I’m in a new band called General Ghost. It’s a project very near and dear to my heart. There are a bunch of us that make up General Ghost.  Jon Howard (producer, writer, guitarist for Paramore), Natalie Taylor (amazing solo artist, writer, beat maker -not joking- and one of the most talented vocalists I’ve ever heard, also Jon’s wife), Kelsey Rictor (y’all know her! My beautiful and freakishly talented wife. Vocalist, instrumentalist, and good decision maker. She also has a degree in music business which she obtained a year sooner than us normal humans could do), Nick Aranda (writer, vocalist, and quite possibly the most talented instrumentalist and all around musician I’ve ever known), Corey Neal (drums. I should really write DRUMS. Corey is a drummer’s drummer. In a storage unit for 6-8 hour a day practices. Other drummers beware. Corey ain’t messin’), Luke Buishas (writer, instrumentalist, producer, mojo bringer and brainstormer. Luke is absolutely bat shit crazy and I love him dearly. This dude is the tangible form of inspiration. You gotta meet him), and myself. We made a a 7 song EP to let y’all know we exist and want dearly to live in your computer, cars, ipods, and hearts. Our EP is called “Give Me To The Waves”. Wanna know the best part? You can get it for free. FREE! If you want to pay for it, we’re also available on itunes and amazon and all that good stuff, but for those like myself who like my music free, you can download it on noisetrade.com, or on the General Ghost website. www.generalghost.com

Go get them jams and keep your eyes peeled here at the site. I’ve been on a bit of a “Kyle Rictor” hiatus working on the General Ghost stuff, but will be providing you with more consistent posts soon. Thanks for sticking in there and waiting it out! Love you all dearly.

It’s been awhile. Since Febuary, I have been working three jobs. Landscaping during the days (really I’m just weed eating and mowing grass. There’s actually very little “scaping” that ever comes in to play for me. Come on, I’m a musician!), Ryman Auditorium conessions/barback at night (the Ryman is a museum/music venue that was built circa 1890 for those of you who don’t know your music venue history), and working on a new record with my new band every other waking moment (What? Yes. It’s true. I am making a new record. What? You have a new band? Yes. It’s true. We are called General Ghost and we are going to melt your faces off.  My good friend/very talented producer/writer Jon Howard and I formed this band together earlier this year and are about a week away from finishing up tracking on our first EP. Follow us on twitter to stay tuned! It’s the General Ghost link two lines up). All that to say, I have been keeping my head down and working. A lot. Let it also be known that Kelsey, my wife, is working at the Ryman with me AND working almost full time at Starbucks. We are almost always exhausted and on the verge of a nervous break down. But it costs money to do what you love, so until what you love pays the bills, you gotta fight for it with jobs like cutting grass, slinging lattes and making cheese trays for Aretha Franklin. Now, that we’re up to date, I want to talk about something I’ve learned in this minimum wage wilderness that comes with being a dead beat artist. Happiness. Or the eluding journey that comes with pursuing it, rather. For those of you who know me, you know I smoke quite a bit. Cigarettes (just to be clear. Hugs not drugs). I have for a while. This year I tried quitting…again. I made it a month and picked it back up again.  Then I tried again a month later. I made it two days and bought a pack. My next attempt will be in November some time.  Hopefully it’ll stick and I can live to see my grandkids get married and win Grammys and not be the guy who looks like a mummy/ET from those stupid Truth commercials. This struggle with letting go of cigarettes, with failing over and over, with hating something more than anything and running back to it like a beaten dog, has taught me something about myself, and I think, about the strange animals we humans are.  In order to make my point, I’m going to list all my self “medication”:

-Cigarettes

-Television (Netflix more specifically, but that counts guys!)

-Overeating

-iPhone (just the iPhone. You know what I mean)

-Twitter

-Coffee (shop. It is here that I can convince myself I’m getting shit done, when all I’m doing is supporting a caffeine habit and spending too much money).

-New Hobbies (once again, this is a self denial thing. I think I’m enriching my life when really I’m just distracting myself from how anemic it feels).

-NCAA College Football 2005 (I have a first generation xbox, ok? Lay off!)

-Alcohol (only occasionally, but more than ever before, I have attempted to drink an emotion either into existence or extinction).

Hi, my name is Kyle Rictor, and those are my crutches. Ah-thank ya very much.

Now, with that heinous and kind of embarrassing list stated, this is what those things have given me.

