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewAlbum?playListId=278590216
The link to CD Baby is:
http://cdbaby.com/cd/colemitchell3

This kind of says it all- 2007 was a very good year-http://www.colemitchellmusic.com/press.html. In our never ending quest to find new ways to please our fans, we're looking to make 2008 a step above. Stay tuned for more details in the year of 'Nobody's Blues'.

This has been an eventful year with many twists and turns, and with each bend in the path there's another bend we can't see. None the less, it has been an exciting journey, and I appreciate you all being along for the ride. Invictus has done well for Cole Mitchell Music and made us a lot of friends all over the world. Now we're getting ready for a new journey, so without further ado let me introduce you to the crew...2008 will begin the era of Cole Mitchell and the Curs coming to a venue near you with a new record "Nobody's Blues" due out in March. This is an exciting new lineup; check in periodically to learn more about this pack of Curs. Right now, I'll just give you a brief introduction and leave it at that. On drums is my old friend Chris Martin, we've recorded several records together. New to the fold, from the hills of New Jersey, is guitar-slinger extraordinare, Jay Forsythe. And from my hometown, keeper of the dog house (every good Cur needs a dog house), on stand-up bass and backup vocals is Antonia Montoya. This rounds out a touring outfit that's hotter than a rocket and locked in the pocket. Look for us in your town soon.