I was raised in Tuscaloosa, Alabama by a French mother and an American father. I spent my summers creek-walking with my brother, drawing space colonies, capturing small animals, and making stuff with whatever I could find.
At twelve, my father brought home a Casiotone and my musical life began. I couldn’t play a thing, but I enlisted two cassette decks as a crude multi-track studio and began creating my first songs using the built-in drum machine and the two chords I had stumbled upon.
Meanwhile,
my older sister was hanging out with the wrong kids at school and bringing
home lots of strange records, including Pink Floyd's Relics, which was
so old and freaky sounding to my ears. It was like a children's record
on acid.
Two years later, a long season of mowing my neighbors hissing summer lawns afforded me a four track and an electric guitar so ugly I hung it from the clothesline and doused it with spray paint. I still couldn’t play much, but I kept recording my stupid little songs.
In high school my musical interests were put aside as I was showing promise as some kind of scientist. Tests were taken, letters were written, and before long I found myself in the honors Physics program at U.C. Berkeley, quietly wondering if I could spend the rest of my life studying a single sub-atomic particle. I quickly found refuge in an African drumming class where I met my share of crusty deadheads and jazz geeks, including future collaborator Andrew Borger.
After
wising up and quitting school, I got a job as a “super” in
a downtown Oakland apartment building, where I secretly constructed a
recording studio in a basement storage room. Two months later I was spray-painting
a limited run of 57 demo tapes for my garage band C.O.B., replete with
a cover of Captain Beefheart's Drop Out Boogie. The bizarre production
and hooky, off-the-wall songwriting lent the tape some kind of cult-like
status on the local scene. I was suddenly on the map.
After
a handful of tragic and legendary shows, the band imploded and I was once
again alone in my basement, free to explore my new alter-ego as a stoned-out
soul crooner. My first breakthrough was a lilting, psychedelic romp called
Lazy Bones which I quickly pressed on
7" vinyl and “released” to friends, fans, and Aquarius
Records in San Francisco, where the hand-printed cover art caught the
eye of Capitol Record's scout Ann Cook. Phone calls were made, flights
were booked, and soon enough I found myself across the table from the
suits, demanding creative freedoms only given to the likes of Bob Dylan
and Neil Young. Needless to say, the deal fell apart and I was labeled
“the wunderkind who walked away” in a local press flurry.
Indie
by default, I began work on a new song cycle with C.O.B. alumnus Andrew
Borger and kidnapped bassist Jon Erickson, with conscript Greg “Amy
Gee” Moore on backing vocals. In the DIY spirit, we converted our
rehearsal space into a fledgling recording studio which we christened
Casa de Eva. We carefully tracked what would eventually become the full
length Sipsey Cane. And though it was never released, we sold hundreds
of hand-burned CDRs at shows. The slow-burning, hypnotic "Galaxy"
apparently made it on to more than one “make out” compilation
and the melancholic "Out to Sea" (included on the SF based Fortune
Cookies compilation) was singled out for rotation on KCRW's Morning Becomes
Eclectic show.
Unfortunately, amid this success and a crisis of confidence, my band was slowly dissolving. Andrew was touring with Tom Waits and would soon be scooped up by Norah Jones, while Jon Erickson was starting Helsing Audio in Southern California.