Drum roll please…..

Nothing.

Why then? Why do I do it? I do it because I’m not happy. Sure, I have moments of happiness. When I wake in the morning and the sharp October air hits my groggy lungs like electric paddles on a silent heart, I’m happy. When I get done with an 8 hour day of weed eating in 115 degree southern summer and drink a Fat Tire in my living rooms with grass clippings on my shins, I’m happy. When I talk to my sister, I’m happy. When I beat my mom in scrabble, I’m happy. When I write the kind of song that makes me wish there were antennas attached from my brain to every heart on the planet, I’m happy.  I married the most beautiful woman on the planet who makes me happy every moment we’re together. But, even as strong as my love is for Kelsey, she doesn’t complete me (sorry Jerry Maguire fans). She helps me to get closer to whatever it is that does “complete” me, but she alone does not. And I don’t complete her. We’re human beings, and  if what completes us rests on the shaky and incapable shoulders of our species or worse, the vices of our species, completion will become the idealist myth, right alongside marriage and world peace. So, I’m not happy. Still, that’s only half of the equation to the problem of why I do the things I do that I ought not do. The other half is band-aids. In Matthew 8 Jesus meets a man who is possessed by multiple demons.  This man is naked, living in a cemetery, and has broke the shackles the town placed on him for their safety. Ummm, yeah. WHAT THE HELL?!? That is spine tingly wingly to the max! When the demons in the man figure out who they’re dealing with, they tremble in fear. They beg Jesus to not send them to the depths, but to send them into a herd of pigs nearby. Jesus obliges their request. So, the man is cured. After years, this man is no longer possessed and free to live his life. Well, the town got word of what Jesus did. They came to where He and the man were and threw a huge party, lifted Jesus on their shoulders, and cried in awe and praise of this perfect and holy God-man. Just kidding. They told him to get lost. THEY TOLD HIM TO LEAVE! Are you hearing what I’m saying? On one hand this town has a naked, cemetery inhabiting, demoniac with super human strength (see: spine tingly wingly), and on the other they have a perfect and holy man who is the son of God almighty. No one is above Jesus. No one can win over Jesus.  He’s the top, you can go no higher. And who does the town prefer? A scary ass, demon possessed, psycho. And that’s me. I’m the town. Smoking, TV, Food, they are the demoniac. Then there’s Jesus. He can conquer all those things. He can make the monsters go away. But, I ask him to leave and light up another cigarette. You know what that tells me? Here it is:

I prefer my manageable demons to an all consuming good.

If I let Jesus in, if I really let Him in, give Him control, complete control of my life, everything will change. Not just cigarettes. Everything. And that scares me. I may die at an early age from smoking, but I can easily block that out with TV or alcohol or sleep. Jesus, I can’t block out. I can’t block Him out because He’s the only thing that will ever complete me. Jesus completes humanity and never settles with survival. We can survive. All animals know how to survive. But there’s only one animal who is given the opportunity to live. Me. Us. I’m not living because I haven’t fully died yet. I’m standing at the edge of a chasm dividing me from happiness. I just have to jump. I know He’ll catch me when I do and finally, I’ll be happy. I’ll be complete.

(Capo on 2nd fret)

Intro:

G D/F# Bm D

G D/F# Am G D/F#

Verse 1:

G D/F# Bm D

G D/F# Am G D/F#

(x2)

Pre:

Em Am G

G Am G D/F#

Em Am G

G Am G D/F#

Em Am G

Chorus:

D Am C Em

(x2)

Bm C

Bridge:

D Am C

(x4)

