One time. In 1965. August, for about an hour, I was both fine AND dandy at the same time. But nobody asked me how I was.
Journalists say my music is "blue wave," or "dreamy," or "jangly-slacker jewel," and none of it really makes sense to me.
That's kind of the weird thing about Salad Days. I had to block time off from touring and tell my management and label like no press, no nothing. Let me make an album. You guys are running me dead.
Neil Young is the prime example, the grand goal, if you will. He's still shredding, and he never lost his credibility.
Usually when festivals are really huge it's kind of weird. It's totally fun for me and my band to play in front of a crowd that doesn't necessarily know who we are, but festivals get pretty impersonal when they get super large.
It was weird [touring with them]. It felt more like we were playing for Phoenix. They asked us because they're fans of what we do.
I hate living in a really small apartment, living in a shoebox, not being able to play the drums, not having space. It sucks.
As the bee collects nectar and departs without injuring the flower, or its color or fragrance, so let the sage dwell on earth.
I was supposed to be too short to play college volleyball.
Every generation is more influenced by technology, which is always changing faster.
Knowing Chris Bennett's Writing as I do, I expected Only Superhuman to have an imaginative plot and a compelling superheroine in Emry Blair. What I hadn't expected was for the backstory to make so much sense. Usually science is the first causality of superhero stories, tossed aside with the breezy rationalization: 'Hey, it's comics!' Only Superhuman is, to my knowledge, the first hard science superhero story. And the Story is the better for it.