It's been a busy month on the Llano. We have a new roof and we've made visible progress on our remodeling projects. We had a lot of visitors through Littlefield & that's been seriously fantastic. We leave tomorrow for most of the summer. You'll find dates below.

As I'm swamped with preparations to split town, I'll leave you with a couple of brief things. First, a soft announcement that a new Andrew Weathers Ensemble album will be coming out this fall. It's called Build A Mountain Where Our Bodies Fall, the LP will be out on Full Spectrum and a tape edition on CJ Boyd's Obsolete Media Objects.

I also wrote a bit on the nature of being on the road in the summer, which is one of my favorite things to do, for the excellent Cabin Floor Quarterly . You'll find that below. Thanks for checking this out, thanks for checking out the tunes, thanks for continuing to do what you're best at. I hope to see a lot of you on the road this summer, please bring me a Topo Chico if at all possible.

I remember sitting in the wet bayou heat out front of a coffee shop in Houston, sipping hot black coffee & sweating through my black t-shirt. Knowing my own tendency to visit the same places over and over, it was probably Black Hole on Graustark. This memory interlocks with many others - sitting outside in Carrboro filled with the low level anxiety I always feel visiting my hometown, sitting outside in Oakland in the sun that never stopped but never was quite hot enough for me, sitting outside in the humid night in an abandoned street somewhere near Kansas City. I think it could have been a beer in my hand that time, but I can’t be sure. I try to deny my tendency to repeat myself, to choose comfort over novelty, but the stability of familiarity is vital on the road.

There is a lot of space in my head taken up by places I’ve stopped for coffee, by anonymous gas stations where I’ve stopped to fill up. This particular part of my head is permeable - fluid spaces, dripping out, expanding, contracting. Tour is mostly empty space punctuated by flashes of light. I collect that empty space and it flows out of my mouth in a stream of mundane stories and notions. I can tell you a lot about where to get the best coffee on the road and where to get the gnarliest fast food that’ll make your guts hurt.

This summer, like most summers, I’ll dive deep into the exhaustion that makes me weepy and turns my eyes raw. Friends will apologies for low turn outs or low door takes, we’ll try to figure out what keeps us putting our energy and money into all of this. Every time I go out on the road, I question why at some point. It’s exhausting, difficult to make work financially, and sometimes it feels like I’ve been playing to the same five dudes over and over again for a decade. Yet every time I come home renewed, ready to make more jams, ready to keep in touch with my friends better. There’s not a way to describe what I do in a way that is at once honest and appealing. Just like my habit of drinking hot coffee in the sun, the payoff eludes articulation. To live without dead time isn’t to live without empty space, it’s to live without feeling compelled to fill that empty space.