Aaron Freeman

Originally published in The Fix, July 24th, 2014

He was forced to make a choice. Either stay put as one half of a successful and beloved alternative rock duo and continue to blast himself with cocaine, benzos, and vodka just so he could be numb and function. Or he could sober the fuck up and leave Ween, a band he had been in since puberty. Years of active addiction and isolation had turned Aaron Freeman, aka Gene Ween, into another boy who would never grow old; he was going to die first.

Freeman chose to leave. “End it man...your money or your life,” he sings on FREEMAN, his first solo album of all original material, released on Partisan Records this week.

The decision to leave Ween, as Freeman said in a recent interview, was spurred by a progression that mirrored “the typical rock thing.” Meaning you start with the silly drugs, and then … well, you know. In the early days of the band “there was always drugs and alcohol but it graduated from my early 20s to a lot of weed and some psychedelics,” he said. “I think all those were fine but then it really started into the alcohol. As Ween was getting bigger and bigger there were less responsibilities for anything and you’re sort of a Peter Pan. You’re not accountable for anything except getting on stage.”

It fell apart in 2011 at a notorious show in Vancouver when a barely coherent Freeman was blacked out onstage in front of a huge crowd. At the end of the show his disgusted bandmates left him onstage alone.

“That was my career bottom,” he said. “I had been on a really dark bender and Vancouver was a huge show. The last thing I remember was I was onstage and the band had walked off [during a version of "Reggaejunkiejew"] and I was on my back screaming ‘Jew’ or something like that.”

The meltdown was part of a sad end of a creative, prolific, and wickedly irreverent band that had captivated everyone from Beavis & Butthead to, more recently, The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon’s house band. Music fans who appreciate silliness and prodigious chops flock to Ween’s albums and shows like ants on a caramel.

Despite the love, by 2011 Ween hadn’t written any new material in years and the shows had become stale for Freeman. “We did 11 records that were amazing,” Freeman said. “But the only part of Ween that was left was these touring shows. We were playing the same songs night after night. It had turned into a showcase thing. For me, Ween had been over since the last record we did [La Cucaracha, in 2007]. It wasn’t okay for me. I started having a real crisis. Like, I know Ween is over, and all I’m doing now are these shows so I can make money … it was spiraling and spiraling and I was fucked up all the time.”

Dropping the Gene Ween moniker, Freeman recorded an album of Rod McKuen covers under his own name. He was doing whatever he could to escape the “Ween fold” and the music was good, but he was wrecked.

“It was really mellow music, it was sweet and pretty, but it’s the most drugged out record I’ve ever put out. That was a benzo record,” he laughed. “I love benzos. All benzos. I was in this beautiful studio recording in front of a five thousand dollar mic doing all this music and then I’d go back to my hotel room and eat jerk chicken and drink a bottle of vodka and throw up all over myself.”

He likens it to Martin Sheen’s warrior overdoing it at the beginning of Apocalypse Now. “That’s a heavy scene.” Freeman was out of control and he knew it. Sort of. Was he Aaron or was he Gene, the stoner rock icon? “I was having an identity crisis and I didn’t know who I was,” he said. “Everybody called me ‘Gene Ween’ and ‘dude’ and I was this Ween guy and I was always fucked up, and I could always find whatever I wanted.”

After a few more West Coast shows and a continued rampage back home he went into rehab for the third time - but not before playing two more high-paying Ween shows in Denver. “Every cent I made went into the rehab I was going to,” he said. “Insurance didn’t cover my third rehab.”

Freeman got on a plane and headed straight to Cottonwood in Arizona, where the withdrawal process began.

“I felt like Gollum for a while,” he said. “I couldn’t even look into the light. I was on a lot of benzos, which was really difficult to come off of.”

He surrendered to the disease at Cottonwood. “There was a pinnacle moment there,” he said. “When you get there they give you a three page booklet and it just wants you to describe what the fuck happened. What are you here for? What do you want? I remember for the first time in my life I was so desperate I just answered every question as honestly as I could. For someone like me that was a tough thing. I was like, ‘I’ll give you everything, I don’t care anymore, I’m not gonna try to hide anything.’”

From Cottonwood, Freeman went to Clean Adventures, a men’s halfway house that combined outdoor activities with counseling and work therapy.

“You stay in these houses with a bunch of other guys and you’re expected to go find a job during the day and be back at a certain time,” said the singer. “If you didn’t obey every single rule you got thrown out.”

