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Big dirty brass stamping simultaneously through twenty drum kits of desire and a beaten trash can because we can. Humid pavements, sweat and face paint. Feathers and gris-gris in a beat-up station wagon. My journey began with a plane ticket to New Orleans. I had two months in North America with little money and no plans except to embrace every experience and use it to write enough material for an album. The trip took me from the bawdy bars and tattoo parlors of the French Quarter, on a journey that had me hitching through Alabama, sleeping in the woods in North Carolina, up to Seattle, through San Francisco and eventually back to Los Angeles. I arrived in LA off the back of a pick-up truck, with a book full of new songs, to a serendipitous week in Grammy Award winning producer Jeff Bova’s studio. Together we laid down an album in seven days. It takes guts to be the odd one in an industry where pop is king. When you have “musicians” who just twist knobs to win a Grammy, it is