As I walked into the Bootleg Theater in Los Angeles on January 18, I immediately could tell that Adam Arcuragi meant business. It was clear that music is not just something he does; it is something he lives. He put his all into the performance, so much so that you couldn’t look away. It’s not often that you see someone really losing themselves in the music they play.

And this work ethic translates into everything he does, from the recordings he recently did at Duane Lundy’s (Jim James, Daniel Martin Moore, Ben Sollee) studio in Kentucky, to this interview.

I was able to speak with Adam before he began his recent tour. We spoke of growing up in the South, The Iliad, and being a member of the Thirty Tigers family. He is set to release his third full-length release (that was recorded mostly live), Like a fire that consumes all before it, on January 31. This is not one to be missed.

How did growing up in Georgia influence you becoming a musician?

For me, this was much more of an influence of people and not place, but I definitely think that location flavors the decisions, and that seasoning for me has always been the South. Much of my childhood was spent at my grandparents’ house north of Atlanta.

I remember the day we discovered that not only did my gran have a turntable capable of playing 78s, but she also had a huge stack of actual platters that played gorgeous music. There is so much information on a 78 groove. They sound so lush in this weird way. That night, after I set the turntable up, we listened and danced around the living room to big band music. Some evenings we would sit after dinner and sing old hymns or my grandfather and I would do our killer renditions of Everly Brothers’ songs.

Also, being a good southern boy at heart, I went to church at least once or twice a week from the time I was born until I was around sixteen. So I got a lot of gospel singing training. Other than that, my mom gave me my first Bob Dylan cassette tape when I was in grade school. That was probably the beginning of the end.

You seem to have lived all over the States. Which city really stands out to you? Where do you feel you grew the most creatively?

I love this country. It’s not perfect (Where is?), but it sure is home, gorgeous home. I mean, have you seen the United States of America in person? Of course you have. We are this vast expanse of the planet Earth with mountains, deserts, swamps, one of the biggest rivers in the world and two oceans. We invented rock ‘n roll, gospel, jazz, blues and the meatball sub; there is so much delight and variety.

Great cities for writing: Santa Fe, Los Angeles, New York, Macon and Snohomish.

In what environment are you most creative?

The train comes when and where it pleases. My job and discipline are to be fit and ready so that when the train comes I can hop on. If I could call to her at will, the Moon would live in my backyard. But alas, I am her faithful servant. I stay vigilant because I could be walking across the street or in a library and BAM, she’s ready.

How was recording in Lexington? How has it been working with Thirty Tigers?

Lexington is a special jewel of a city here in the USA. Kentucky, in general, is an amazing state. Such pretty country and such lovely people.

Duane Lundy is also one of the finest men out there with one of the finest studios in operation right now. It quickly became a fun free-for-all of ideas and cooperation. It sounds so good in there, the mood is right, and there is plenty to read. Our time in Lexington was amazing.

We are beyond thrilled to be a part of the Thirty Tigers family. They are one of the outfits that are doing it right. They care so much too. Each and every person involved has put their all into this and all their releases. It is a great name too: Thirty Tigers…makes you wanna roar.

How are you feeling about the release of Like a fire that consumes all before it and your upcoming tour?

I feel wonderfully lucky. I am surrounded by supremely talented and giving people. It seems to be hitting all the right buttons in people. That makes me happy. Without sounding maudlin about it, it means more to me that something is communicated and that it elicits a visceral reaction in people.

The tours this year are going to be fun. Joe is a mighty booking force. He is a very honest and hard-working man from the Midwest. He gets it and he gets it done. I’m looking forward to this year more than I can remember being excited about a chunk of time in a while.

The title of your album is taken from a line of The Illiad as well as a Cy Twombly painting. Is one more significant than the other to you? How do either relate to the album?

“Like a fire that consumes all before it…” is what is written on the bottom of the Cy Twombly painting. His painting is part of a whole installation at the PMA that is based on The Illiad, so, both.

I love that painting. It makes me feel things when I’m standing in front of it. That phrase always echoes in my mind. It is an ancient sort of phrase. It shows up in accounts of invasion and also in the Bible.

I love The Illiad because it is epic poetry. I’m a nerd like that, I guess. I like feeling connected to all the humans that have come before, through things like music and literature and paintings. Fire is also an image that comes up when people are talking to us about the music we make. Lots of language that reflects back to us this idea of being enraptured with the song and the moment and less about us as a “band.” Ideally, I’d like people to focus on the music because that’s where the magic is; so in that, the title reflects more of the reaction we’ve gotten to these songs when we play them live (we road-tested the songs on this album a good piece before we recorded), and that, to me, is the best thing.