I’ve recently come to the conclusion that if I don’t get a second job (third job if you count music as a job) I am going to run out of money.  If this scenario had played itself out a year ago, I would be wallowing in self defeat and depression.  My brain would have said “What the hell am I doing? I’m chasing a pipe dream. Give it up.  Throw in the towel. I bet Leonard Cohen didn’t have to get a second job”.  But this time when I looked at our sorry excuse for a bank account,  I felt peace.  It is beyond explanation to me that I could feel a sense of calm when I’ve had less money than I’ve ever had before.  After examining my strange hope a bit further I’ve come to this: Faith fails to exist where a man’s life goes according to plan. Faith flees from security and money can be the great barrier between complacency and contentment.  4 years ago I set out to make the best art my hands and voice could muster, to grow in that process and make better art than I did a month earlier, and to share that art with my fellow man.  I will work second, third, fourth, and fifth jobs to continue that journey and bring my fans and friends the art they have come to expect from me.  I’m not sure what the next months of my life will look like, but I am making a commitment right now to those follow my work.  I will not give up.  I will not throw in the towel.  I will not stop pushing myself in creating art.  I will not stop singing.  I’m excited to bring you all along (at least virtually) through the landscaping jobs, concessions jobs, record making, song writing, show playing, and money scrapping that will ensue over God knows how long.  I don’t want to ever shine myself up and present a less than honest image of where my music comes from.  It comes from times like these.  There would be no blues if there was no cotton to pick, and let me tell you, I’ve got a whole damn field calling my name right now.  Stay tuned for…well, I’m not sure what…more stuff.  Let’s leave it at that.  Thank you for reading and HANG WITH MY PEOPLE!  There’s Hope in Great Trial.

Hi everybody! First of all, please forgive us for our lengthy absence from this blog. We value all of you so much, and want to demonstrate that by providing you with new and exciting things to read, watch, and listen to on a regular basis. Obviously we have failed at this as of late, and for that we are truly sorry. We really didn’t mean to disappear for so long. In fact, we didn’t mean to disappear at all. But…we are back!

At the end of our brief stay in Nashville post-tour, we spent the holiday season with family in Indiana and Pennsylvania. Kyle worked on a Christmas tree farm and I (Kelsey) did a little substitute teaching. November and December provided some much appreciated family time, and January brought a serious itch to get back to Nashville. We moved into a new place, got part-time jobs to help pay the bills, and hit the ground running with music. Here’s the plan for the foreseeable future: Kyle will be recording all sorts of new songs in our new music room, and we will be releasing them to you often. We will be booking some shows for the spring and summer (any suggestions? let us know!). We’ll keep you posted (via this blog) as new things develop, and we hope you’ll stick with us to see what’s coming next.

As always, you can find daily updates on our twitter pages (twitter.com/kylerictor & twitter.com/kelseyrictor). Here’s a photo of our new music room…

I moved to Nashville about 5 years ago.  The first show I went to was at a venue in Elliston Place called Exit/In.  Painted on the outer walls of the venue are the names of artists who previously graced the city and the stage with their talents. Every time that I’ve gone to Exit/In since then I stand outside and stare at the wall dreaming of the day my name would be among the legends painted in white.  As time went on, as it usually does, my dreams were humbled, dwindled to a modest goal.  “I don’t need to have my name on the wall, I just want the opportunity to play on that stage some day.”  I think it’s worth mentioning that Exit/In is no Ryman Auditorium.  It’s rather dingy and has a capacity of about 400 I’m guessing, but to me, Exit/In was THE venue.  I can’t explain why.  Maybe it’s because it wasn’t the Ryman and in my mind actually held the capacity to be attained.  Maybe it’s because I always felt so close to performing there, but never knew where to start, which left me feeling a lifetime away.  Mix those things in with the mythologizing of a place that time provides, Exit/In was the emerald castle and Nashville was Oz.  I suppose that would make John Rich (of Big & Rich) the wiry old man behind the curtain and me Dorothy, but that’s beside the point.

On November 21st, my yellow brick road reached the castle.  My friends Joel and Luke asked me to open for them.  I said “YES!” before they finished their sentence.  The show was slated as an “almost unplugged” performance.  This fared well for Kelsey and I seeing as we just spent the last three months trying to convince people to buy our record with nothing but an acoustic guitar and a shitty PA. We had 30 minutes to perform, although I think I played 40.  Playing longer than the time slot you’re given is usually frowned upon, and rightfully so, but I didn’t know if I’d ever be on that stage again and wanted to milk it dry. I introduced myself, closed my eyes, and floated away in the surrealism of it all.

After the show I went outside to have a smoke and my friend Keller came with me.  He is a brilliant Mixer/Engineer and is quite possibly one of the kinder humans on the planet.  I performed a new song that night called “Graphite Man” about the pain of being away from one’s significant other.  Keller told me he was blown away by the song and asked if Kelsey and I would perform it at his wedding in June. I just played the fabled venue of my infant Nashville years, people showed up to the show and listened, and I or Kelsey didn’t screw up.  I’m sitting pretty damn high at this point of the night, and I can tell you, the evening’s events leading up to Keller’s request disappeared into mute memories after that.  When thinking about the evening now, all I can really see in my mind is Keller’s face as he gives me an opportunity to support him at his wedding.  Nothing, NOTHING was better than that. Forget Exit/In, I get to serve my friend Keller in a very real way by doing something I love.  Thanks Kel, you made my night man.

