Those of us here in the Good Night, States camp have spent the last two weekends at home. After five straight weeks of pre-release band related flurry, the time to sleep in, clean house, catch up on laundry and good books, and get ready to pay taxes has been a welcome relief. I’ve had a chance to remember that I own a struggling restaurant, and that without my commitment it might fade out of existence. An important marriage lives in our house, and this extra time has been good for it too.

I must admit, though, that the weekends feel a little empty without shows, songwriting, or travel. I’m not entirely certain what to do with myself. The internet leers at me, a veritable temptation. I’ve already lost several hours to it today, searching for music blogs and listening to mp3s. Oh yeah, and getting mired in the Maxim Black Crowes review scandal. Thankfully no one gave Short Films on Self-Control two stars before listening to it. Actually, no one has given it two stars after reviewing it either!

Trevor and I went to see St. Vincent on Monday night at the Andy Warhol Museum. Watching other artists perform has recently taken on a new layer of intensity. I empathize with their sound problems, equipment malfunctions, and stage awkwardness. I am transported with heavenly awe when every pedal aligns to help shred a vintage guitar into a million tiny sonic pieces. I tear apart the crowd for their blase reaction to the music; then decide we are a big family when the room jumps to its feet in appreciation, as in the Warhol’s tiny theatre on Monday night for Annie Clark.

You can read Aaron Jentzen’s review of the show here. What he doesn’t mention, I will fill in: she plays with more guitar pedals than Steve and Joe combined - two large boards! Her long skinny limbs - all four of them - twitch and writhe in a ferocious bird dance when she rips apart her guitar, yet the girl remains porcelain-doll feminine for every second of every solo. Not a drop of sweat on her designer babydoll dress, not a lock of hair-model hair out of place, not just a little wide eyed humor laced with sticky sweet sarcasm. She has been touring with various musician relatives since the age of fourteen; played with the Polyphonic Spree and Sufjan; and now offers a brilliant debut album. Her skin is perfect. She is twenty five.

I guess you’re going to go look at St. Vincent’s website now.

Good Night, States will see you next weekend in Nyack, NY for a slightly acoustic show!

Steve and Joe arrive this weekend!

There is something so great about the Friday before a weekend of songwriting. I’m at work right now, and all day long I have been thinking of the two guys on the road from New Jersey, in their vehicle loaded to the roof with music and sound equipment. I wonder what music they’re listening to as they burn through hundreds of highway miles. Maybe they’re just talking. Hopefully the roads are free of snow and ice.

When I arrive at home, there will be a few hours of calm before a storm of guitars, cables, amps, and pedals floods the living room. Dan will come in and bash around on his drums, probably take something halfway apart, then ask to borrow tools we don’t have so he can put it back together again; Joe and Steve will spend 45 minutes standing over Joe’s pedal board making ear piercing electric screeches with their guitars, figuring out which guitar pedals aren’t working and why; Trevor will set up his gear in approximately 37 seconds and then sneak down to the basement to keep building his latest bass pedal; and I will constantly pop up from the piano bench, Whack-A-Mole style, to see if our collective gluten-free dairy-free meat-free dinner is on fire in the kitchen. We have certainly found a rhythm for these weekends, and it feels good.

On Sunday afternoon, we will be exhausted. We will have spent anywhere from twelve to eighteen hours playing one, maybe two, songs. It will feel funny emerging from the house to interact with other people in the non-musical universe. We will pack Steve and Joe’s car with frozen hands, shiver in the street for hugs, and then wave goodbye. The house will be so silent. We will all be humming the same tune for the next week. And that music, the themes and choruses of new songs, will hold us together, thin and shimmering like precious threads over the miles between New Jersey and Pittsburgh.

This is the only way of being a band that I have ever known, and though it is not so easy, I think it is very beautiful.

We’re playing the Brillobox tonight. I can’t say enough good things about this bar. The decor, the friendly staff, the strong and nicely priced drinks, $4 beers from really quality breweries near and far, great art, an indie music juke box, Sunday night vegetarian dinners for just $5. Good gracious, I heart Brillobox.

Now I’ll stop raving and give you some details: tonight, Friday January 11, 2008! 21+! Doors at 10 pm! Probably $5! With our good friends Triggers and also with NY’s The What Monsters! 4104 Penn Avenue!

A great way to start the weekend.

And if you can’t make it, catch our Album Release Show at Club Cafe on Saturday, February 9, 2008!

Doesn’t a new year always seem to hum with possibility and fresh starts? For us here at Good Night, States, it sure does.

Today we rejoice in our first press ever about Short Films on Self-Control and it floods me with a wave of excitement second only to the joy I felt upon surviving my first week of recording back in March of 2007. I haven’t posted since then, but because a new year brings new chances to succeed, I hope to be writing much more in the coming days. Blogging! Success! New albums! Fresh starts! This is 2008!!!

Also, Trevor hopes that 2008 is the year in which I learn the discipline of putting my dirty clothing in the appropriate hamper compartment. But some things take more than a flip of the calendar to overcome.

So, for our first post of 2008, we bring you someone else’s post. Please check out the good folks at Rusty Bridge blog . If you know our drummer’s obsession with robots, you will understand how important it is that these robot-loving people have become Good Night, States-loving people.

And if you have a blog about indie music, fresh starts, pop culture, robots, or laundry organization, don’t hesitate to email me (press at goodnightstates dot com.) We’d love to read about our music on your blog.

Joyous New Year, friends!

Hello again, music fans. Here’s the diary entry I promised!

Friday, 7 September

Dear Rock’n'Roll Diary:

It’s time to pack for a weekend recording! Here is my suitcase:

Upon switching to my current rig, my case was vastly overpowered by cable and pedals, so I was graciously rewarded an upgrade in the form of the band’s old merch suitcase. There was extra space, so late on Thursday night, I dumped some clothing, $200 of homeopathic meds prescribed by my new doctor who recently affirmed that I am indeed as consistently ill as I have always suspected, my teddy bear, and some pink pajama shorts, which later doubled as a dust cloth upon realizing how dirty the keys of the aforementioned Roland Jupiter 6 happened to be.

On Friday afternoon, Trevor and I piled three or four synths into Joe’s car, microwaved some burritos, closed up our house, shed a collective tear over our aquatic snail who passed away this week, and left about 40 minutes later than we had planned. I made my typical nest in the back seat, wedging myself in between yet another synth, a trumpet and a cooler containing approximately 1.7 pounds of dark chocolate and a large bowl of homemade salsa.

About four minutes into our trip, hunger struck: it was time to test the salsa. The salsa had enjoyed its night marinating in the fridge: full of a friend’s urban farm tomato goodness, lime juice, locally grown garlic that must have been picked yesterday, and fresh cilantro, it had turned itself into a fresh cold summery soup. Which, at a stop sign on our steep hill, was promptly sloshed directly from the bowl in my lap onto my Personal Nether Regions. That is to say, for the next three hours, I traveled with salsa soaked underwear.

When we finally stopped at a Sheetz I was excited to see that the ladies’ room came equipped with both paper towels, for mopping up salsa, and a hand dryer, whose nozzle I aimed past my waistband directly into my now clean but very wet pants.

And then we left, and drove several more hours until we reached New Jersey.

Believe me, Diary, this rock-n-roll lifestyle is every bit as glamorous as it looks in those press photos. To quote my beloved college roommate: “Cha cha cha!”