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For more information visit AdamArcuragi.com.

When you first listen to Neal Morgan’s newest album, In the Yard, you are taken aback. You think, “Well, this is different.” But by no means does this imply anything negative. In fact, this difference in compositional style is to be relished in. And with each listen, you wander deeper into the mind of Neal Morgan.

With percussion taking the foreground, Morgan also incorporates the use of vocals as instruments. And with his own singing—or narration—over this instrumentation, you can’t help but think of such literary heroes as Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. In fact, it can be argued that Morgan has created his own form of Beat storytelling.

In the Yard reads like a series of journal entries, with Morgan narrating along his ideas of place and his relationship to his environment. No matter the setting, whether in the water, a backyard, or on a hill, Morgan’s surroundings are a predominant factor in this album.

The album opens with “On Tour.” We hear Morgan recite a poetic verse about a trip to a quarry where people are swimming. His telling of the story is so evocative that you feel like a voyeur yourself. You can see the girl he sings of take the rope and swing into the water. With crash cymbals symbolizing a splash, the album quickly moves into its first single, “Fathers Day.” This is when we first hear Morgan actually sing; but in a similar vein as “On Tour,” he continues to tell another story. The building of the percussion along with the story pulls you along the road he is traveling. You listen intently, concerned to hear what the person on the other end of the phone will say. Whoever it is, their life is changing forever—and quite possibly the narrator’s as well. With the vocals imitating the sound of a train, you can’t help but think of the gravity of the situation he just learned of. And like a train, the situation has enough momentum to keep pushing forward until it is forced to stop. While only seemingly minimal, this song is actually complex—it is a blending of spoken word and tone. It’s an intriguing work of art worthy of more analysis than I could ever provide—within or without the context of the album.

There is a scene in the Coen Brothers’ A Serious Man when the protagonist, Larry Gopnik, stands on the roof of his house. “I Stand on a Roof” is reminiscent of that scene. Standing on top of his home, the song’s narrator is protective of his neighborhood and the land that surrounds it. The narrator remains outside in “In the Yard.” Much like “Fathers Day,” this song has literary merit as well. The most poignant line, personally, is when Morgan sings, “In the yard, on my back / I’m settled in now.” He is settled not inside the home, but outside of it. At grass level, he can look at the sky, content to feel small, and challenged to make a mark—not necessarily on the land or as a notch from the American Dream, but in the realm of art.

In “On a Cut Hill,” the narrator is once again able to see from a place where the perspective is clear. The combination of vocal instrumentation and lyrics is truly stunning—not to mention incredibly interesting. Not a single instrument is used in this particular song.

The pace of the album kicks back up with “Thinking Big.” And much like the train, the album’s momentum is kept high until its closing track, “I Dreamed.” As a drum and voice record, In the Yard serves as an experiment in the crafting of art—in crafting something beyond a traditional pop song. Although Morgan has played drums for such musicians as Joanna Newsom and Bill Callahan, he is strongest on his own. And as exemplified in In the Yard, Morgan has allowed for his voice to be heard in this thoroughly enjoyable, thought-provoking album.

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For more information visit NealMorgan.Bandcamp.com.

When I first discovered Caveman, they were a little-known band from Brooklyn with one of the unexpectedly best albums of the year. However, their debut album, CoCo Beware, had yet to be released and they were still playing mostly local shows. But soon after it was released last fall, many finally caught wind of what Matthew Iwanusa, Jimmy Carbonetti, Stefan Marolachakis, Sam Hopkins and Jeff Berrall were all capable of. They were bound to take hold of the independent music world.

Through redefining 1960s-style harmonies, incorporating intricate drum beats, and adding a calming, reverb-filled atmosphere to their music, they created a sound that was intriguing to the ear and left you wanting to hear more—hungry for the next chord that would be strummed.

After months of growing their fan base and a tour with the War on Drugs, Caveman finally made their way to Los Angeles to perform a headlining set at The Echo in Echo Park. As we sat in the loft of Origami Vinyl next-door Jimmy Carbonetti and Stefan Marolachakis reminisced of a favorite memory as a band—their first show as Caveman when they opened for White Rabbits at Bowery Ballroom. Little did they know when sharing this with me that only next month they would perform their own headlining set at the Bowery Ballroom to a full crowd.

