I was physically and mentally run down from the road, two years of straight touring, two years of drinking and drugging. I still wasn’t legally divorced, and thought that maybe giving closure to the relationship would change the way I felt inside my head; that maybe sobering up and changing my ways would give me a feeling of redemption for all my sins, real or imagined.
When I couldn’t maintain control of my personal life, I overcompensated by micromanaging the band, insisting that we practice six nights a week. My authoritarian leadership was putting a strain on us, and I could sense the rest of the band turning on me. What started out as a fun excuse to travel the world and party was starting to feel more like a job. Expectations were weighing on us, and I didn’t want to let down the people depending on us—the fans, the label, the manager.
For Christmas, the manager sent me a brand new Blackberry as a gift. I’m sure his motivation was to keep tabs on me so that I wasn’t unreachable for weeks at a time on tour when he needed a quick answer on something. But when the rest of the band received fruit baskets, it sent a clear message that I somehow mattered more than anyone else, which drove a wedge further between us. I could sense that they all resented the manager, or maybe they just resented me for hiring him. James is the kind of person who can go a whole conversation without saying more than two words, but those two words will be really funny and capture it all. Dumbfounded upon receiving his fruit basket, he joked: “Well, I guess mediocrity gets you pears.” If nothing else, it inspired a song title.
Just before Christmas, I went to visit my father in Missouri. By that point, it felt like we were just going through the motions in our relationship. We had grown more and more distant over the years as he settled into his new life with his second wife. She came from a large family and their house was covered in photos of them, but the only photos of me and Mark were a couple tucked away in my dad’s office. My brother didn’t even come that Christmas. Recently he’d had a falling-out with my father after calling him out on not wanting to spend time with us. To her credit, though, our stepmom also grew up on hair metal, drove a T-top Firebird Trans Am, smoked Capri cigarettes, and had a killer collection of 80s band T-shirts. She gifted me a Led Zeppelin box set, and I still love the band because of her.
My dad hated all the tattoos I’d accumulated over the years and didn’t seem to take my career as a musician seriously. It seemed like all we’d talk about were things he disapproved of. Knowing the forced, awkward holiday conversations that awaited me, I took my time getting there, making the drive from Florida in over a week. On the way, I stayed at inconspicuous Nowheresville motels throughout the South, drinking and becoming her.
December 25, 2004—Naples, FL
Drunk on Christmas, missing my soon to be ex-wife while also wishing that we had never met and that our whole relationship never happened. What could anyone possibly see in me when I’m so full of self-hatred? I can’t meet anyone new until I get healthy.
Drunk on Christmas, feeling burnt out from a long year on the road, thinking back through all the shows, a blur of stages, dressing rooms, and hotel rooms. More names and faces than I can ever possibly hope to remember.
I want something to take away this horrible frantic feeling inside of me.
I see the older punks around Gainesville, night after night, year after year, holding down that same seat at the bar. They’ll never leave this place, never grow out of drinking tall cans in a swamp. This may be enough for them but it’s not enough for me.
I want punk rock to still mean something.
I’m not really taking any chances with my art.
Will I ever be anything more than a boy dressed up in women’s clothes?
I always make a New Year’s resolution, so in the days leading to December 31, 2004, I made the decision to sober up while starting work on a third album. I got better, and the skin infection gradually cleared up, but I became a wound-up ball of stress, not a very fun person to be around. I was what you might call a prick.
I also committed myself to being male; no more cross-dressing. It wasn’t doing me any good to perpetuate an impossible fantasy, although this habit was a bit harder to break. A bag hidden in the back of my closet contained my collection of women’s underwear from Walmart and Target. It wasn’t until the end of February that I worked up the nerve to sneak it out of the house. I sealed everything up in a garbage bag and tossed it into a supermarket dumpster.
On New Year’s Eve, I went on one last gender-bender before sobering up the next morning as I’d promised myself.
January 1, 2005—Gainesville, FL
I run into this girl I know at a party and the next thing I know, we’re lying on the floor of my furniture-less house, passionately making out. A friend is passed out beside us. We’re drunk on gin and tonics and high on cocaine. I close my eyes and pretend that she is someone I love, that she is someone who loves me. I run my fingers through her hair and trace the outline of her face. I don’t remember falling asleep and we wake up in each other’s arms, awkward and hung over. I tell her that I’ll call her but I won’t.
I know what will happen if I keep getting high. I’ve been getting high since I was 13 years old. What I don’t know is what will happen if I can stay sober. Eventually, life has to change. That change may come violently and suddenly, but it will come… right?
My New Year’s resolution for 2005 is to be sober.
January 13, 2005—Gainesville, FL
The divorce is final. I am no longer married.
Last night, after the courthouse, I went out to Paynes Prairie with my ex-wife. We brought all of the letters we had ever written to each other as well as small gifts we had exchanged and buried them in the ground. We carved our initials into the closest fence post, like a gravestone marker for our marriage. Once the ceremony was finished, we stood up and walked the path back to the road together, got on our bikes, and rode off on our separate ways.
