Kurt
Hernon:
April,
2004

Rock and Roll Has Chosen the Secret Machines: A Letter to Mom and Dad

Secret Machine #1: Hey man, did you see this write up we got on the 'net?

Secret Machine#2: Who fucking cares…what the fuck can some schmuck on the Internet do for us?

Secret Machine#1: I dunno…just seemed kinda cool.

Secret Machine#2: I'm not so sure that some goofy screwball running a website from his basement is all that cool anymore.

Secret Machine#1: Probably not. But I got a kick out of it at least.

Secret Machine#2: You and seven or eight other people…

Dear Mom and Dad,

By the time you get this you will already know what I am about to tell you. It is as inevitable as the next sunrise as far as I can tell, but regardless, I wanted to write this down and get it postmarked for a verification of the date…so please keep the letter and envelope in a very safe place.

Now I know that you two claim to be "very proud' of me and that you "just want" me to "be happy" in "whatever it is you do", and I appreciate that sentiment. Yet, that said, I also know about your serious reservations about my chosen rock and roll lifestyle. Dad, I know you do not understand why I "insist" on using my "obvious talents" (talents so fucking obvious that I've been freelancing shit on the internet for four years now to no financial avail, which is - for the most part - my choice…a choice I know you do not relate to or understand) on something as "trivial" as "that damn rock noise" (the quotations are all yours Dad - things I've heard a million times over in my life; things that stick with me day and night). And mom, I know you love me and I know you have only my "best interests" in mind when you smirk and roll your eyes when I talk about my writing. But to be honest with both of you, as much as I do love the both of you (I suppose I feel somewhat fortunate to have had two parents who at least gave a goddamn about my well-being, which is more than I can say even for myself these days), I don't really care anymore how you view my chosen vocation.

I must admit to not having always felt that way about these things because the nature of what I do is filled with highs and lows. Often my mood, my desire to write, is based solely on the music that fills my life at any given moment - which isn't necessarily a very good thing, especially considering the state of rock and roll as I head toward forty years old. But it is what it is, and I really have no control over it anymore.

It is I; I am it. Music and I are inseparable.

This may be the first time I've confessed this to you, but it is all truth, it is all me, and it is how I am - whether I want to be or not. I cannot change. I do not want to change. I like being how and who I am.

Now, with that off my chest let me explain this letter (god, when was the last time I wrote you a letter? Boy Scout camp when I was 11? Maybe so.) I am writing to you because of a record…because of a band actually (what else could it have been?) that has finally come along and reminded me once again as to why I do what I do. I am writing to you about a life affirming experience called Now Here is Nowhere. I am writing to you about a (gulp) rock and roll band that calls themselves the Secret Machines (I know, I know…playing right into you "rock and roll noise" mantra with that sort of name, eh Dad?). I am sincerely convinced that by the time this letter reaches you two that it is very likely that even you (yes, you!) will have heard of the Secret Machines…they are that good (good enough, in other words, to even penetrate your world…your lives). Of course, I realize that this is very unlikely, but for once I do not feel it is impossible.

All of this, clearly, takes into account my well-documented shortcomings in this prediction game. But to be honest with you, it doesn't really matter at all…the Secret Machines' Now Here is Nowhere is already one of the biggest records on the planet. Big because it makes me feel good about what I do. It makes me feel good about myself. It makes this "waste of time and energy" that you've always told me this rockwrite gig was all seem worth the ridicule and nose turning. Particularly the beauty I find in "Sad and Lonely" and "Nowhere Again" - two songs that seem to suck the blood from classic rock's neck (and I DO mean classic - hints of Zeppelin, Rush, the James Gang…fuck, even a bit of the old Allman Brothers sense of groove comes off this thing like sparks from so many dragging mufflers).

This is the sort of stuff that seems to come along seldom anymore, but when it does I feel utterly and unequivocally vindicated. Rock and roll can still feel. It can still move. It can still make a tired old heart skip beats and come back to life for a few moments.

But, for a moment, forget about the record. Forget about the permanence of recorded music. Forget about the relative sterility of that medium and go where the sounds crash headlong into the sights and leave psychic wreckage for all to deal with - forget about a recorded, frozen-in-time moment and go to where the music is alive…

The Secret Machines are the best live act I've seen since I witnessed the White Stripes in Oberlin, Ohio nearly five years ago - and the Machines are better. There, I said it…therefore it is true. No, I am not, nor was I drunk out of my mind (well, I was drinking - as usual, but I had my wits about me when these boys hit the stage and blew my fucking mind!) There were only three of them, these Secret Machines, but there might as well have been a thousand. They were awesome.

Awesome, I say! Did you hear me? Can you hear me above the throb-throb-throbbing kick drum? Can you hear what I am telling you from underneath these shimmering melodic vocals? Can you even catch a whisper of my voice as these three cats from New York-via-Texas melt an entire history of prog-holy-hard-rock into a molten stew and throw it on all of us - scarring us with their beautiful rockroll vision?

Am I wasting my time?

My breath?

Are the Secret Machines?

Do they care?

Do I care?

Fuck no!

Because, you see, like these three scoundrels in the Secret Machines, I didn't choose rock and roll…it chose me.

And now it has consumed me. And now it has consumed my brethren.

And every last one of us is smiling. You can have your world…

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