The loft at Origami Vinyl looks down onto the shop, where records line the walls of the narrow shop. Just outside the front door, a line was forming to see Caveman perform later that evening. This was their first time in Los Angeles as a band, and they got to that point due to their own hard work. The band formed its own label, Magic Man! Records, and Jimmy crafts their guitars through his own shop, Cobra Guitars.

However, this trip to the West Coast would prove to be an important one for the band—one that would allow them to reach a greater audience. The evening at the dimly-lit Echo would prove to be a significant moment in their careers, as they were shortly thereafter signed to Fat Possum Records. But at this moment in time, sitting in the loft, this was yet to be determined. Jimmy and Stefan were proud of what they had done thus far, and were optimistic as to what the future would hold for Caveman. With the talent and drive that the band has, it’s no wonder their vision is unfolding before them.

This is your last tour of the year?

Stefan:  Yes, of 2011. We had a great year. We got to tour with our friends in White Rabbits, Here We Go Magic, and War on Drugs—who are our new best men.

I saw them about two months ago.

Stefan: Aren’t they the best?

Jimmy: We hit it off with them. The first time we actually met them with in Philly for their record release show, so it was a special night for them.

Stefan: But the way we met them, though…

Jimmy: Was through Here We Go Magic.

Stefan: Right. But the moment we met them was when we were loading into the club, and some guy smoking outside held the door open and was bringing in all our gear, and he was like, “You’re Caveman, right?” And it was Adam Granduciel, the singer of the band. And that sort of set the whole mood. They’re so considerate and fun; they’re exactly what a band should be.

Jimmy: And I think they’re as into gear as we are.

Stefan: You know Jimmy builds all our guitars, so they were going nuts about it. They’re into nerdy stuff like gear and basketball, like we are.

Jimmy: On tour, that’s an atmosphere that we really love. And off tour we surround ourselves with that family vibe—really humble and polite, good people with like-mindedness and good energy. It’s so important.

Stefan: It’s nice to think of it as a community of people trying to lift one another up and helping rather than cutting each other down. It’s always the most depressing when you catch everybody cutting each others’ legs off.

Jimmy: I just saw that in the Pearl Jam documentary. Johnny from the Ramones was telling Eddie Vedder, “Man, Seattle’s scene is so different from our old New York scene. You guys are actually a tight family and community. But when we were in New York, if somebody else was playing a show, we would try to fuck them up as much as possible. We would rip down their posters, we’d untune their guitars…”

Stefan: Here’s the thing, though. We’re from New York, and obviously I think that if you’re going to hack it at all there you need to have some type of killer instinct. But it shouldn’t be exacted on other people. I think our vibe is just trying to get each other—in positive ways—to step up our game.

Positive energy takes you a long way. I’ve always liked the idea of community, especially when everyone supports each other.

Jimmy: Yeah, especially with having a guitar shop in the city. That was a huge part of it. And I opened it just as we started the band. It was growing together. And just having that little staple in the East Village where all of our friends can come and hang out, listen to vinyl, build guitars, and help other musicians. You know, swap notes if possible.

Stefan: And turn each other on to different music.

Jimmy: Yeah. I had this other guy, Mas Hino, at the shop who used to work at Rudy’s Guitars from 1985 to 2000, which was an era with Eric Clapton and all those guys. He was building guitars for them for those many years. He went back to Japan, and I had the pleasure of meeting him, and we just hit it off immediately. Then he started working at my shop. There’s an amazing team with that respect for each other.

Stefan: I’m a few years older than Jimmy, and he’s such a relatively young guy. But actually, via him, he really reinforces up tapping into this much older vibe. It’s just funny to think that now we’re looped in with this really old New York guitar scene.

Jimmy: It’s just funny working in guitar shops since I was 18—fresh out of high school. At Chelsea Guitars—I was right under the Chelsea Hotel—I didn’t know much about guitars, but that was the best place to learn about vintage guitars. Danny, the owner, was just an encyclopedia. I took a lot of my guitar shop from his. That almost pawnshop vibe, but really something special. Like you walk in and you feel relaxed and at home. That’s a vibe that I think our band has—very relaxed. I think when we’re all around each other, it’s like a big family. It’s fun to spread that to whoever we’re around in whatever city we’re in.