Enjoy the video of our performance at Exit/In below:

There’s a reason that South Carolina’s state flag is a picture of a palm tree with the crescent moon in the background:

It’s because every night, when the sun sets, beyond each palm tree lining the silver water, one can see the glowing crescent moon hanging like a halo over the native plants.  South Carolina, particularly Charleston, is the south that every frozen Yankee dreams of deep in their arctic sleep.  Charleston is the south you see in movies.  Spanish moss cradled delicately over the marsh with a blazing sun exorcising ghosts from the pavement.  There is no town like C-town.  On October 17th, Kelsey and I performed our last show of the tour.  It was a poignant moment for me as I watched what was the better part of 6 months worth of work come to the fitting curtain call of a house show.  The show was hosted by a good friend of ours, Jessica Hamilton.  Jessica wrangled a crowd of locals that culminated in a room of approximately twenty attendees.  We went unplugged and played our set as musically stripped down as one can get.  Acoustic guitar, two voices, no mics.  Kelsey and I stood in a cramped living room and sang our hearts out one more time.  We sweat and drove and set up and tore down and tuned up and broke down and woke up and laid down and lit up and burned out every day for the last 3 months, and honestly, I couldn’t think up a better job if you gave me a lifetime to do so.  Thank you for listening to our music, watching our videos, and looking at our pictures.  As you continue to support us, we will continue to provide you with our art, reckless abandon, and detailed documentation of it all.  Below is a picture of the last house show… for now at least (cue the strings):

On October 16th Kelsey and I played a show in Charlotte, NC opening for the hip-hop duo legend GRITS.  Grits has been doing it for a LONG time…11 records long to be exact.  It was an honor to open for a Dove award winning, Grammy nominated, and refreshingly down-to-earth act.  The venue was Frank’s House.  Surprisingly this was not a house show and for all I know, Frank doesn’t really exist.  Frank’s House is a venue that moves wherever it’s creator (Greg) moves.  Greg had a vision to create a venue that catered specifically to the artist.  For every act, every show, Greg provides the artists with a home cooked meal (even the croutons on the salad were made from scratch), pay out at the end of the night, and a place to crash.  Greg actually booked Kelsey and I a room at the local Hyatt because he “understands what it’s like being married and on the road.”  Wow.  What a guy! This was, by far, the best Kelsey and I had been treated at a venue. For those aspiring artists out there looking to book a show, check this place out and pray you get a gig because it’s totally worth the drive.   We played to mostly middle and high school kids who were there to see a hip hop show.  An obscure artist with an acoustic guitar doesn’t have much to hope for in this scenario.  However, the kids in attendance enthusiastically responded to our set, signed up for the mailing list, and walked away with our CD in hand.  It was the product of a small suburban town with limited live music resources.  We lucked out simply with location and demographics, but we’ll take what we can get   Teron Carter of Grits even signed up for our mailing list and bought a CD.  We hung out for a while after the show and after realizing we lived only 20 minutes apart back in Tennessee, we exchanged numbers and promised to get together when back home.  All in all, it was just a really cool experience for me.  We got to meet Grits, we got fed and put up in a hotel, and played a show in the biggest venue we’ve performed in up to date.  That’s a good night.

Enjoy a short clip of our time at Frank’s house below.

On October 8th, Kelsey and I played a show at Common Grounds Coffee House in Salisbury, MD.  My grandparents used to live in Salisbury when I was a kid and every summer my sister and I would spend a week with them on the eastern shore.  Whether it was the copious cookie platters, sand in the grass, or the salty ocean air, that place was magic to me and up until this tour had been reduced to a distant memory dating back 6 years.  Salisbury will always hold a special place in my heart, whether we had played a show there or not, the 6 hour trip was worth it.

