Category Archives: Interviews

On the Road With SUSTO: Part Six

By Matt Harrison (@MattHurrison)

Visiting the Australian Country Music Hall of Fame. Photo: Matt Harrison

December 15th, 2018

Charleston, South Carolina

The Royal American

When you step on tour with Justin Osborne, Jordan Igoe, and Van ‘The Good’ Robinson, the road seems endless from the outset. Times are good at every stop and it feels as though there’s a full moon hanging over every city you pull in to.

Then one morning you wake up in Macon, Georgia, and the ride has ended. The crew disbands and this old train is set down to rest for some time to come. These thoughts swarmed me while I leaned over the railing of the Royal American patio while I smoked a cigarette. I stared past the tracks out back, into the darkness beyond the reach of the moonlight, until my focus was broken by an Indian bike being kicked into a growling start in the parking lot behind me.

I don’t know anyone here other than Van the Good, so I’ve been coming outside for cigarettes every 10 minutes. Van and I split a small bit of LSD and I watched the stars come out as I waited to feel the effects.

Tom Mackell on stage at the Royal American. Photo by: Matt Harrison

By 1:30 neither of us felt anything, so we took a bit more. I had initially blamed my continual missteps on the drug as I walked around the bar, though it’s worth noting I had smoked a pack of cigarettes in four hours which will make your feet a little heavier and your fingertips a little cold.

Van and I hopped into his van and took off through the night toward a recording studio for a party after we saw a couple bands play at Royal.The studio felt like some indistinct and indefinable piece of home you’ve never stepped foot in; familiar in an unfamiliar way.

I wandered around briefly before settling into a spot on the couch and melting into the cushions. Not melting all the way into nothing, but enough to keep me planted there for the next few hours. I thought this damned acid is about as strong as a right hook from my grandmother and before I knew it, I was swept away and tangled up in the cosmic wavelengths that danced inside my eyelids.

Most of the night crawled by but 3AM came out of nowhere. “Electric Feel” by MGMT came on only to be cut short as the room began to ride the waves of the tune. “Oh, come on!” one person yelled at the DJ through the studio window. “Why. WhyWhy?” he hollered with greater desperation, only to be answered by the next song.

I felt gentle waves coming and going. When they came, I felt lost in the drug, but unafraid. When they went, I thought about how none of what I just experienced will be even remotely replicated at home. The more I thought about tour, the less I wanted to leave. But even if I stayed, it will never be what it was. Just as I began sinking into this thought, I felt a gentle stirring in my stomach and my lips felt as though they had each blossomed open.

Just as I began sinking back into the drug, someone I met at the bar asked if I’m alright. I told him “I feel great,” which I think may have been the truth. I don’t know if he believed me, but the uncertainty stirring within me could be due to the acid. I can’t help wondering what kind of madman I must look like as I sit here, staring around the party at things that are only taking place within the parameters of my mind.

I stood up and wandered over to a group of people, looking to shed this aura of insanity. I struck up a conversation with a young, long haired guy wearing a jean jacket. There’s no point recalling most of the conversation, but we laughed and joked a short while before he leaned in close to say something.

“Do you fuck around with coke?” he asked in a hushed tone.

I thought about it for a moment, and then another.

“Eeh,” I said, “I think I’d probably ruin my life if I did coke, so I probably shouldn’t.”

He looked almost surprised. “Good on you,” he said, raising his beer.

I told him about the ride I was on that night and as we carried on talking, I felt another, heavier, wave hit the shores of my mind. As I felt it, I looked over at the Van the Good, who sat down in a chair, running both hands through his hair as he felt the same wave strike the levees of his consciousness. The intensity of the LSD’s effects can’t quite be measured without taking into account having gotten a brief sleep, smoking a pack of cigarettes and not nearly enough weed. It’s a delicate ecosystem, once you understand the nuances.

A few days later I was talking to someone about their experiences with LSD. He told me he tends to micro-dose the stuff on a weekly basis. He said the drug plays a valuable role in the way he interacts with the world. He told me “it opens my heart and it opens my tongue.”

I sat back on the couch and watched a girl walk out of the room with the white lines. She wiped her nose with the base of her palm before she plunked down on the couch and began flipping through a colouring book filled with birds. Not to suggest I held any judgement toward this young lady. After all, I’m the fiend tripping on the couch watching her. Which one of us is in a truer state of disrepair?

Just then the front door opened, and 5’10” of what I expected most people in South Carolina to look like wandered in with the December breeze. I made it to the door before it could close and slipped out into the darkness. The most bizarre thing happens when you step outside the thumping bass of music and the roar of talking and singing in this place. At first you won’t even trust the fact there’s cement appearing in the growing crack of the door. As the door catches on the latch behind you, you’re submerged in absolute silence. There’s hardly a recollection of the music, the people, any of it.

“It’s something else, isn’t it?” a gentle giant standing outside said to me as I breathed the night sky. “The air is crisp, like biting into a fresh apple.”

Stars glowed endlessly around us as we each looked off into the darkness.

“I never want to be my own uncle,” I heard someone sitting on the cement ledge say between drags of a cigarette.

“I don’t want you to be like me,” the fellow next to him replied.

“Yeah, you’re my uncle,” the first man answered, shaking his head.

Van and I came back to Rialto Row for the night. We each felt another wave come on as we looked around the room at the mural painted along the walls, the art all around us. Van left to go trip in his van and listen to Ever Since I Lost my Mind. I spent much of the early morning laying on the couch, muttering sleep deprived nothings into an audio recorder.

The effect of the drug faded, and as the sun began to rise, I grabbed a bicycle I’d seen in the backyard and went riding around the quiet streets of Charleston on that calm, warm, Sunday morning. The morning birds flew through the sunlight, singing the city awake.

The neighborhoods I peddled around were silent and serene. Riding a bike around Charleston, South Carolina is how every acid trip should end. Mostly for logistical reasons, though, that’s not quite possible.

I got lost for an hour or two before I found my way back to the compound. I slept that whole day on the couch in the Rialto Row house, only ever waking long enough to croak “whatsup” when people came walking through. I awoke long enough to give Van a hug goodbye before he climbed into his van, and drove home to Columbia.

I came back to life that evening and walked 45 minutes to downtown Charleston. I sat at Starbucks and rode their WiFi long enough to do a final edit and post a piece I’d written over the few days prior. While I walked back to Rialto, through the dark, night fallen streets, the end of the trip weighed heavier on me than it had at any other point.

Justin picked me up the next morning to take me to lunch at a place that cooks BBQ just like his hometown. We passed around The Gift Bowl before we left and, after we ate, he gave me a driving tour of Charleston.

“Some Swedish guy sent me this mix CD he burned,” Justin said while we drove around Charleston. “He put Hard Drugs on it. It’s just funny to listen to some 70-year-old Swedish guys’ mix. It’s called Hit the Hay, Vol. 10.”