He officially left Ween in May 2012. “There was no way I was going back into that world,” he said. In another major change, he moved away from his hometown of New Hope, Pennsylvania. “[New Hope] was one of those persons, places, and things,” he said. “I had to get out of there. No matter how many times I would get sober or recover I had too much history there. Everybody in that town had seen me at one point or another just blasted.”

Freeman moved to Woodstock, New York, where he lives with his wife Leah, their son, and his daughter from a previous marriage. For Freeman, Woodstock is a peaceful place to raise a family and stay out of trouble. “It’s not really a party town, which is important,” he said.

Great, but what was he going to do with himself? Was he going to wear a blue smock and punch a time clock? “After I left Ween I was a fucking mess,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was resigned to the fact that I could work at Wal-Mart if I had to in order to stay sober. But [Freeman’s manager and collaborator Dave Godowsky] said from the beginning, ‘you’re gonna make a record.’”

Freeman said he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t, and he was petulant about it. But songs started to come together. “FREEMAN is where I was at last July, which was on my back porch, sober for a year and a half, sitting there with my acoustic guitar and suddenly writing songs again while I looked at chipmunks.” He maintains that he was unable to write as his disease progressed and the block remained through his earliest recovery.

The first few months were a nightmare and Freeman came face to face with one of the reasons why he used: a profound depression. “I was literally seeing black sludge coming off of things,” he recalled. “I wasn’t hallucinating but my brain was so fucked I would just go in my room and sit there and suffer and feel the dark knot in my stomach. That was always the point where I would go out and get completely trashed to alleviate it.” Eventually, Freeman learned to sit with the misery and let it pass, noting that the teachings of the Tibetan Bhuddist nun Pema Chodron helped him. He had to reach in, not out. “[Chodron’s] whole thing is to experience it, feel it, let it make you go insane, and then let it go.”

As for the 12 step school of recovery, Freeman says he believes in the power of group conscience, one of the program’s traditions, and always feels better after a meeting. However, he also “believes in the school of treating addiction with medication, absolutely. If abstaining means that you don’t sleep for a year what kind of chance will you have to keep going?”

Sleep or no sleep, joy or misery, eventually the creativity came back, and he attributes it more to biology than to spirituality. “I really believe my synapses got fried,” he said. “My pathways got fried. But I could tell in a year and a half something grew back. Some sort of stem connected to itself again. Boom, I was there.” The result was a new collection of tuneful, twisted pop songs that describe Freeman’s liberation. It could’ve stayed on the porch but Godowsky took a trip to North Carolina and brought recordings of the songs with him. “I trusted him to get musicians for the record,” Freeman said.

Godowsky returned with a drummer, bassist, and a second guitar player, and they recorded the album in nine days.

“They nailed it in a ridiculously short amount of time,” Freeman said, adding that the album had to be banged out quickly because money was tight.

“When I left Ween my income went down to like five percent of what I was making before,” he said. “We scrimped and scraped. We didn’t have any time to add any overdubs, that’s why the album sounds very bare bones, which I love.”

Songs like the celebratory “El Shaddai” narrate Freeman’s interest in Kabbalah, and although he says he’s not a Kabbalist, he read the Old Testament and the Torah when he was in rehab.The song was based on James A. Michener’s The Source, he said. “Covert Discretion,” which leads off the album, starts as a sweetly chilling acoustic ballad about the disease; at one point in the narrative he’s gratefully sharing drugs with fans in a bathroom when things suddenly turn ugly. “Get the fuck out my face,” he croons.

“Black Bush,” meanwhile, is a pastoral tune in the spirit of Donovan. That is, if Donovan inhaled Scotchgard. Very Ween-like.

Freeman said he will perform Ween songs on the upcoming tour, both the ones he’s always had the most fun doing live as well as songs that have never been performed live before.

With ex-bandmate Mickey Melchiondo, aka Dean Ween, he says he currently has “no relationship, outside mutual business approvals.” This seems bittersweet, considering the duo had been working together since 8th grade.

Freeman, who will have three years clean in December, chooses to focus on what he gets in return for his departure. “One of the benefits of recovery is you get your kids back,” he said. “The best part of the last couple of years is every night we give each other a hug and a kiss and say goodnight. When I was at my worst all I wanted was to say goodnight to my kids. That’s the shit. I have a group of friends [in Woodstock] who just know me as Aaron and they’ve never seen me fucked up.” He laughs. “It’s a wonderful thing.”

The Man For Women Only: B. John Michaels Will Be Your Sex Object

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

What ifs are the purview of the charlatan

Originally published in the October 2012 issue of Lacuna

1.

He named his rifle Persephone after Susanna’s favorite fruit of myth. Later, the blood and teeth he saw on the field stubble reminded him of the seeds of that fruit.