Stefan: And find it in those cities. It’s like the common language.

Jimmy: Exactly. Or it finds you.

This past year has been really good for [Caveman].

Jimmy: It’s been amazing. It’s definitely been a whirlwind of fun.

Stefan: The nice thing about it—not to sound like a cliché—is that this year happened because of all the other years that came before it. I’ve known Matt and Jimmy for almost a decade now. And they’ve known Sam and Jeff for years. And through them, I’ve had these burgeoning friendships with Sam and Jeff that are through the roof.

Jimmy: And me and Matt went to high school together. We met in 2000 when we we’re 13. I was sitting in front of him, and I heard him say that he was having déjà vu. So I turned around with a pencil, and was like, “Was this in it?” (While waving the pencil). And he was like, “Nope.” And I looked on his desk, and I think he had the Korn biography, and I had the Limp Bizkit biography—those were the only two books in our school’s library that were music related. So I asked, “Do you play music?” He said, “I play drums.” So I said that I played guitar, and then it was like sleepovers every day.

Stefan: Our tours are still sleepovers every day.

What have been some of your favorite moments from this past year?

Stefan: Our first show was such an exciting thing. We played Bowery Ballroom—like the dream venue. We played with White Rabbits—they had us open. They heard a demo, and I think Jimmy and Matt got them drunk enough one night to be excited about asking us to play with them. And that was a really fun show.

Some of these moments on tour. Working on the album. Even a few days ago, during our flight from Seattle to L.A. we had the whole 22nd row on the plane.

Jimmy: Oh, man. And one of the stewards was a Queens native and he gave us two rounds of drinks on the house. And another moment for me was in Seattle at Emerald City Guitars. It’s a father and son team. They hooked us up with free guitars for an acoustic performance we did—they were loaners, but it was still amazing. And I showed him my guitars. It was a really nice, humbling experience. Just to go around the world, and if you’re bringing something good to the table, other people will be open to what you’re doing. You can look into someone’s eyes and you can tell everything.

Stefan: Recent memories are the clearest, of course. And I think when we landed in L.A., after Jimmy and I rented our car and we were leaving the parking lot, the attendant asked what we were here for. We said, “To play shows.” He asked what our band sounded like, and right at that moment it was playing on the radio, so we turned it up. It was amazing.

Jimmy: He thought we were playing a CD. And then driving to the show today, it came on again.

Wow. How strange. What do you hope 2012 holds for Caveman?

Stefan: I’m hoping for a New York Knicks championship. I’m hoping we do a lot of traveling, but I’m really hoping to just share more new experiences together. I’d like to go places we haven’t been, and really dig into our next album. And find more like-minded people.

Jimmy: Expanding all of our art, too. Record the next record, tour a lot more, and just really dive in to some new songs and see where they go. We already have a few new ones that we’re playing tonight. It’s been feeling really natural. It feels like it’s been a nice climb to more work, which is great. That’s what it’s about.

You all have been pretty much doing this all yourselves, right?

Jimmy: We have our own label, Magic Man! Records.

Stefan: Yeah. It would be remiss not to mention what a great team we have assembled behind us. But it honestly did start with just us five guys. Inge [our publicist] was one of the first people to sign on. I like the idea of doing it ourselves. I mean, I’m totally into expanding that, but I think you should stay hands-on. If I’ve learned anything from this, it’s the merits of keeping really tuned-in to what’s happening.

How has L.A. been treating you so far? What does it mean to come here and play as a band?

Jimmy: It’s been incredible. We’ve all played here in our past bands, but it’s really exciting to come here on a fresh palette and with a record that we’re really excited about. And we’ve made a lot of friends over the years that are out here, so we’ve been catching up.

Stefan: And the timing seems right.

Jimmy: Our friend lives in Weird Al’s house now. He lives near Laurel Canyon, and he drove us up the canyon as the road kept getting smaller. Then we were like, “Oh, it’s a dirt road.” Then, “Oh, we’re actually going up this peak.” And once we got to the peak, we just kept going another 50 feet. The road was as thick as the car. Then we went out to this spot overlooking the whole of L.A. We could see the ocean and the islands. There were three hawks. It was mind-blowing.

Stefan: L.A. carries a real mystery for certain New Yorkers.

Jimmy: It’s got a mystique to it.