When “Hard Drugs” came on, he skipped it and told me a little about it. The most he had to say about it on stage was, “This song is about how sometimes going through the worst shit can bring you closer to people. It’s also about how fucked up it can be to go to the hospital when you don’t have health insurance.”

“My friend started datin’ this guy right around the time I got back from a trip with Meghan. We were real good friends, too. She was at my wedding. That dude was super possessive of her, and I felt like I was losing one of my best friends to this terrible relationship. She eventually got out of that relationship which was super good because he was a major shithead. He wasn’t even a shithead, he was an asshole.”

As he finished the story, we pulled onto the grounds of The Citadel.

“When I first moved to Charleston, I got off the interstate and came straight to The Citadel. I’d never been to Charleston before I started going to this military school. Because of that, for a while, I didn’t even like Charleston. Eventually I realized how awesome it is.”

We drove deeper onto the property.

“Alright, here it is, dude. The Citadel. This fuckin’ place. If you’re a freshman, you have to shave your head and walk in the gutters. This was my introduction to Charleston.”

“Sterile,” I said, looking at the pale grey walls of every building.

“Oh yeah,” he said, staring at it. “Super sterile. Kinda fun though. But eventually, also just a huge pain in the ass. They have all kinds of obstacle courses n’ shit back there. Oh shit, the road’s blocked. Oh well, that’s good. It cuts our Citadel tour down a good bit, anyway.”

The old Swede’s mixtape carried on with a light rock jam with a gentle piano solo.

“You guys got some cool ass trees,” I told him as we drove through an old part of town. “I was bikin’ around while I came down on acid, lookin’ at the trees, having my mind blown by ‘em.”

“You were bikin’ around on acid?” he asked, excited. “Dude, that’s the thing to do around here! That’s what the ACID BOYS is all about. We’d each take acid and as soon as you’d start to feel it, we’d be like, let’s get outta here! We felt like this crazy sort of warrior troupe. We weren’t brawling at all, but we’d go downtown and look all the tourists in the eyes n’ shit. We’d wear crazy shit and stare people in wedding parties in the eyes. We were doing it just to kick back and weaccidentally expanded our minds in the process. We’d do this thing called the Ron Paul No Hands where you stand up on your bike and just throw your hands up while you go.” 

He threw his hands in the air, off the steering wheel, to give me the whole picture of what it must have been like. It was only minutes later we came to a slow stop on a quiet residential street. 

The Ron Paul No Hands. Photo by Matt Harrison

“Alright, here she is,” Justin said as he threw the van in park.

“Panther’s flag in the window,” I said to myself as we walked up to the Australian Country Music Hall of Fame. A lot of the stories Justin told from on stage about the early days of SUSTO took place in this building, or, at the very least, while he lived here. To SUSTO fans, this place is a Holy artifact.

Justin knocked at the door, but no one answered. We walked into the backyard and up the balcony. Still no answer at the doors. Justin climbed out on the edge of the balcony, 25, maybe 30 feet off the ground, to get to one of the doors on the second floor.

“Meghan would kill me if she saw me doing this,” he said as he climbed back, taking a nervous peek down as he did. “You know that song that starts “Ashley’s smokin’ a bong?” I wrote it out here on this balcony while I was livin’ here.”

Crawling around the Country Music Hall of Fame. Photo by Matt Harrison

After a few minutes more, we gave up on entering the building. The members of SUSTO were waiting on Justin at Rialto Row for the first full band practice since recording Ever Since I Lost My Mind. He gave me his phone while he drove and had me send a text to the group chat, saying he’d be late.

We drove across a long white bridge, toward the coastline. Justin pointed through the passenger window and said, “There’s an old bylaw in Charleston that you can’t build higher than the churches.”

I looked over to where he pointed, at the city of Charleston, at a dozen or more church spires peeking overtop every building in sight.

We stopped at the end of a quiet road and walked down toward the water. He pointed off in the direction of the secret spot on the beach he and his friends like best. We walked down the beach, past the million-dollar real estate, to the ocean’s edge. We each stared off into the apparent infinity between us and the other side.

“Put your hands in it,” he said as he knelt to rinse his hands.

The Atlantic Coast. Photo by Matt Harrison

I followed his lead. We walked closer and closer until we each stood in a half inch of water. All of a sudden, like something from an old sailor’s tale, the ocean came back our way, ferocious, and deep, and before I knew it, I was up to my ankles in water. We both ran back up the sand as fast as our wet shoes would let us.

“Aah!” Justin yelled, laughing as we walked back up the beach. “Sorry, dude. I was too stoned, and I just kept walking into it.”

We drove to Rialto Row and met up with James and the rest of SUSTO. My shoes were sopping wet with ocean water, so James offered to dry them for me before I left. We each smoked a bit of weed and hit the road.

“Alright,” he said in his gruff voice, with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, “we will do this quickly and efficiently. That is the name of my game. Don’t you worry about shit.”

He said this all with his typical straight, matter of fact, tone of voice.

Rialto Row. Photo by Matt Harrison

“Canuck, before you go, I’m gonna help hit you with some OutKastthat’ll blow your mind” he said, again, straight, matter of fact. “Welcome to your OutKast Education.”

“West Savannah” came on, and we drove down the street.

We went by James’ house where he pulled my shoes apart and threw them in the dryer, offering me a pair of slippers in exchange. As we got back in the car, OutKast playing, he said to me, “I suspect you’re going to go through a good bit of post-tour-depression-type-shit once you’re back home.”

I laughed and agreed with him before I thought about it a moment longer and fell silent under the music.

“I’m gonna take you to see something that’ll really make ya think,” he said as he turned the stereo off.

He took me to a civil war cemetery. It was large, seemingly endless. He showed me the graves of the men from the first successful submarine strike. He took me down roads I wasn’t sure anyone was meant to drive down, past countless tombstones. Brothers, fathers, friends. We drove in silence for some time past those great fields of tombstones.

“Before we go, let me show you the biggest asshole who has ever lived,” he said as we carried on down a small dirt road. “His name is MaClinsky. The, and I mean the, biggest asshole in the history of the world.”

We pulled up to a Mausoleum, the biggest tomb site in the cemetery. The name didn’t say MaClinsky, but that wasn’t the point.

“A regular grave wasn’t good enough?” James said, looking from me to the building that likely cost upwards of a few hundred thousand dollars. “You’re just as dead as the rest of ‘em,” he said, staring at the building as we slowly pulled away.

Once we left the cemetery, the OutKast Education resumed.

Driving around Charleston. Photo by Matt Harrison

We pulled up outside Rialto Row and waited until the band finished running through “Last Century” before we went in and I grabbed my bag.

