This is what Michael Jackson meant to me.

Some years later I was performing on Broadway as Gavroche in Les Misérables. My parents had filed for divorce, and though I got to walk out on stage ever other night and perform for thousands of people, I was devastatingly lonely. I don’t remember the year, but I do remember it was winter. I walked into the Broadway Theatre, rested my soaked gloves on the steam radiator to dry, punched in my timecard, and read a note on the announcement board that electrified my blood. “Michael Jackson is in the audience tonight.” Sadly, I wasn’t performing that night (child labor laws required that two boys alternated performances, and I had just performed the night before). During the show I anxiously paced the dressing room with one of the little girls who played Young Cosette. Together we devised a plan to meet Michael Jackson. Before intermission we would go out into the audience and stake out a place next to his seat. We would get his autograph, maybe a picture. Naturally, this was everyone else’s plan as well. At intermission the lobby quickly turned into a melee of sight seekers, each of them armed with sharpened elbows and flashbulb cameras. We couldn’t even get into the seating area. Large men in black suits with opaque sunglasses began clearing a path from the west lobby doors, pushing the throngs of people back toward the wall. Apparently, Michael Jackson had to go to the bathroom and couldn’t get through the crowd. Young Cosette and I waited on the balcony stairs (we had negotiated the spot with a security guard who worked for the theater). When the gilded lobby doors opened, their gold-trimmed handles shining, I saw him amid the blinding barrage of flashes and the cacophony of screams and cries. His jacket was red leather, his hair greased and curled. He kept his face hidden behind white gloves as he was whisked away into the night by his imposing guards. (For safety reasons—his own and the audience—he could not have possibly stayed for the rest of the show). I only saw him for that one moment, an instant really, like a mirage, but it has stayed with me—a shadow on the far side of a dream. I walked back to my dressing room, my face sore from smiling, and put one soggy winter glove on my hand and tired again to move my body like I was walking on the moon.

Michael Jackson was the ambassador of my youth. I grew up with his songs in my head. His was a constant presence, pervading all aspects of life. His voice was wickedly smooth, as if cut from gypsum alabaster, and it carved out new lines in the realm of my creativity. Simply, he was electricity, barely contained in a flimsy human sheathe. He made me smile that night without even having to say a word.

This is what Michael Jackson meant to me.

The show at the Hotel Café was really great. Fantastic lineup. Meghan Toohey played bass and sang some incredible backups. She’s just a brilliant player. I’ve known her for years. Great songwriter as well. She and Jay (who joined on guitar for these shows) were in a great band together some years back. The So and Sos. That’s what they were called. She’s come to LA via Boston, like the rest of us, tumbling unhinged into Southern California for a better look back at the East. She and Angela sang some incredible harmonies. I felt like we were playing these songs the way they were supposed to be played, with that oft cast spell of nuance finally giving up the spook. David Lamoureux played piano and keys, whirling those things around those songs in a way that made me kick myself for not having him play on this record. I met him a while back when we were on tour with Augustana, however many millions of years ago that was. The man is a genius. Played his way out of the womb. Transcendent, sidereal, adjective, adjective. Mark Stepro on the drums. A beast. Played amazing. Sang amazing. I love that guy. Great player. Stupendous. Of course, Jay was the star of the show. Every sound he makes is the perfect one.

Next: Austin for South by Southwest. Jeremy Gomez on Bass. Matt Hammon on drums. Of course, I’ve played with Matt before. He’s my brother-in-law, though really you could just drop the secondary distinction. The guy’s been my brother for fifteen years. Jeremy Gomez was playing on my stereo when I was in high school. Mineral was the band. End Serenading was the record. I used to listen to it with my ear to the speaker, turn it off and try to make those songs come out of my guitar. I hope there’s a little Mineral still lingering in my songs.

We played two shows in one day. Threadgills in the afternoon for the Blurt, September Gurl , Outlandos Music, Something or Other party. That was great. Played outside with my sunglasses on. Patrice Fehlen, the darling publicist who runs September Gurl, got us on the bill. She was the first person to lend a hand when I came crawling back to New York after college, guitar fused to my bones and a million songs going in my brain. This great band called KaiserCartel played before us. They’re just a two-piece, drums and guitar, but I swear they sounded like the Beach Boys. From Brooklyn, too. There’s still something in that water, I guess.

Vintage Lounge off 6th Street that night. We were supposed to go on at midnight. The band before us hadn’t even started playing by the time we arrived at 11:45. Luckily(?) the drummer got sick and had to run off the stage after their second song, so we wound up going on pretty much right on time! There were quite a few Damnwells fans there. They stayed well into the whiskey morning, the tired bustle of South by Southwest trailing past outside the big store front windows, stumbling back to their hotels or someone else’s. We just kept on playing until it was all shut down. I took a few requests. Played “Assholes” and “Texas” for the assholes in Texas. (Just kidding.)

We got to hang out a little bit on Thursday, eat some bbq at Stubbs, wash ourselves in the masses. Got to see Mark Olson and Gary Louris at the New West showcase. Those voices. Amazing. Like two rusty halves of a locket that together, somehow, make a diamond. Tim Easton played as well. I always seem to run into that guy at every major juncture in my life. He came to our show the day before at Threadgills. What a songwriter. Pulled LA’s beating heart out of its chest and strung it up on a guitar. The man has lived what he sings. You can see it in his hands, on his face.

We wandered around for the rest of the night, drifting back and forth along 6th with the fantastic melee, music churning above and below like an earthquake in a hurricane. I got to see some old friends, some great friends, drink beers and talk about the old days like veterans from a forgotten war.