He didn’t name his knife anything because the knife was an extension of him. The knife was kept sheathed at his hip or at the small of his back. When he wore it on his chest with the handle pointing down and to the left the other men looked at him but didn’t say anything. When he wore the knife this way he was telling the heavens that he was bored to tears and needed to return to the place of silent breathing and the enemy not six feet away unknowing he was there to take what was most precious.

The knife was numbingly sharp and could cut transparent layers of wood and grass and anything else. He loved Persephone but he loved himself more. Covered in dead leaves and lying like a boxed corpse or striding from the wood as an apparition he could gather anything: lives if he cared to, but most precious of all was information. He could travel on information, and some of the most powerful men in the army were starting to notice.

Early September the heavens rewarded him. He was given orders that would take him away from the cavalry and send him out alone, on foot. Any other kind of man, he thought, would have been frightened or at the very least insulted by these orders, which isolated him from all the others and probably guaranteed Susanna’s widowhood. This was the sort of mission that would bury another kind of man.

James Pike thought these were orders of the most fragrant variety.

He squeezed his eyes shut and saw Susanna’s shoulder and neck. The smell of June sun on a snarl of hot leaves. Boys kicking dirt on him because he was fifteen and not five feet tall. What was he fighting for. To spill the reeking pearly guts of every butternut within his reach.

He named his rifle Persephone for the girl who comes up from the sky blue mouth of death every March.


2.

The man sat on the porch, legs crossed tight at the knee, arms folded tight against the chest. His eyes were closed and the corners of his thin mouth were turned down in a deep frown; Pike wasn’t sure if he was asleep, resting, or simply displeased.

It was a warm late October day but the man looked cold. Pike thought the man was Sherman but he couldn’t be sure. He had never seen a likeness of the general and he imagined Sherman as the type of leader who would be constantly surrounded by aides and always in motion. This man simply looked tired and old. His dark hair was thinning and seemed to have been cut by a dull knife. His chin and cheeks were stubbly. His blue coat was open at the throat, obscuring any stars or sign of rank that could prove to Pike that this was the Uncle Billy of legend. He was too far away and the man didn’t move.

Pike didn’t know what to do. He was exhausted to the point where he had to carefully balance upright in his boots and wobble in all directions at once so he wouldn’t collapse flat on his face. The past ten days he had spent in a canoe on the Tennessee, getting shot at by guerillas. Everything, including his cartridges, had gotten soaked at the bottom of the canoe. His stomach had stopped growling days ago. He wanted something to eat and he wanted praise. Something told him that General W.T. Sherman was not the man to give him such things.

Pike stroked his matted beard, shifted his weight slightly, and cleared his throat. “General Crook sends his compliments, sir,” he said. His voice was a croak and he couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken.

The man on the porch shifted his weight slightly, uncrossed his legs, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. When he dropped his hand to his knee his dark eyes were open and fixed angrily on Pike.

“I did not hear your approach, sir,” the man said. He stood up, slowly slapped the dust off his trousers, and glared at Pike. “I cannot place your accent, sir, or your mixed dress. Are you here to help me or run me through?”

Pike dropped his gaze to his filthy coat, which did indeed look gray from the dust and dirt. His wide belt was cinched tight against his hunger; tied now, not buckled. The knife sheath, smeared with blood, was strapped to his breast. He took a deep breath.

“Are you Major General William Tecumseh Sherman, sir, commander of the fifteenth army corps?”

The man walked down the porch steps and stood close to Pike. “I am not, sir. Tell me, how did you get past my picket lines?”

“Can you direct me to General Sherman, sir?” Pike thought the man’s face looked ancient; it had been scrubbed clean like a high-ranking officer’s face, but the creases were filled with dirt. He knew that some men called Sherman a lunatic. He also knew that in the month Sherman had lost his young son to typhoid. Maybe he had gone mad.

“Where are you from, son?”

“I was born in Point Pleasant, Ohio, sir. But I moved ar --”

“The birthplace of General Grant,” the man said. “I was born in Lancaster.”

“Sir, are you General Sherman?”

“I am, but as of one hour ago, I am no longer in command of the Fifteenth Corps. Let you be the first soldier to congratulate me in person on my promotion to Commander of the Army of the Tennessee. The theater of war has become a safer place and the enemy will surrender by Christmas, by God.”

Pike pretended he didn’t understand the sarcasm. “Corporal James Pike, Fourth Ohio Cavalry, sir.” He saluted quickly, didn’t wait for a return salute, and reached into his bag for the two messages. He handed them to Sherman, who stared at him for a moment and then took the torn pieces of paper out of his hand.