Stefan: We’re born-and-bred New Yorkers, but L.A.’s always had this mystery. It’s such a hotbed of both glamour and grit and filth. It has natural beauty and horrible smog. But when you’re here, it’s beautiful. This place is such a microcosm of the American experience in my eyes. It’s everything jammed together.

I think L.A. can be whatever you want it to be. You can be a Scientologist or a hippie…

Jimmy: And in between all of that, you still have to sit in your car for most of it. So it doesn’t matter if you’re a dirty hippie or a rock star; you’re still sitting in the traffic.

Stefan: The freeway is the leveling blade for Los Angeles.

Jimmy: That’s what I love about New York. Me and Stefan both grew up there.  There, I feel a lot freer than anywhere else in the country because you can walk. There’s no, “I can’t get there because I’m in traffic.”

And as a creative city, you’re pretty free to do what you want to do.

Jimmy: There are so many outlets and so many opportunities that are just timeless. You just have to do it. And you really have to be the best.

I’ve talked to many people from there, and they always say how everyone is always working on something. And this makes you want to make good art. It makes you competitive, but…

Jimmy: Healthy, though. You’re still friends with most of these people. It’s more like you show your best friend, “Look what I just did.” And he’ll say, “Oh, man. I’ve got to raise the bar.” It’s a healthy competition. We have that with White Rabbits. And with War on Drugs it’s like you play, and they play, and you’re like, “Now what are we going to do?” But the next day you raise the bar, and they’re freaking out.

Well, of course. You don’t want to be the closing band and have your opener show you up. Are you all living in Brooklyn right now?

Stefan: We’re all mixed between the three boroughs right now: Brooklyn, Manhattan and Queens.

Jimmy: I just moved to Brooklyn. I just got an apartment there.

Stefan: I was living in Manhattan, but I moved to Queens—which is the borough in which I was born. Jimmy grew up in Roosevelt Island, Matt grew up in Park Slope, I was in Queens until I was five, and then the rest of my life in Manhattan.

How do you think, collectively, New York has influenced Caveman?

Jimmy: I think New York has influenced us a lot, just with a lot of sounds and moments and the vibe of never knowing who you’re sitting next to. You turn a corner and you don’t know who you’re going to bump in to. Everything is up in the air and you just have to work really hard. I think New York has given that to us. You just have to work really hard, keep your head on a swivel, and keep a good head on your shoulders. There are a lot of temptations—like anywhere—but in New York there’s everything. You have to be really good about making good options. There are so many amazing artists there, so to be inspired isn’t that hard. Walk around the city and look up. There are buildings from the ‘20s or earlier, and you can get inspired by what man has made. It’s just exciting to be around that and to be surrounded by all this greatness that has happened and will keep going on forever, hopefully. To be a part of that and to be in New York and doing it is incredible because New York is worldwide.

I can imagine being a street artist there and walking around and seeing art everywhere. Or being a musician in Brooklyn where everyone seems to be making music right now.

Stefan: Even the old world of New York. Even though a lot of developers try to make this not the case anymore, New York holds on to so much history on every corner. I just saw for the first time a movie called The Cruise. So Timothy Speed Levitch is this incredibly intelligent, really eccentric tour guide. He knows every back-story about every corner. He treats the city the way it should be treated, like a living organism.

New York always pushes you, even when you’re too tired that day. It pushed you and reminds you that you should be working harder.

Jimmy: It really turns you into a shark, in a good way. You can’t stop moving. If you’re sitting in your apartment doing nothing, you really know that life is passing you by.

Stefan: The other thing is you have to be open to whatever hits you. You can wake up in the morning and all you wanted to do when you left the house was grab a bagel at the corner and come home, but then you run into this dude you know who has an unbelievable opportunity. You follow him to Queens where he introduces you to a friend, and you look up and it’s like a day later. It could be an irreplaceable experience.

Jimmy: My girl always says to me—which has made me very humble—“You can control how you react to situations, but you can’t control the situations that come to you.”

Stefan: That’s the biggest epiphany I’ve had within the last few years. I completely agree. If you waste your time thinking about situations over which you have no control, your life is wasted.

Where do you see yourselves being most creative? Where is it easiest for you to write?

Stefan: Just being in a room together. I’d like to have a practice space, of course.

Jimmy: It’s just a very New York band thing. If you’re a band from here you really have to roll with the punches because you don’t own a big van and you don’t own a house. If you’re a band with a house, you can just practice in the basement. In New York, you have to try to find a good deal on a practice space because they’re really expensive, and it has to be convenient for every person in the band to get there. And also convenient to store your equipment, so when you play shows it’s not a huge hassle.