The feeling of closure is unsettling. A part of my heart had turned rotten. For the past three years, it had been pumping nothing but hate, spite, and nihilism. And this morning when I woke up, it was gone.
January 28, 2005—Naples, FL
Dad called today. I mentioned how we’re buying a new van and that we’re paying cash. I immediately worry that I sound like I’m boasting. I’m just talking to fill the silence.
Sometimes when I see that it’s my dad calling, I imagine that it’s actually my stepmother calling to say that he has died.
I bought a 27” TV for $200 from Walmart and a $20 couch from the Salvation Army. I have anxiety over buying things. I’m not used to having money.
We demoed twelve songs in eight hours at Goldentone Studio here in town. As the engineer and owner, Rob, was mixing, we all got really excited about what we were hearing and started talking about how we should save a bunch of money and just record here in Gainesville at Goldentone. Fat Mike called coincidentally and I couldn’t contain the excitement. I told him our idea and he really got behind it. He said this is what he’s thought we should do all along. By the time we leave the studio, we’ve decided to record the album next week and ditch the plan of looking for a producer to work with. We also agree to fire the manager at some point. We all hate the manager.
It takes about as long as the van ride home from the studio for the excitement over our big plan to start wearing off. Self-doubt creeps in. Fat Mike calls back in the morning and says having thought about it more, we should probably keep looking for a producer as planned. We all turn back on our decision to fire the manager too. No one is brave enough to fully commit.
As we’re unloading equipment from the van, I start to sense a tension among us. I call off practice for the next couple of days and start driving south.
I haven’t had a drink in 28 days.
February 17, 2005—Gainesville, FL
The folk singer stands up on a chair in the middle of the Wayward Council non-profit volunteer-run record store to announce the start of his
set. He slowly strums his guitar and sings while throwing in jokes between verses. He jumps off the chair and is standing in the center of the room by the end of the song. He makes everyone sing along to the lyrics, “The greatest thing in the world is to love someone and for them to love you back.” It was a beautiful thing to witness and to be a part of.
Before he starts to play his next song, he goes on a diatribe. “This is our space, this is real. Fuck stages and division between band and audience. Fuck rock stars and bands with bumper stickers, websites, and $12 ticket prices.”
I am immediately alienated and no longer feel welcome in the room. Where are you supposed to go when you no longer feel welcome in the places you turned to because you didn’t feel welcome anywhere else?
February 18, 2005—Gainesville, FL
There is a bag in my closet containing two blonde wigs and women’s clothing. I’m not sure I look good as a blonde. I live alone but still I keep the bag pushed shamefully to the very back of my closet, hidden behind a stack of shoeboxes. It would shatter me if someone discovered my secret.
I get this urge, all these inescapable thoughts come at me. Nothing but feeding the urge gives me calm. I guess you could call them “episodes.” At the end, when it’s time to undress and stop pretending, after I’ve acted on the impulse, I just feel fucked up.
My earliest memories are of dressing up in my mother’s clothes and I am constantly reduced by the shame I feel in remembering. Five years old in a fort made of sheets, blankets, and chairs, enamored with the feeling of my legs in pantyhose. I was not taught nor did I learn the behavior by example; it came to me naturally. It’s part of me.
I think my problems with drug use and alcoholism can be directly attributed to living with the shame I have over these feelings.
By mid-April, we were ready to record Searching for a Former Clarity. So far I had kept my resolution to stay sober. I had become obsessive-compulsive about my health following my infection. In addition to my regular doctor visits, Andrew and I started spending two hours at the gym every morning, five days a week.
I cherished this extracurricular bonding time to lift weights with Andrew. I wanted to be his best friend, but he seemed to have reservations about it. Whenever he referred to a particular buddy back home as his “best friend,” it hurt my feelings a bit. Andrew makes friends easily, and I’ve always struggled with that. He’s a real “man’s man,” which made me feel inferior; as if people could see the truth about me in comparison. Although I knew I could never be someone like that, it was the disguise I wanted—to be like all the other dudes.
We checked in to the Carlyle Apartments in Baltimore, Maryland, which would be our home for the next month while we recorded at Magpie Cage there, and then mixed at Inner Ear in DC before heading off to tour.
We didn’t know what a producer did exactly, but we had either convinced ourselves or been talked into believing that we needed one. Either way, it was going to be an experience outside of our comfort zone that would make us learn something, and I knew that I wanted that. So after much internal deliberation, and at Warren’s suggestion, we chose to work with J. Robbins.
J. had produced albums by bands like the Promise Ring, Jets to Brazil, and Clutch, and had played bass in the DC hardcore band Government Issue. I loved the Jets to Brazil records, musically and sonically, and the scene he came from was the complete polar opposite of Fat Wreck Chords. These were respected, influential rock bands, not the goofy, board short–wearing pop punk bands we’d been relegated to. I was sold.