“What a tour,” Justin said, smiling.

“Unbelievable,” was all I could say.

I gave him a hug, said goodbye to James and the band, before I headed out to catch my Uber.

I arrived at the airport around 3:15 and was still somewhat stoned. The weed made me forget a few things in security, but I slid through without any real problems.

Once I found my seat, I closed my eyes and drifted off, thinking about everything that had been the last two weeks. I woke up at a bump and expected to be in the back seat of the van, staring out the window at some stretch of Southern Somewhere. Instead, I was in seat 14D, staring out at the snowy Chicago runway.

When I arrived at the airport in Winnipeg, I was depleted. My clothes stunk and I looked as though I’d been up to no good for a couple weeks. The middle-aged woman at the security desk looked me over for a half a moment longer than everyone else before she sent me off for additional screening.

This is it, I thought to myself. This is where the party ends and the trip takes a turn for the worse. This is where all those beautifully captured memories become thoroughly documented evidence.

The security agent pulled everything out of my bag, asking me about what I had been down south for, who I was with.

“Did the band you were with do any drugs while you were with them?” he asked, not looking at me but instead at the contents of my backpack as he dragged them out.

“They smoked a little bit of pot,” I said with a shrug. “You know, just hippie stuff like that.”

“Did you consume any marijuana while you were there?” he asked, looking at me now.

“I wasn’t there for that,” I said, looking back at him. “I was just there to write about what it was like to be there.”

On the inside pocket of my coat my notebook weighed a thousand pounds. Every answer he was looking for was inside it. He didn’t ask me to empty my pockets, so I didn’t, and he never saw the notebook or the stories it held.

My birthday came a few days after I was home. I hit the bong for breakfast along with a half cup of coffee, the other half of which I misplaced. My phone dinged with a text from John Roberts, Psychedelic Aficionado. He wished me a happy belated birthday that rattled my mind: How did he know my birthdate? Is he a Witch Doctor? Did he read the contents of my soul while I was under?

Love and Unity. Photo by Matt Harrison

Before these stoner theories could gather a real foothold, I saw the picture of me Justin had posted on Instagram.

“This is Matt Harrison,” the caption read. “Matt is a writer who I met last year in Winnipeg. He rode along with us on the last half of the Stories Tour, writing, seeing the country, and meeting tons of people. Yesterday was his 24th birthday. Proud to call him my friend, and excited for what’s to come in his career.”

I smiled when I saw it, still not believingthis was anything more than just a dream.

I had three weeks until school started from the day I got home, and I spent all 21 days getting high and writing while I listened to the unreleased SUSTO album, Ever Since I Lost My Mind, and Aquemini by OutKast. What I sought to somehow recapture was the feeling of being on tour. While I was still on tour I clung desperately to those final moments. The weeks after I came home, I hung on even tighter, though there was nothing left for me to hold on to.

It would be months before I fully came back to reality. It was three months before I could look back with absolute certainty that the tour had really happened. Looking back now, I no longer feel a desperate want to be back out there. What I feel instead is gratitude for ever getting to go, and a burning desire to run some other unseen roads.

As I write this, SUSTO is off finding new ears in old cities as they tour through Europe. Once they’re Stateside, they’ll be hitting familiar roads until the end of the year. For Justin, life on tour is an unending voyage. Night after night, when the lights go dim, he’ll step onto another stage to tell his story through music. Once the fans clear out and the amps are left humming a static emptiness, he’ll be back on the road in search of the next empty stage and the next waiting crowd.

Dedicated to the memory of Andrew ‘Toucan’ Gardner.

Photo by Matt Harrison

On the Road With SUSTO: Part Five

By Matt Harrison (@MattHurrison)

December 14th

10:15am

Charleston, South Carolina

“I brought some energy weed,” James said as he walked through the front door of the house on the Rialto Row compound. One lesson I’ve learned with absolute certainty is that the rock and roll world is a feisty bull to hang on to. So, you may as well get stoned and do your best.

Van the Good and James both arrived at Rialto early to sort out the plan for the day before we left for Macon, Georgia for the last show of the tour.

“I just need to pick up a bag of ice, a 12 pack of Budweiser, and a pack of Camel Lights,” James said as he hauled his ACID BOYS cooler into the van.

The three of us had some time to kill, so we headed over to James’ house to chill out and say hi to Luda, James’ dog who acts as the mascot of Rialto Row.

“You see these speakers here?” James said as we came into his house. “They were custom made for Eddie Vedder and they were the main speakers for the jam room in his house. Ben [Bridwell] won them from him on a bet when they were on tour, so they were his for years. Band of Horses got a sponsor that hooked their house up, so I go these.”

“Can you play something?” I asked.

“Sure,” he shrugged, pulling his phone out. “This is what we stumbled in on last night.”

He played a smooth, groovy, jam. It sounded incomplete, and that’s because it was. The truest version of the song momentarily peeked through the psychedelic shadows of the music. James played a few Band of Horses songs to show off the aptitude of what were once Eddie Vedder’s speakers.

“It’s crazy how these guys are my best friends, right? I would love these dudes if they were, I don’t know, landscapers, if they were whatever the fuck. The fact that they’re making this great music is wonderful and I’m just lucky to be here.”

“It’s fucking crazy to me that these sounds that are made in Rialto, a place that we built, are gonna be heard all over the goddamn world. That is fucked up! And, who knows man, maybe this shit’s gonna cheer people up in Japan and Australia meanwhile Ben recorded the vocals in my shitass bathroom!”

He paused for a moment, looking around his living room with a Budweiser in his hand. “That’s insane, brother, straight up.”

“That’s the American Dream,” I said from the back porch where I smoked a cigarette with Luda.

“Hey, man, they’ve also helped SUSTO out a lot. Band of Horses has taken SUSTO across the country, to Europe. Ben gave Justin a guitar for his birthday one year and Justin goes shit, man! You just tripled my net worth!”

Once we rolled out, we picked up Igoe and Justin before pulling up at the storage facility to pick up the merch bins. The string hanging for the light in the unit took three pulls to turn on. We filled a wide cart with only what we needed for the one show and loaded up the van.

“Esta bien,” Van the Good said from the driver seat once everything was loaded in. “Everybody, take your vitamins.”

We swung through Chick-Fil-A for brunch before being Georgia bound. We were still in the drive-thru, waiting on the rest of our food, when Justin started coughing and choking on his drink.

“I’ve never felt like that in my life,” he said, heaving with every breath, his eyes red and watering. “I felt like I was drowning.”

“You just really wanted that fuckin’ drink,” Igoe said, almost impressed.

“Can you ask for extra napkins? I look like a child,” Justin said.

“You are a child, bud,” Igoe replied.

“I’ve never seen anybody that mean on sweet tea before,” James said in his rough, Georgia tone from the middle row of seats.