Stefan: And to echo the whole New York thread we’ve been on, it’s for certain that restrictions breed creativity. It’s like if you have a room that’s 6×6, you’ve got to get creative. I remember on one tour in an old band, I was in Savannah, Georgia. And Savannah has some of the strictest zoning laws in the country because I think it has the largest historic district of any city. And an architect was saying that it would seem like you’d have your hands tied, but he loved it. He has to find the tiniest little nuance that he’s allowed to tweak and really find identity in design through that little moment. And I feel like that’s been a metaphor in my mind for the last ten years almost.

Jimmy: And that’s with everything we do too. It’s the little nuances. Everything we’re doing is all in the details. You can’t focus on those enough.

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For more information visit CavemantheBand.com.

Among the things that my fiancé Ryan brought into our relationship from her old apartment is a print of Ilse Bing’s famous 1931 Self-Portrait in Mirrors. She’s got it hanging in our new place next to the framed butterfly that I got for her at the craft fair in Fort Mason last fall. Maybe you’ve seen it—the picture, I mean. It’s of this woman, Ilse Bing, taking a photograph of herself in a set of mirrors. It’s simple but quite startling, because she has both eyes open, staring at you from behind the camera, and because of the angle of the second mirror, she appears to be staring both at herself and away. For a photograph exploiting a simple optical trick, Bing’s self portrait is surprisingly complex and unsettling.

It used to hang in Ryan’s old place, and it made the three-block move to our first apartment together (a damp, pre-quake dungeon on the edge of San Francisco’s Tenderloin district) in a large card stock folio, or possibly—somehow, I suppose, less romantically—in just a regular manila extra-heavyweight clasp envelope.

We hung the picture in an attempt to distract ourselves from our steadily creeping sense of claustrophobia, and shortly thereafter we discovered a large presence of mold in the closet. The wall—adjacent to a dingy cellar—was crumbling and damp to the touch. After several venomous and painstakingly worded emails to our landlord, we decided to move out as quickly as possible. I thought then about how the picture, along with the rest of our things, would have to be moved, and its functionality as an ornament reconsidered in conjunction with the almost assuredly limited aesthetic offerings of whatever space we would occupy next. At the time, we were even considering moving to Oakland in hopes that our budget might do more for us there.

Although we eventually did find a great, mold-free apartment in the city, the whole experience made it clear to me that I’m beginning to grow quite cynical about San Francisco living. As much as I love this city, I’m not convinced that I can ever make a home here. San Francisco has the ability to constantly surprise me with the ordinary while numbing me to death with the peculiar. For instance, I have gotten incredibly used to and even bored with the woman who frantically pushes her cat around in a stroller—seriously though, strapped down to the fucking thing, garbed in a velour costume complete with little plastic bells—around my neighborhood every day. There used to be another cat but there isn’t anymore. Frankly, I’m almost certain that she ran it over. That’s how fast she moves the stroller, over curbs and cracks, and in front of cars. I don’t know if she’s homeless but I do know that we live in the same neighborhood. We are neighbors.

Kant, by way of Voltaire—and further by way of my own misappropriation—tells us that the best way to deal with this sort of thing is to sleep a great deal, and, whenever not sleeping, to daydream. These seem like friendly, wise, and characteristically cheeky (referring to Voltaire, not Kant) words to live by. Bourgeois, yes, but for the inescapably bourgeois rather appropriate. The only reason that I mention Kant and don’t just go directly to the source is that Kant adds a third means by which to “counterbalance the many miseries of life”: laughter. Sleep, daydreaming (they use the word “hope”), and laughter.

But how do you learn to find the cat lady funny again? How do you go back to justifying the amount of rent you pay to live next to her? It is simple: You imagine that you are the cat, and that all of the difficult and humiliating things that you can’t change become the little plastic bells, or the leash, or—better yet—the velour costume, which you, as a result of your own genetic makeup, lack the digital dexterity to remove. These are your jobs, and your bells, and your leash, and your rent. This is your cage to decorate. Now laugh.

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Devin Asaro is a writer living in San Francisco. For more of his writing, visit DevinAsaro.Wordpress.com.