I love what I do.

Back to Iowa now to sleep and dream about the West.

See you in New York. April 4. Mercury Lounge.

Sometimes when a helicopter flies overhead on its way to the University of Iowa Hospital down the road, it reminds me of living in Los Angeles. For a while we lived in West Hollywood, right by the 101, where the news and police copters wore the sky out during rush hour. Sometimes at night their searchlights would cut through our bedroom windows. In LA they hunt criminals from above like owls hunt mice. I can’t say I miss the birds of prey that come with Southern California living. But I do miss. I miss my coastal cities. They answer only to the oceans.

In two weeks I will return to Los Angeles to play a show at the Hotel Café—one of the last songwriter haunts where important things happen if it gets late enough. I’ve never returned to Los Angeles. What I mean is, I’ve never gone back to that home. And for three years it was my home. I learned the freeways, side streets, shortcuts through Beverly Hills. I scaled Laurel Canyon on the backs of a thousand single-occupancy vehicles and cursed the bastards who cut me off. I have lived there, though I didn’t realize it until I was gone. There are people in LA I miss dearly and places whose doorframes I would like to touch. It will be nice to go back to Los Angeles. Falling in love with that place was the hardest and most rewarding thing I have ever done, ghetto birds and all.

See you at the Hotel Café for our West Coast record release party. Sunday, March 15, 9:30P.

www.hotelcafe.com

Here they are:

ONE LAST CENTURY

(Credits)

Charlie “Chopper” Anderson played bass on almost all of these songs.
Jay Barclay played guitar on Bastard of Midnight.
Gilad Benamram arranged the strings for WWXII.
David Chernis played guitar on 55 Pictures.
Angela Dezen sang backing vocals on Like It Is, Dandelion, Closer Than We Are, and Bastard Of Midnight, but she should have sang on them all.
Michael Flynn played keyboards and other things on Down with the Ship.
David Gilmore played pedal steel on Dandelion.
Ted Hudson played bass on 55 Pictures.
Josh Kaler played drums on Down with the Ship.
Shane Keister played keyboards on almost all of these songs.
Andrew Ratcliffe played drums on almost all of these songs.
Steven Terry played drums on 55 Pictures.
Lamon Washington played drums on Jesus Could Be Right.
Freddy Wall played lap steel and guitar on almost all of these songs.

All of these songs were written by Alex Dezen, except 55 Pictures. That songs was written by David Chernis, Alex Dezen, Ted Hudson, and Steven Terry.

This record was produced by Freddy Wall.
All the tracks on this recorded were recorded by Andrew Ratcliffe at Tweed Recording Studio in Oxford, MS, except 55 Pictures. That was recorded by Andy Gerber at Million Yen Studios in Chicago, IL.
The songs on this record were mixed by Freddy Wall and Andrew Ratcliffe at The Okra Shack in Leipers Fork, TN.
This record was mastered by Dave McNair at Scott Hull Mastering in NYC.

Thanks.

It hasn’t even been a week and already thousands of people have downloaded One Last Century from Paste’s website. What can I say?  To everyone out there helping to spread the word: Thank you. You are all directly responsible for getting this music to people’s ears.

A few people have asked about the liner notes, who played on what, etc. We putting it together now. It’s kind of backwards, I know. We’re still trying to find our way through this new territory. What I can tell you is the song “55 Pictures” was written and performed by the original members—me, Steven Terry, David Chernis, and Ted Hudson—with producer Freddy Wall contributing his slide expertise. This song was a last minute addition. I’m glad it’s on there. It started in Ted’s apartment in Brooklyn a few years ago. We were just hanging out. Beers were going around. Dave was making jokes and everyone was laughing, wishing they were half as funny. Steve was off in a corner playing some chords and humming a melody. “Is that for your solo record?” someone asked. “Alex,” Steve said. “Write some lyrics for it.” I took the parts home that night, added some chord changes to the verse and chorus, and penned the lyrics. At first I didn’t know what to write about. When I put the pen to paper, it came in a flood. I couldn’t get the words down fast enough. Paper, breath, bone—all of it was just in the way. I sang it for the band the next day. Dave and Ted made some more changes to the music and wrote the bridge. After practice Steve took me aside. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for making my song ours.” That was my one of my favorite moments with those guys.

I’m getting antsy. This new record steps out into the world in less than two days. It’s been three years, maybe a little more, since I’ve released a record, and I can’t even believe it. What the hell have I been doing? Everything else, I guess.

As you can imagine, the success of this record will rely on a word of mouth / grassroots campaign. We’re giving it away, yes, but every one of you can help spread the word. This is all I ask in return. All I want is for people to hear this music. Send out a bulletin, write it in a blog, make a copy for your boss, play it on your radio station or in your bar, make a million copies and drop them from helicopters over your town. Tell everyone you know. And then tell them again.

The Damnwells. One Last Century. February 10, 2009. www.pastemagazine.com/thedamnwells

I started working on a new song yesterday, and then I finished it. A new song in an hour, like when I was 22 or 23. I guess creation begets inspiration. The song is called “Death Defier,” and I borrowed the title from the short story by Tom Bissell of the same name.

http://www.amazon.com/God-Lives-St-Petersburg-Stories/dp/0375422641

I’ll go down into the think tank / frigid basement and see if I can craft a recording of it for you to hear.

The snow has been melting for two days in the unseasonably warm whether, and the streets are running with water as if from a storm, though the sky is bright and clear. We’re enjoying the respite. It will be below 30 again on Tuesday when the record comes out. Just in time.