Pike watched Sherman read the messages and waited to be dismissed. Or offered a place to sit and rest. Something to eat. When he realized the general was forthcoming with none of the above, he waited and studied the man’s face as he read. Pike knew what the messages said.

One was a telegraph from Grant which had been sent through by Crook. It was an order to drop all work on the railroad, cross the Tennessee River quickly, and head east toward Bridgeport. The other letter was in part a character reference from General Blair, who had written that Pike was a man deserving of the most complex and delicate missions.

“In conclusion: If you are reading this letter, General Sherman, you may regard the man standing before you as a truly gifted scout and ranger,” Sherman read aloud.
Pike bowed. Sherman cleared his throat.

“Your footfalls didn’t wake me and you avoided being detected by my picket lines. You paddled a canoe down the Tennessee River over Muscle Shoals with no ammunition and received not so much as a scratch on your person. Or at least no scratch that I can see. You’re a singular character, Pike. What can I do for you?”

“Give me something to eat, sir,” Pike said. “And then I will tell you what you can do for me.”


3.

He had been offered a horse and a change of clothes. He accepted the former and declined the latter. Two nights into the march toward Elkton, Pike was summoned to Sherman’s tent.

Pike had the gift of silent movement and obviously he knew it. Although he didn’t know why he was so blessed. Most of his young life was spent shouting above the clamor of the newspaper pressroom while his father occupied the quiet corner office upstairs. He didn’t stay in the business long enough to become deaf.

He watched Sherman write at his desk. Pike was not five feet away from the general and yet the older man did not know he was there. Pike wasn’t surprised; a few months ago he lay under a broken bridge while what seemed to be Stuart’s entire cavalry made valuable plans inches from his nose.

Now Pike breathed low and deep, mouth closed, feeling his lungs expand effortlessly. His heartbeat slowed to a whale’s pace. By watching the movements of Sherman’s hand, Pike could decipher what he was writing: The child that bore my name, and in whose future I reposed with more confidence than I did in my own plan of life, now floats a mere corpse, seeking a grave in a distant land.

The man’s hand paused above the paper. He took a deep breath and started writing again. I ask no sympathy. On, on I must go, to meet a soldier’s fate.

“Sir.”

Sherman carefully set aside his pen. “You did it again, Pike. Have you not announced yourself to my aide?” More humor than anger this time.

“I’m not certain where your aide is,” Pike replied. “Permission to enter.”

“Granted. Have a seat. And answer me this.”

“Yes sir.”

“Your accent.”

“Sir?”

Sherman adjusted the lantern so he could see Pike’s face. For a moment both men were silent. “Permission to speak candidly, sir,” said Pike after a moment. Sherman nodded slightly.

“As I like to say sir, I don’t speak like an Ohio man because I am only from Ohio on my mother and father’s side. I always wanted to be someone different. So I trained myself to speak different. So I could keep myself company. Give me two seconds with anyone sir, and I can speak in their manner. Perfectly.” Sherman’s diary entry moved him and he considered telling him about Susanna’s accent. Then he thought better of it.

“What is your favorite accent?” Sherman asked.

“It’s not really an accent sir, but I enjoy speaking in the style of Chaucer.”

“Ah,” Sherman said. “Can you imitate all of the southern accents?”

“Rebel accents? Easily, sir.”

“I have been thinking of a mission for you, Corporal. There are many variables, but one thing is almost certain – you will fail. You will be captured and jailed, at best. You will be hanged, most likely.”

Pike’s smile was wide and avid. Sherman looked at this smile, confused for a moment, and then continued. “There are many … how do I put it? There are many ‘what ifs’”

“What ifs are the purview of the charlatan,” Pike replied.

Sherman considered this for a moment and then dropped his head back and laughed. A dry, one note ha.

“Thank you for that, Pike,” Sherman said, looking at him again. “I note that the more dangerous the mission, the more desirous you are of earning it.”

“It’s true. I want to do something bold, sir. I want to be a hero. I want to be remembered.”

“Are there heroes in this war, Pike? Will we be remembered? As the men we were?”

4.

His orders were to burn the bridge crossing the Savannah River at Augusta in order to create confusion in Johnston’s army. Pike was to wait for news of Sherman’s mobilization toward Atlanta and then he would act.

Sherman had estimated that the odds were three to one that Pike would be caught. Pike thought his commander was being too generous. The odds were much worse and for that he was grateful.

Sherman wanted Pike to take a companion and disguise himself like a refugee from East Tennessee, work his way over the mountains into North Carolina, float down the river and burn the bridge.