“Unsweetened tea,” Justin corrected him, eyes still watering.

“I bet now you have PTSTea,” James said before laughing hard at his own joke. “That was pretty good.”

“He’s still chokin,’ bud,” Igoe said, looking over at James.

“That was the funniest thing I’ve ever said, and nobody laughed,” James said, offended.

“I laughed,” Igoe and I both added.

“Justin probably woulda laughed if he wasn’t chokin’,” Igoe said.

Once we were squared away, we hit the highway and were off toward Georgia. Deep green bushes and towering trees skirted the highway behind a layer of low, heavy fog.

“You’re ruining this beautiful scenery with this ok-ass, bullshit music” James said from the middle row of seats. “Put on Z by My Morning Jacket. Have you heard My Morning Jacket?” he asked, looking back at me.

I shook my head to say no.

“Oh, Canuck. Buckle up,” is all he said with wide eyes before taking a long sip of Budweiser.

We put the album on and passed The Gift Bowl around.

Passing the Gift Bowl. Photo by Matt Harrison

We vibed to the album while countless miles fell away behind us. James looked back over the seat and said, “This is that Low Country, dawg. This is all marsh and rivers.”

He looked up front as Justin drove, eating his chicken nuggets.

“Justin, your nugget-driving form is spectacular. I’ve got a buddy who weighs 400 or so pounds. He bet me one time that he could eat 100 nuggets in an hour. He ended up eating 66 in 23 minutes.”

“Then what? Did he die, or what?” Justin said into the rearview mirror.

“I don’t know, man,” James said, looking out the window at the South Carolina countryside. “He got real sick after that.”

When James starts telling a story, he gets the attention of anyone in earshot. What makes him such a good storyteller is his poetic tendency with words coupled with the fact most of his stories involve some light-hearted debauchery. He sat up straight before he spoke again.

“Do y’all remember when we were all at The Space doing & I’m Fine Today and I came in all excited. You’re like whatsup? And I’m like, ‘dawg, Lenny Kravitz just split his pants and…’” he stopped mid-sentence and looked back at me. “Did you see Lenny Kravitz’s dick? Do you know about this?”

“Yeah,” I said, laughing.

“That was the greatest day of my fucking life,” he said with a methodical cadence. “The fact that he had a cock-ring, leather pants, mid solo. Ah,” he said, leaning back and bringing his Budweiser up for a sip, “ya can’t beat that.”

More miles of endless forest and lowland swamp soared by us as I passed The Gift Bowl up to James. He flicked his Zippo open in a particular, spinning way before he sparked it. Igoe was mesmerized as he did it. She asked if he’d teach it to her, so he slowed the motion down for her to see.

“It’ll take you a minute and then it’ll get real natural,” he said.

“It’s gonna take more than a minute, bud. I don’t understand the physics. There’s gotta be another variable,” she said, continuing to spin and drop the lighter. Spin and drop, spin and drop.

“Ain’t it pretty around here?” James said, passing The Gift Bowl back to me, forgetting about the sound of Igoe dropping the lighter over and over.

“Gorgeous,” I said. He only nodded and smiled.

“Willin’” by Little Feat came on in the van as a part of Justin’s driving playlist.

“Is there another variable?” Igoe asked, her frustration growing.

“No, no,” James answered, showing her the trick another couple of times. “It just takes practice.”

“Show me again, fucker,” Igoe said, and he did.

“Oh shiit!” James yelled, getting the attention of the vehicle with his celebration as Igoe nailed the lighter trick. “Hell yeah, that was awesome!”

“I got it!” Igoe yelled back at him.

The two high fived and James’ excitement grew every time he saw her do it again, and again.

“Hell yeah,” James said between sips of Budweiser. “Lemme see it again, lemme see it again!”

The sound of the Zippo spinning open over and over was broken by James’ voice, calmer than usual.

“Hey, Justin, I just taught Igoe how to open a Zippo like a boss. It’s pretty valuable for your rock aesthetic. Soon, when y’all are rockin’ crowds, Igoe’s gonna need to have a cigarette and it’s gonna be a whole thing. My point is, I think we’ve earned a cigarette. We’ve been putting in work back here and we’ve learned how to open a lighter like a badass.”

“That’s so ridiculous,” Igoe said. She laughed and continued to spin the Zippo open over and over.

“It’s the truth,” James said defensively, his voice breaking midway through the word truth.

Justin gave the idea a moment of thought and looked in the rearview mirror to say, “I’ll give you guys a cigarette break in half an hour.”

“That’s great,” James said, raising both hands in the air, still holding a Budweiser in his left. “Thank you so much for your kindness.”

“I’ll probably have to pee in half an hour,” Igoe confessed.

“Exactly,” Justin said, keeping his eyes on the road. “You’ll have your cigarette then.”

“Oh, well, that’s not exactly a gift,” James said, making sense of the situation.

“Exactly. I’m saying you can have your cigarette, but it’ll be at a routine stop. I can’t watch her do that while I’m driving so I can’t verify the coolness of the trick. It doesn’t feel right to grant you a cigarette break for it.”

James was astonished by this miscarriage of justice. His shoulders raised as he became visibly upset. Finally, he erupted.

“That’s the most bullshit ass, horseshit kinda bullshit rule ever,” he said at last.

Photo by Matt Harrison

Then he broke out in laughter that spread through the van, while Igoe flicked the lighter open, and closed, and open, and closed.

“You’re doing really good over there,” James said to Igoe with a smile.

Justin rolled his window down and took the wheel at top center with his right hand. “Wooo!” he screamed, pumping his left fist out the window. “Window’s all the way down, baby! Wooo! Tour or die!”

Whew. This is gonna be one of the best cigarette’s I’ve ever had, y’all,” James said at the next rest stop.

Justin jumped into the passenger seat, cracked a beer and rolled a joint as Van took over to drive the rest of the way to Macon. The sun had only just struck the horizon when we checked in to the hotel and it was dark when we arrived at the venue for the show.

As we drove over, Justin sat in the middle row of seats. By now he’d had himself a few hits of a joint and he’d put back a few beers. He danced in his seat along with the jams in the van. His seatbelt squeaked each time he bounced in his seat dancing. Once he heard the squeak, he danced in a way that carried a beat with squeak of the seatbelt. Then he danced to the rhythm of the squeaking seatbelt.

That’s the thing about being around a guy like Justin; he emanates music, he breathes it and lives it. Whether it’s dancing along to a rhythm he just discovered in the world, or making up songs or tag lines, little tunes about anything. Justin is in continual participation with his musical self.

We had all sat down for dinner at the venue when Pete walked in with his guitar and gear box.

Pete’s gear. Photo by Matt Harrison

“How do you feel about the last show?” I asked him once he’d settled in.