Five weeks were scheduled to record and mix. Our first album had been recorded and mixed in two days. The second, two weeks. We didn’t know what we would do with all this studio time.
J. had a calm and laid-back demeanor. We all liked him immediately. Our work schedule was 11 AM to 11 PM, Monday through Saturday. The studio had no windows and a collection of equipment nicer than anything any of us owned. J.’s dog, Doctor Robert, sat at his feet or on his lap while we tracked. Although the setup was very professional, I’ve never been convinced J. actually liked any of the songs we recorded with him.
April 20, 2005—Baltimore, MD
We tracked drums for “Miami,” “The Energizer,” “Problems,” “Sex,” “The Roller,” and “How Low” today, spending the most time on “Miami.”
Everyone was tense as usual when we first start playing in the morning. Warren’s tempos are all over the place, no consistency. I don’t know what to say to calm everyone down so I say nothing and play on.
J. suggests Warren plays along to a click track, which he thankfully agrees to do, but even with the click, J. still had to do a lot of editing to get steady drum takes. This is the first time we’ve recorded with Pro Tools and we’re leaning heavily on it. This is also the first time we’ve worked with a real producer, or better put, really been produced.
My impulse is do everything as in-the-moment as possible, that’s the punk ethos. It’s about the spirit, not the technical ability, but I can’t argue with the results I’m hearing. I want the album to sound good. I want the playing to be in tune and on time. The four of us all spend so much time playing in this band, why wouldn’t we want it to sound tight? This album will definitely have a more produced sound than we’ve ever had before, but that’s what I want, isn’t it?
When J. tells Andrew that he reminds him of a friend who is “one of the greats,” all I hear him saying is that I am not one of the greats. How am I considered? My general suspicion is that most people find me peculiar, anxious, egotistical, arrogant, with big ears.
April 23, 2005—Baltimore, MD
No coffee or diet Cokes today, just tea with lemon. Horrible mood. I tried singing tonight and nothing came out. My throat is fucked. J. could tell how frustrated and discouraged I was. We called it a day early, he told us all we should go back to the hotel and relax, get a good night’s sleep. He also recommended I go to a walk-in clinic and try to get a shot of cortisone to help get me through tracking vocals. The doctor wouldn’t give me the shot and instead wrote me a prescription for Amoxicillin.
Stressing out about not being able to sing is only making my voice worse. Take a breath. You can get through this.
There’s a book in the studio about snowboarding, skateboarding, and music, with a quote from a snowboarder stating his view on making a living. “If you go out there and do it, give it all that you’ve got, then you’re already a pro. But if you’d walk away from it once the money stops, then you’re just a jock.”
Tonight at dinner the desire for just a glass of wine was strong. Drunk, sober, who cares? I’m still an asshole.
I’m going to visit Edgar Allan Poe’s grave tomorrow. Good place to go and think.
May 4, 2005—Baltimore, MD
Our last full day of tracking.
I wince at every word while we listen to the playback of the last song on the album, “Searching for a Former Clarity.” God only knows what everyone in the room is thinking. Or are they thinking anything at all? The song ends and I can breathe again. The album is finished. There it is, we all just heard it.
We are all sitting in the control room sharing some laughs and a small moment of triumph. J. asks if we have a name for the album. I still hadn’t said anything to the rest of the band.
“I want to call the album Searching for a Former Clarity.”
Nothing. The mood in the room quickly turns to disappointment. The silence is uncomfortable. No one says anything in response, not a single word. J. quickly diverts the conversation elsewhere.
I’m trying not to care if anyone else likes it but feeling pessimistic. These songs are crap. I am an insignificant, pathetic fool.
When record labels fight each other to offer you nearly a million dollars, and you turn them all down, you might assume that this would be a pretty clear bridge-burning with the music industry. But oddly enough, after Fat Wreck Chords released Searching for a Former Clarity in the fall of 2005, the major label interest came back—
and it came back stronger than ever.
It was ironic that Against Me! was still heavily on the music industry’s radar, given how hard I’d railed against it all throughout Searching, with lyrics like “We’ll give the money back to the record label / Fire the agent, fire the manager / We ain’t got what it takes to make it / We got indifference, got no respect for them.” But labels weren’t actually listening to the music; they were more focused on the album’s hype. It was our first record to crack the Billboard 200, and it was reviewed in Rolling Stone. So the whole major label courting process started all over again. Another round of dinners and drinks on the corporate card, another round of lap dances, another round of smoke up our asses.
Fat Mike, on the other hand, thought the album was shit. He told me that he hated J.’s production style, didn’t like the mix or the track listing, and that the cover art (a black and white photo of a Florida palm tree) was terrible. “Make the band name bigger!” This took the wind out of our sails a bit and started making me consider our next move.
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