Twelve For Nothing (Minus Six)

My second year of living musically has reached its equinox. My sun faces its equator head-on and the nights are growing long. The recordings drop now like leaves; some catching a draft, lifted upward, others falling like pebbles dropped to the sea by errant fish-eagles. Each time part of me dies. Part of me grows. I gave August its eulogy and embraced September with open-arms, slinging a banjo.

Earlier this month, still in the lingering too-hot-for-September throes of summer, I provided bass clef support to an album laid down by batterista extrodinaire Pete Zolli before I handed it off to musical tinder-sticks Bret Hart. We've been here before and Bret has a mind to have the mighty Don Campau shingle the the roof (so to speak).