“Happy to still be standing. Excited to get home, but it’s bittersweet, it’s bittersweet,” he said as he took a seat at the table.

“All good things must come to an end,” I uttered in cliché fashion.

“It’s true, man,” he said with a nod.

Justin sat down at the piano on stage for soundcheck.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said into the mic. “One, two, three. Nothin’ ‘bout nothin. Check, check, check. Hey, hey, hey. Gettin’ me down, nothin’ bout nothin’,” he sang. He jumped into the full song, singing “Acid Boys” as a warmup.

Igoe showed off her newfound Zippo trick as she stepped on stage. She smiled as she pocketed the lighter before carrying on with soundcheck.

“Alright,” Justin said once warmup finished, “I’m gonna get a shot n’ a beer and go chill in the green room.”

Macon green room. Photo by Matt Harrison

We spent enough time in the green room to get bored before we headed out into the pouring rain and on to the streets of Macon. We walked over to a bar called Grant’s Lounge that is said to have been a major building block in the development of Southern rock, hosting the likes of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Tom Petty, and the Allman Brothers in the 70s. “Silent Night” played and Christmas lights decorated the streets we ran across to get there. Igoe sung along in a dramatic, operatic voice.

“Is that a good opera voice?” she asked me with a whiskey smile.

“It’s great,” I said as we walked into the bassy, rock and roll atmosphere of Grant’s.

“This is fuckin’ cool, man,” I said to Justin with no better words for it.

“This place, it’s legendary, man,” he said as we walked through it. “I’m sure you’ve been told already; this is the place where southern rock was pretty much founded.”

All over the walls are autographs and band names, drawings and otherwise in sharpie, pencil, or whatever was available to write with. The promoter for the show, a southern man named Hubble, handed me a sharpie and said, “Sign somewhere, man.”

I wandered about, looking for somewhere with enough blank space to write and a memorable enough placement to recall. I saw a corner with just enough space.

“Draw a maple leaf,” Justin said after I signed my name.

“I don’t really know how. You try,” I said. I handed him the sharpie.

He knelt down and drew his best maple leaf, writing “Canada rulez” underneath it. We slipped away from the music, into the back area where the pool table was.

“Draw a maple leaf.”
Photo by Matt Harrison

“Corner pocket,” Justin said, leaning into his shot.

“Woo! Cah caw! Cah caw!” James said, pumping a fist in the air with one hand and cradling a Budweiser in the other. “That’s my dawg. I did not have any faith in you on that shot.”

“What can I say,” Justin shrugged, “I’m a closer.”

“I’m more of a middle reliever,” Hubble admitted.

On the next shot Justin sank the 8 ball and it was time to head back to the venue.

As we walked through the bar to leave, I stood in the opening in front of the stage. I looked around, thinking my way through time to some night in the 70s when Lynyrd Skynyrd stepped on stage. Just some long-haired Florida boys, playing like you’ve never heard before. I looked around the floor, imagining the packed houses they must have played for. I wondered what it must have been like, how the atmosphere would have felt, the first time these walls rumbled with the first sliding notes of “Free Bird”.

As the group walked out, I looked around for Justin and found him crouched against a wall. I payed no mind and leaned against the bar until he rushed by to catch up with the group. I went back and saw the place he left his mark, the footprint of the Acid Boys. I ran out the bar and down the street to catch up with the group while we walked through the December rain to the venue.

The mark of the ACID BOYS. Photo by Matt Harrison

As we came back in the building, we could hear Pete singing “Laid Low”.

“It’s true enough I’ve paid for a ride I didn’t mean to take but never have I wanted to forget it,” he sang, powerfully.

“Thank y’all very kindly,” is all he had to say between songs.

I thought of something while I watched Igoe and Justin take the stage for the last time that night. It was less a thought and more a feeling. Something to do with brotherhood and comradery. We’re out here together, neck deep and sinking into a way of life. For each of them, to live without singing would fail to be fully alive. Where there’s a stage and an audience, there are people like Justin and Igoe looking to put on a show and share their passion and art.

“The next song we’re gonna play is about surfing but it’s also about violence,” Justin said, scratching his forehead. “We live in Charleston where there’s a pretty vibrant surfing community. You can probably tell by lookin’ at me that I’m not a part of that community, as surfing requires this elusive thing called upper body strength. Never really chased that down. But I have some friends who were nice enough to bring me along to come try it out.”

“We went out and it was a beautiful morning. The water was glassy, and there were dolphins. And it just blew my mind and made me wonder how do we get to live in such a wonderful world?”

“After that I was like, ‘Call me next time and every time after that you guys go.’”

“They brought me out again a few days later and it was totally different. There was a big storm rolling in. I kept trying to get out into the waves, but I couldn’t do it. I kept just trying for like three hours and I started singing this little mantra: it comes in waves. After a while I gave up and just ripped cigs on the beach and watched my friends catch waves.”

“It was about a year after that I started thinking about the juxtaposition between those two days. And so, I guess this song was written about that feeling of confliction and it’s called Waves.”

Justin strummed the opening chords, letting his voice rip through those first lines. “Why’s there so much trouble,” he sang, leaning into the mic while Igoe backed him up. “We live in such a remarkable place.”

The last song they played was “Acid Boys”. Before they finished, Justin gave thanks to everyone for coming. He thanked Pete for opening and Igoe for performing with him. He thanked Van the Good for giving everything he’d done on his first tour as Tour Manager.

Finally, he looked at me in the crowd and said, “We’ve also had a writer along with us for the last half of the tour. A Canadian writer named Matt Harrison.”

He smiled as he went on to say something else, but I couldn’t hear him over the cheering crowd. I put my hand over my heart and gave him a nod as he spoke. Whatever it was he said, I suspect it was something I had already felt along the way. When I had ceased being some just some writer clung to the underside of the van is indefinable. It was somewhere in those countless miles, those late-night joints and bleary-eyed mornings that I had become a friend among friends.

The after party. Photo by Matt Harrison

Weed was plentiful that night through the after party and the crew drank their fill. We spent most of the night in the bar attached to our hotel, shooting pool and playing foosball. The party cleared out when the bar closed and we went next door to the hotel around 3am. In the lobby of the hotel sat a white grand piano. Igoe sat down at it and started playing.

“Igoe, can you play Rosetta?” Van the Good asked.

A few tears built slowly and ran quickly down my face as we watched her sing. The beauty of her voice and the piano carried through the grand entrance of the hotel with the soothing fluidity of rainfall. At the end of the song, a hotel employee came rushing down the hall at us, clapping his hands and yelling.

Jordan Igoe singing Rosetta in the Macon Lobby

“Hey, hey, hey!” he yelled. “You can’t be playin’ right now, it’s three in the mornin’!”

I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” she softly sang the last line of her song.

