matt pond PA

June 30, 2016

Pineapple Pizza.


The question is always why.

Why is there toothpaste in my hair?

Why do these squirrels insist on digging holes in my dying lawn?

Why did I work with the wrong people to release our last album?

To give my brain a break and/or to be as impartial as my feisty mind will allow: I didn’t know these were the wrong people. In voice and in person, they seemed like genuine slices of pineapple pizza. In reality and as time traveled, they exposed themselves as pool-hall grifters, just trying to claw out a percentage of tour income, of royalties. All without lifting one chalky finger.

It is depressing to join forces with lazy, evil meatballs. From a whisper to a shout, all the basic objectives and requests were argued, delayed, ignored, and eventually exterminated. Leading to a year-long, low-budget battle with these minor-league demons.

We fought back with switchblade combs and howling melodies, shifting to a different name for a nearly-simultaneous release: The Lowlifes, Still Summer.

The Lowlifes. If anyone is reading this, while I tap the imaginary microphone to make sure it’s on — I wanted to claim personal responsibility for our troubles by insulting ourselves first. Basically, I was throwing the first stone. At my very own glass house. Because I am ultimately accountable for what goes down in my garden.

But it was more than a musical middle finger. It was an assertion of love. (If you gagged at the last sentence, I get it. I gag whenever my sisters eat cottage cheese.)

Despite all unpleasantries that gurgle up from the depths of the music business — the serpentine journalists, the lecherous lawyers, the ego-driven agents, the overlords of publishing — I love what I do.

I don’t know where I belong in this world, but I love music and I love writing it.

The point isn’t to fit into an easy, empty acceptance. The point is to do everything I can to be myself and then start turning, spinning, revolving outward. Toward anyone else who weaves their fingers through a chain link fence, contemplating the cars from an overpass on a hazy summer afternoon.

Studios and stages become downright awkward and embarrassing when it all falls apart. But this damn trajectory has never been painless. I was just trying to score the simple connections. I still am.

I guess that’s what happens with satan impersonators and lousy contracts. Worthless and money-driven. A bad contract can really ruin a decent lifetime.

In the future, there will be none of that. From here on out, there will be silvery, linen trousers and full-sailed ocean dreams. There will be mountain rivers, picnic tables, oak trees. Welcome heat waves, all-consuming blizzards. Sipping on the realisms, while still wrestling with hope. And mostly, trusting the people who know what it means to love.