When first arriving to the venue (Common Grounds) there were two people in the building: the barista and the owner.  Considering it had been open to the public for what was, I’m assuming, at least 12 hours that day, I was slightly concerned about the projected attendance for our show in an hour or so.  By this point, Kelsey and I had been in a plethora of resounding empty spaces and underwhelming attendances and had become somewhat seasoned to the bitter taste of anonymity.  But, to say that it doesn’t hurt anymore, that our egocentric nerve endings had been ground down to senseless, humble, nubs would be a lie. It hurts man.  Every God forsaken time we enter a room of empty chairs, smokeless air, or shimmering tables free of spilled alcohol or iced latte sweat marks, there’s a devil on my shoulder telling me I’m a failure.  I can say now, clear headed and removed from the situation, that I know I ought not listen to my darker shoulder resident, but in the moment, in the painfully silent and unwelcoming moment that is tonight, I cannot ignore him.  He’s right.  I should never play music again. I’m a failure. So on and so forth…

Fortunately for me, I have two shoulders, and with every wicked witch of the left shoulder, there must also be a Glenda of the right.  It’s always after indulging my self pity and frustration that I see my life more clearly.  More acutely, I see the situation of which I play a leading role and whip my grumpy disposition into shape.  I’m a musician dammit!  I WILL play empty bars, I WILL play no name coffee houses to no one but a barista and a manager, I WILL have hard times! This is is what I signed up for, and if no one else shows up, I will be here playing the hell out this corner for my barista friend and his boss.  I realize that by now you all are gearing up to read a flower-in-the-dessert-esque story of music triumphing over the evil product of an ADD nation devoid of art appreciation, but, and I hate to burst your bubble…people showed up.  This is the part where I awkwardly chuckle about my juvenile melt down two minutes earlier.

We played for two hours to a room full of attentive listeners, who by the third song had transformed into fans.  The show was awesome.  We sold records, filled up our fan mailing list, and Kelsey got a free chai.  Wish I had the capacity to romanticize our situation a little more to whoever might be reading this, but love is never romantic in it’s rawest form.  It’s consistent, it’s determined, it never quits, and a lot of times, it does the same thing it did the day before.  This show was love, and I loved it.

On October 7th, Kelsey and I had the privilege of playing at what is know as “The SALT House” in Harrisburg, PA.  “The SALT House” is associated with Messiah College located 20 minutes down the road in Grantham, PA.  It’s basically a building in an alley.  But, what’s inside that building is what makes the SALT house more than just a pile of concrete and dry wall.  The folks who choose and are chosen to live in this house all have a common desire.  The religious world might call their interest “urban outreach” or “inner city ministry” or some name equally as precise and calculating.  But, what I call it (and what I’m guessing the people of SALT call it) is a common interest of love.  No ulterior motive, no hidden conquest, just love.  Plain and simple and glorious.  This is not the first community house Kelsey and I have stumbled upon with the same counter cultural view and practice of love.  There are people and places all over the country that are acting with intention. When that intention is set apart from their occupation, it simply becomes a way of LIFE.  Not of money or, as I said earlier, conquest.  In my opinion, this is the closest example I have seen to the body of Christ as seen in the book of Acts.  Christians are called not to be dogmatic business owners, but people.  That’s it.  Okay, I’m gonna cut myself off on the soapbox ranting before I start stating personal conjectures as truth, but you get the picture.  I don’t care much to talk about my own musical perspective of the evening as I feel they fall tertiary to greater happenings in the evening.  The first of which was getting to meet a gaggle of road worn musicians, plump with commiseration and cachectic of comfort.  “We’re not alone out here on the road” was the repeating sentiment throughout the night.  It was a great blessing to meet and play for and listen to our fellow nomads.  Those are our people and many days will pass before we can lean on an equally exhausted shoulder again.  The second highlight was our performance.  Kelsey and I were allowed 20 minutes to play.  We all crammed into what was basically a one person dorm room and played to about 20 people sitting on desks and beds and floors.  It was quiet.  Not a peep from anyone as we sang.  I felt outside myself, as if I too was sitting on the floor listening to someone else play me their story.  I felt quiet too as we listened to the reverberation of our voices off the sterile walls.  It was magic.

It’s really important for me to have nights like this.  I am removed from the music and consequently the spotlight.  I can listen to what God is saying to me through the music HE’S written.  How can I view myself the creator of a song when the notes of my melodies existed far before my simple mind could comprehend them? By flying a kite during inclement weather, did Benjamin Franklin create lightning? No. He reached up and grabbed it out of the clouds.  That’s what I do with my songs.  I reach into the ether and snatch up whatever melody decides to strike the lightning rod of my brain.  It’s on nights like this one that I remember I’m not the creator but a conduit.  Thanks to everyone for helping keep me in my place and enjoying the show with me.