We kept our laughter quiet as we went upstairs and continued the party in room 231.

It was around 4:00am when Justin asked me a good question: “Matt Harrison, what are you doing here, man?!”. The last time he asked me this same question we were in Mobile, and he had just taken a hit of a joint. This time, The Gift Bowl was still smoking in his hand as he said it. “For all we know you could be the Devil,” he said. He eyed me suspiciously as he brought the bowl to his lips.

It’s as if it took the right combination of liquor and weed for the charade I had been upholding to fall apart. Ultimately, there’s no valid explanation, no good reason for me to be here for any of this. I’m not an elite member of the press or an exploring documentarian. I was just a SUSTO fan who got lucky.

I’d read The Proud Highway by Hunter S. Thompson and saw how many letters he sent to editors, politicians, other writers, anyone and everyone he thought would be worth while writing to. I mimicked that idea when I wrote Justin the letter that pitched the idea for me to come out with him. All I really did was write a letter. And there I was because of it, laughing along with Justin, Igoe, and Van the Good after touring with them for the last 10 days.

The next morning wouldn’t begin until the early afternoon. We passed The Gift Bowl around the van before we cleared out of the hotel parking lot. After these countless miles, it’s still the same four-person crew. Today the pace is our own and home is the destination for some much-needed R&R.

We met Pete for brunch before he went back his own way. As we sat down, Justin asked the server, “Do y’all sell any liquor drinks?”

The answer was no, so an unsweetened tea would have to suffice.

We said our goodbyes to Pete and drove back through the loping hills of Georgia. The energy in the van was lower than it was yesterday as we trekked through these final miles of tour.

Pete signs a couple autographs before we part ways. Photo by Matt Harrison

“PTSTea is still the funniest thing I have ever said,” James said to a unanimous approval of the van as we crossed back into South Carolina.

The rolling wheels of the luggage cart echoed down the hall of the storage facility until we stopped at the unit where the light takes three pulls to click on. We loaded the merchandise bins away for the last time and pulled the wide metal door shut.

“How much more of that cigarette do you have?” I asked James as I stepped out of the building. “Half? Perfect. Can I borrow a lighter?”

“You do notice that I have not held up the convoy at any point in time?” James said as he passed me his lighter. “I have crushed beers and have not had to make a single piss stop.” His voice was calm as he spoke. “From an efficiency standpoint, everyone can suck ma dick.”

I raised a cigarette to his achievement, ashed it out, and climbed into the van. No one said anything as we drove through Charleston and pulled up outside Rialto Row.

Collectively, we had taken hits to the liver, the psyche, the lungs and otherwise. As we puttered down the dark streets of Charleston, I began feeling the end of the road, the end of the adventure. That first night in Chicago, the end seemed like an address we would never pull up in front of. Yet here we were, parked outside of Rialto Row. James, Van, and I climbed out of the van.

“Matt, it’s been a great ride, bud,” Justin said as I grabbed my things out of the van. “Monday, let’s get lunch before ya go. If you need anything, hit me up. King street is just through here. If you want anything, you can walk as far as you’re willing to.”

“Alright, man, it’s been real,” I said, unsure of the appropriate words for the end of such an experience.

“Yeah, dude. It’s been amazing. I’m glad we were able to make it work.”

“It just took a bit of time.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you around in a day or so.”

There will be other tours for Justin, for Igoe, and for Van the Good. James hasn’t crushed his last Budweiser on the road, either. But this tour, this particular stretch of highway and memories, has found its end.

“Take care, bud,” I said as I gave Igoe a hug goodbye.

“You too, bud,” she said before she climbed into the van.

I shed a couple tears while I watched the second show in Charleston, thinking about the looming end of tour. As I heard the van fire up and watched it roll down the street, I could only be happy any of this ever happened. The highway overpass sent a continual hum through the warm December night as their brake lights flashed at the end of the street before they turned left and pulled out of sight.

A Walk Through Winnipeg

By Matt Harrison

I skulked through the back alleys and side streets of the Exchange District one sunny May afternoon, smoking half a joint as I went. I crossed some street and came head on with a middle-aged man coming toward me. Judging by the state of his eyes and the tatters his clothes had long since become, I knew he wouldn’t mind the smell.

I popped the latter half of the joint into my backpack and carried on. I crossed Ellice Avenue, heading toward downtown Winnipeg. As I started across a mostly filled parking lot, I was stopped by a woman who looked to be somewhere in her 40’s, though she may have been a rough 30-something. Her skin was worn deep by whatever it was that brought her here. She was missing most, if not all, of her top teeth.

“Excuse me, sir,” she began as I slowed to look at her. “Maybe you can help me. I’m new to the city and I’m not getting assistance cheques for another week. I’m not asking for money, but I need someone to come with me to the store.”

“Why do you need somebody to come with you?” I thought aloud.

“I need baby formula.”

“You need somebody to buy baby formula for you?”

“For my three-month old” she nodded.

“Shit,” I said to myself. “I can’t go with you” I told her after a moment, “but I have a bit of money. Just a couple bucks.”

I dug through my right pocket and gave her the ten quarters I brought for a cup of coffee. “I don’t know what baby formula costs, but I hope this helps.”

“It’s 15 dollars” she said as she slowly shook her head, looking off, down the street.

Her shoulders fell into a slouch that showed the truth of her situation. But there is an infinite chasm between what I felt in that moment and what I knew. If this was a ploy to lure me deeper into this rough slice of Winnipeg, toward some person hidden away, waiting for me, she certainly wold not have told me so.

We each turned our separate ways, and I continued through the parking lot, steering away from downtown and wandering toward Winnipeg’s Central Park.

It was a short time getting there. As I wandered the sidewalk perimeter of the park, I looked across the street at two massive, heaving apartment complexes. I thought of the single mother I met one morning at the breakfast table who lived in one of those buildings with her daughter. She told me about her time spent as a cocaine dealer and the deep anxiety she felt about former clients coming to rob her of money and blow she no longer had. I wondered if she was still in there, if her nightmares had ever come true.

I don’t recall the turns I took, if I took any at all. Nevertheless, I had wandered through a business district and into a residential area. Up ahead, standing on a front lawn, was a young black man with a smoking something in his hand. He reached the joint out to a round headed, bald, white man walking 15 or so strides ahead of me. The man leaned away, bringing his hand up to say no. As I walked past, the same smoking gesture came my way.

”I’m good” I said as politely as I could.

“It’s weed” he said, confused at my response.

“Oh, uh, well, I had already some this morning, man.”

That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he yelled through a laugh and a smile. I pointed a finger gun in his direction, bringing my thumb down as a mock hammer as I went by.

I wished I could have taken a hit of the thing, even just for the sanctity of the moment. I’m sure it was just weed, but I’d rather never know than learn it was a lie.