Betty White celebrated her 90th birthday this week at the zoo, surrounded by a bunch of friends, animals, and a five foot tall chocolate blackout cake—how funny is that, huh!? Man, she’s hilarious. Anyway, for this week’s wallpaper, Katie Kovalcin wanted to make sure we all had a chance to honor Ms. White as the Golden Girl she is. So, stay gold, muthaf*****rs!

This is the third of four wallpapers we’ll be featuring by Katie in January.

It’s not often that independent musicians use their skills to benefit someone other than themselves—let alone to benefit the learning of children. But Micah Middaugh of Michigan’s Breathe Owl Breathe felt compelled to do so, not only sonically, but visually as well.

Breathe Owl Breathe recently released two children’s stories as a book, The Listeners/These Train Tracks. Along with the canvas-covered book comes two new songs pressed on 70 gram 7” vinyl. To help promote interaction, the songs are meant to be played while reading these stories. As day and night stories, the two meet in the middle of the book, symbolizing the cycle of the day.

For Middaugh, this was a project that took nearly three years to complete. Every aspect of the book, from the pages to the wood blocks he carved, was created in Michigan. The songs were even recorded in Middaugh’s home studio, Cavern Lantern Wonder Welding, in the Jordan River Valley.

Through this book, Middaugh created a product that appeals to anyone of any age. An adult may appreciate the craftsmanship of the letter-pressed pages, while a child may enjoy the melody of a song. An adult may value the limited edition vinyl, while a child loves the illustrations on the book’s pages.

We had the opportunity to speak with Middaugh about The Listeners/These Train Tracks. We spoke of writing children’s stories, the process of developing this book, and the importance of having it all created in Michigan.

What draws you to writing children’s stories?

When I started writing These Train Tracks I was mowing the lawn. At that time, I kept a lot of pocket notebooks handy (in my fanny pack) to write down thoughts. So, while mowing, I’d start one row and end another row, and I had this succession of thoughts about this train turning into a caterpillar, (then the next row) and the caterpillar turned into an airplane, (then the next row), and so on as the story goes. So, the book existed in a very small form for quite a long time (in my pocket book).

I think the pocket book idea came from my youth—my brothers and I used to make small flipbooks all the time. And, I’m making wood block carvings all the time these days, so it was a natural thing to turn the pocket book into a life size book.

What are the concepts behind The Listeners (The Mole and the Ostrich) and These Train Tracks? 

The dose-do design was an important concept to try to pull off. (The two stories end in the middle of the book, the daytime story (The Mole and the Ostrich) starts on one side, then you flip the book and start on the other side to read the nighttime story (These Train Tracks)). I was always inspired by old styles of book printing and binding, and books from the late ‘60s and ‘70s that had music that went along with stories. So, I guess the main concept was trying to work on something from the old world, but with a little of the new world. For instance, having the heavy vinyl in the middle, but with an MP3 download (for the kids). In the end, I wanted the texture of the book and the texture of the music to be able to live their lives together, in a capsule, on their own.

Why decide to set these specific stories to song? 

Oh, it just makes the two more interesting. It’s all about the process of following along, the interaction between the two.  It makes them more memorable. I’ll never forget “Bread and Jam for Frances” (Russell C. Hoban, 1964) on vinyl.

Can you describe you process behind the creation of this whole product?

I first started with some sketches in small pocket books. I then realized and carved them in wood block form. This part took quite a long time (about a year). And, basically, my thought processes were as follows:

-Move slow but diligently.

-Meditate often without knowing that you are.

-Hikes are welcome.

-At the end of the day, VHS movies are a given.

-Dartboards give nice breaks.

How has Michigan influenced you as an artist and musician?

This is where the adventures started. This land I roam gives rest to thoughts and birth to new ones. The slow time of winter is actually full of inspiration and leaves room for creating time. It’s nice to experience the seasons fully in a landscape that gives you whiteout winters, fall colors, and heavy rain. We get the weather right on our faces. It’s a place that I find myself returning to, to create in different realms.

How important was it for you to have The Listeners/These Train Tracks created in Michigan? Why was it important?

Michigan is where we are. Yeah, there’s no getting around it. This is where the adventures of the mind exist, so this is where The Listeners/These Train Tracks was created. In Magic Central (LP/CD 2010) there was definitely a tropical chapter, but much was frozen in capsules. There were cold mystical characters, but also some tropical settings… In Michigan, a lot of times you find yourself snowed in, or down a dead-end road. This played a role in these stories. We have a lot of friends here and secret places to be well kept.

Listen to “The Listeners”:

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