Hours passed and still I wandered on. I smoked again as I came over a long, busy bridge. I came to pass a mother pushing a stroller toward me with a toddler walking by her side. I butted the joint out, putting the rest away. She scowled at me as I came by, seeing me as just another shit head, stinking of drugs around her kids. A title I deserved as that’s precisely what I was doing.

I eventually found my way back to Central Park, six or so hours after I’d first come through. An older man with a grey ponytail stood tall ahead of me. I felt a thin, pot scented paranoia that he might be a cop so I gave him a silent nod as I came by.

“Nice day, huh?” he said as I walked by.

Beautiful day” I said, turning to face him with a full smile.

We both lived through the same miserable winter and, chances are, we were both going to sit through the next one to come. Those long, frozen days aren’t a problem for today, or tomorrow, or any sun shining days between here and that icy flipside. We talked and laughed about things of no real importance before we wished each other well and I carried on.

I smoked again as I came over a long, busy bridge.”

I walked on for only a few minutes before I came by two Jehovah’s Witnesses. I glanced over at the booklets they were giving away and it seemed they still had every booklet they brought with them that morning. I thought of what I would say to them but said nothing as I passed.

“They’re free” said the lady next to the very full brochure stand. She was a mid-30’s white woman, with a mother’s love in her eyes. Her smile reminded me of someone I’d known long ago.

I stood and talked with her for 20 or so minutes. She agreed, emphasized, even, the existence of literalities as well as metaphors throughout the old, Good Book. I asked her to state one literal truth which acts as a major pillar of the free literature beside her.

“There will come a day when Jesus comes back and returns the power of the earth to the meek. All evil will be removed from the earth and the meek shall inherit it.”

“And this will literally occur?” I asked.

“Yup,” she said enthusiastically, relieved at my understanding. “Isn’t it great?”

I said something about evil being inseparable from humanity and that acts of evil will always exist. To think there will literally come a day where all the evil in the world ceases to exist is impossible to believe. A thought which later occurred to me pertains to the fluidity of definitions. Even if the Lord were to rid this plane of all evil, there would soon be a modified definition of Evil within the newfound Eutopia. Whatever is believed to be out of line with the contemporary religiosity will decidedly be labelled an act of evil, and the concept shall survive.

The conversation ended with smiles and handshakes. As I turned to leave, I stepped into a pothole and stumbled onward. Perhaps the hole had been dug by the Lord Himself as a mechanism of correcting my misguided ways, though I suspect it was more a result of the nearly finished joint that stunk a hole in my pocket.

The heat of the day clung to the evening. I met a brother of mine at the University of Winnipeg and the two of us went for a walk-through East Gate, an historically rich neighbourhood. We drooled over the castles standing on each side of us, wondering what could be used to fill these many rooms.

I turned us off the main stretch of this Yellow Brick Road, down a brief street that ended at a dumpster, behind which was a small bit of bush line and the Assiniboine River.

We walked into the trees, through which there was a short dirt path that we followed down hill. I saw people standing in a clearing that lay ahead of us. As we approached, we were welcomed with a waving hand through the foliage.

“Greetings!” yelled the man beyond the bush.

“Hi there” I said as the two of us walked up to the two of them. He wore a jean jacket and black cargo shorts, while her hair erupted in a vibrant, sunrise-shade of purple that poured out of her black hoodie. They were sitting on a log, each drinking a Pilsner.

“You can walk right down to the edge of the water if you wanna,” the fella said after a bit of small talk. “Especially you,” he pointed toward my feet “with your fancy-camo-hikin’ boots.”

I told a story about going halfway to my knee in mud at the edge of this very same river in these very same boots.

“You’ll catch more than just fish in that water” I said, and we all laughed at the murky, rotten joke of it.

We talked another few minutes before my brother and I went back on our way. We headed back toward nowhere in particular, back through this big small town called Winnipeg.

More by Matt Harrison:

Another Day on the Road

Aimlessly Wandering Through Chicago

Ever Since I Lost My Mind – SUSTO

Ever Since I Lost My Mind – SUSTO

By Matt Harrison

We were passing around a post-show doobie-joint in Louisville, watching the security guard of the neighbouring property drive the perimeter of his jurisdiction with a burnt out taillight. “We’ll play the new album for ya tomorrow on the way to Nashville” SUSTO frontman Justin Osborne said to me from the front passenger seat. I sat in my same back row seat the next day when we hit the road and I first heard Ever Since I Lost My Mind.

The sounds of silence hang momentarily before the sharp pattern of acoustic strumming brings listeners into the newest SUSTO album. “Homeboy,” the first track on the album, is a rhythmically fluid and lyrically evocative anthem of the rising tide among Osborne and those he’s come up around in the prolific Charleston music scene. It’s a catchy and inspiring track that causes one to consider their potential, be they a musician or otherwise.

Rolling in as a light alternative, “If I Was” will have you shoulder dancing along before the lyrics come in. “If I was a saviour,” Osborne begins, “I’d help all the people get saved/ Dunk their heads under water just to make sure that they’re all okay, they’re all alright.” The song carries on this theme of giving in the lines “If I was a writer, I’d try to suck you all in/ Put out some real page turners that you’ll never ever wanna put down again.

As the song comes to a close the instruments gradually drift and mingle, seemingly on their own. The band was sharing an LSD trip in the studio and the music took that wavelength for a ride. At the song’s natural conclusion those final notes hung together, floating along in an unchoreographed stream of celestial interconnectedness.

At the midway point is “Last Century,” a powerhouse track that puts SUSTO’s rock and roll aptitude on display. It’s the sort of groovy tune you’ll turn up every time you hear that first sliding note. In the latter half of the song the band drops into another gear, putting listeners under a psychedelic trance of slow-motion rock and roll euphoria before the tempo picks back up and roars into the closing chants; “Hey man, you got the last century, the last century right; Hey man, I’ll see you on the other side.”

You may have missed too many episodes of Dora to understand what “Está Bien” is about, so I’ve gone ahead and written up the drunken translation Justin gave me on the last night I was on tour with his crew in Macon, Georgia. Once you’ve read it, you’ll see how the song is not only aesthetically beautiful but deeply mantric. “I hope Esta Bien can be used as a tool to teach simple Spanish while sharing a positive message” Justin explained to me that night in Georgia, “something parents can share with their kids to teach them something good.”

After tiptoeing through the dreamscape of the seventh track, “House of the Blue Green Buddha,” you will be ripped back to reality when “Livin’ in America” comes on. This song captures the enjoyment of turning up the amps, subsequently pissing off your neighbours and scaring the dog. “It’s meant to come across as sarcastic,” Justin said while he, Van the Good and I smoked a 5 am joint in Macon. “America is fun as fuck. I mean, I get we’re fucked up, but it’s fun.”

And then you’re back, neck deep in the mellow, lost again in the serenity of the album. The title track, “Ever Since I Lost My Mind,” brings a fleeting scent of freedom; the equanimity of nomadity. “This is our fuckin’ hymn out there on the road,” Justin said, looking out the same windshield through which endless miles have passed him by. “You’ve just entered this life” he nodded to newly appointed tour manager, Van, “and you’ve sampled it,” he nodded back to me, “but this has been my life for 15 years.”

Before you know it you’re at the end of the ride. “Waiting on the rain to just stop/ I’m three weeks off cocaine and that’s rough” Osborne sings, shameless in his humanity in the final track, “Off You.” What many connect with in Osborne’s songwriting is his unrelenting and continual honesty. His lyrics offer personal insight that emboldens the understanding that those who struggle within themselves are not alone. “I can’t seem to get myself off of you” are the words the album closes on, shedding a final streak of light on that which Osborne still works to overcome.

Songs unmentioned here were cut for the sake of relative brevity. Among them is the third track, “Weather Balloons,” which was written the day after an acid trip during a Charleston snowstorm that shut the city down. Much of this album can be heard on repeat until your headphones give out. However, when listened to as a single entity, this album reflects the mind of an artist working through his pains who recognizes the beauty and bliss around him.

I was standing outside the door of Rialto Row on my last day in Charleston, still fairly stoned and about to head to the airport. SUSTO was inside for their first full band practice since recording the album. The peak of “Last Century” roared through the door with the same force found on the album. What the future holds for SUSTO remains to be seen but those last lines I heard through the door paint the picture of expectation; “Exercise in the early mornin’/ Let’s try and get one for the radio.”


Enter your email HERE to be notified when the full piece about my time on the road with SUSTO is published in summer of 2019

Support SUSTO with a purchase of Ever Since I Lost My Mind: HERE

Previously published work from the SUSTO Stories Tour:

Another Day on the Road

Aimlessly Wandering Through Chicago

Ty Shore Music

By Samuel Stevens

Ty Shore Music
Tyler Shore Music – 05/5/18 – Photo by Samuel Stevens Photography.

You use your real name, Ty Shore in your musical moniker of, Ty Shore Music. Why did you go this route, rather than using something unrelated to your name or even a nickname, a lot like famous rappers and alike have for many years?

After searching so long for stage names, I decided to use my real name so someday when I make it people will see my name up there. This way the people who didn’t believe in me see my name in the lights knowing I achieved my dreams.

When did you first start rapping? What got you into the genre in the first place?

2010, while waiting in an airport hoping to have a chance to meet the WWE superstar John Cena to challenge him to a rap battle [laughs]. For those who don’t know, his wrestling gimmick at one point in time was to rap battle his foes. What got me into this genre was Studio 393’s G.A.P. (Graffiti Arts Program) through my neighborhood community centre. At first I tried to take part in their hip-hop dance program, but it wasn’t a great fit for me so at the time my buddy Nick and I were huge rap fans so when G.A.P. offered a rap program to start our own music, we instantly said yes.

How long have you been writing songs? Do you create your own beats or outsource the beats you use?

I wrote my first song with my producers at the time in 2014. For about two years after that I had the producers giving me tips and all that. The first time I really wrote my own song, 100% in my own words, was shortly after a songwriting session with Winnipeg’s Most member, Charlie Fettah. That song ended up being my first ever solo single, “Welcome to the Party.” When I first started I was making my own beats alongside my team, but as the years went on I now outsource the beats I have been using.

Are you currently working on anything new? Singles, mixtape/album, etc?

I am currently working on a new album, which will be my debut. I plan to drop a few more singles before it drops, so keep posted to my Soundcloud.
I am hoping to have this album done for the spring, but we will have to see how this creative process goes [laughs].

What are your current goals as a musician?

My main goal as a musician is to build a big enough name for myself so I can tour throughout Canada and the world. I’d love to meet as many of my fans as possible, while spreading the positive message within my music to them all.

So if you could perform a show this very second anywhere in the world, where would it be? Particular venue or city that comes to mind?

Winnipeg [laughs]. A few of the main cities I would love to perform in would be Toronto, Vancouver, and literally anywhere in the United Kingdom. Some certain venues that come to mind would have to be Madison Square Garden and Wembley Stadium. Oh, and certainly Bell MTS Place [laughs].

Who are some of your musical influences?

My overall biggest influence has to be Michael Jackson. Do to his huge passion of wanting to heal the world. The same way I want to do. Others have to be Eminem, Vanilla Ice, and Winnipeg’s Robb Nash.

Why did you release “No Chance for Romance” on Valentine’s Day?

I released this song on Valentine’s Day because people are always releasing love anthems around this time of the year, meanwhile there are tons of single and heart broken out there. This song is for those who don’t have anyone on Valentine’s Day.

You’ve previously mentioned Studio 393, they helped you get into music. Do they ever showcase talent to perform in the city? Have you performed at these events?

Yes. They have many events around Winnipeg where they let their artists showcase their talents. I’ve been included in a majority of them. One I want to mention most was the talent showcase at the West End Cultural Centre.

So to touch on the showcase at the WECC, is there any particular reason that stands out to you? Were there any other favourite performances?

The reason that showcase at the West End Cultural Centre stands out the most to me is that it was my first ever performance inside a venue. My other favourite performances was my fourth time performing at Downtown Moves just last year at Portage Place. With full creative decision in my performance, I was able to share the message of equality to the audience.

Ty Shore Music

Tyler Shore Music – 05/5/18 – Photo by Samuel Stevens Photography.

Is there a musician dead or alive that you would work with given the chance?

I will give you one that’s dead and one that’s alive [laughs]. Would have to be my influences Michael Jackson and Eminem. Simple as that.

You had the opportunity to rap, “Ice Ice Baby” with Vanilla Ice now on two separate occasions performing the first and second verse. That must have been a dream come true, was it?

Yes! It was a dream come dream true, as Vanilla Ice is one of my favorite rappers! To have one member of the old generation of rap hear one member of the new generation of rap perform a song from the past was a humbling experience. I hope that someday Vanilla Ice and I meet again, but this time it’s in a studio.

Thanks for taking the time Ty. Is there anything you may want to add?

No! [laughs]. I would like to thank everyone who has supported me so far and I hope that if you’re reading this now you’d continue to come along on this journey with me. Stay tuned to my Soundcloud for more singles soon and hoping everything pulls through for my spring album release. One last thing for anybody who needs a bit of hope, just know it does get better. Stay strong, stay positive!

Make to check out Ty Shore Music at:

https://www.facebook.com/TyShoreMusic/

https://soundcloud.com/tyshoremusic

https://www.instagram.com/tyshoremusic/