He had refused to take a companion and so found himself alone on a raft in ragged butternut, lying on his back in the sodden summer heat, looking at the stars. Persephone was long gone and yet this was her time to be walking the Earth, was it not? Pike had time to wonder about the things he had lost in the past three years alone. Boots, horses, rifles. Teeth. Where were they now? What of Susanna and Frederick his hound. Would they know him. If he followed his orders properly he would be unrecognizable to the very end.

When the enemy called to him from the river bank he would sit up and holler back as someone else.

Getting off on Third Eye Blind

Originally published in New York Press in April 2000. Unexpurgated so I (and you) can relive its bitter joy. What would I say about 3eb today, 13 years later? "Always/Think we'll get more time"? by Jessica Willis There is a handsome man stumbling over a dirty snowbank on the edge of Tyler St. He has pale blue eyes and dirty cowlicked hair. The Just Been Fucked look, some would say. It’s a fair assessment, but a larger measure of his handsomeness is that he is sporting what I would call Lush Hair–a dark, pungent cock’s comb that says he sleeps where he lays and doesn’t care if he comes or prays, as the song goes. He, the former Johnny Bender of Bumlake High, the dark star in a long coat, should be naked and smoking in a motel room right now, his hangover assuaged with coos and quim, but now, this weekday, he’s on the tall side of 30 and the short side of his preferred midday blood alcohol content: a beautiful loser without a ride in a town where rides are hard currency. He might very well be a derelict, a bum in the old language. He looks almost homeless. There is a liquor store, inevitably named Cappy’s, or Crappy’s, across the street. That’s where he’s going. A lonesome day for this handsome man. He finally gets over the snowdrift and the traffic is slow enough for me to observe what he does next. He doesn’t do anything. I pass by; eventually he lurches between the cars and is gone. Handsome men don’t know what they are, and no one knows what to do about them, so they wincingly endure and use the cliches at hand, to pass time and try to make some sense: they "don’t fit in"; they "walk with the mighty"; they "lie like dogs" with the tired, pretty young women who are still willing. They are neither the tough guy nor the fey boy. They give head and they cry with equal amounts of gusto. They might be good-looking, but they don’t necessarily look good. They are not the male equivalent of a beautiful girl. They act as mortal as they can. They do not feel blessed. They feel deep. What’s that Devo line–half a goon and half a god? The handsome man walks on, looking for handsome things. Walk on baby, walk on…on and on, Stephan Jenkins begs a "hottie" in one of his songs. He’s singing about one of his damaged women, but I’d like to think he is singing about himself. Stephan Jenkins of Third Eye Blind: the unapologetic frontman in a climate where frontmen are treated with derision and arid awe, a full-time handsome man. A man handsome enough to make me crumple in front of my stereo, lyrics sheet in hand, when Blue, Third Eye Blind’s second record, is played in the apartment for the first time. You want to absorb and memorize every inch of Jenkins’ lyrics. He effortlessly plunders what was the last secure realm of the crazy, moneyed female: conversational psychobabble. And not only that, he makes this hollow crisis management rock. Really hard. He even makes it fertile and interesting. During our recent conversation(on Valentine’s Day, naturally), Jenkins described "Wounded"–unarguably the best song on Blue–as a "sexy song about sexual assault." He’s not joking or being disingenuous; "Wounded" is four minutes of the gunkiest, most freewheeling arena nosebleed rock this side of Montrose, topped with a strenuous vocal catharsis that would make Bikini Kill’s Hanna go red: "The guy who put his hands on you/Has got nothing to do with me," he reassures a violated female over a misleading strummy intro. By the end of the track, he’s hooting up and down the scales like a girl uninterrupted: "rock on baby, rock on/you say you can’t grow." Much of the hugeness of Third Eye Blind’s sound on Blue (and on its self-titled first album, the sleeper of 1997 that gave the world that heinously tuneful doot doot doot single) is provided by the not-quite-handsome men who surround Jenkins: Brad Hargreaves’ tumultuous drumming, bassist Arion Salazar’s arrangements, the driving, alpha-male landscapes of lead guitarist Kevin Cadogan. But it’s Jenkins’ limelight, all the way. Perhaps this is why Cadogan left the band right after a gig at Sundance in January. According to an anonymous source at Elektra, Cadogan’s departure came after "a unanimous decision" within the band, since destructive "creative differences" had been evident during the recording of Blue. Cadogan has since been replaced by Tony Fredianelli, Third Eye Blind’s original guitarist, who left the lineup in 1996, before the band was signed. Of the return of his once and future guitarist, Jenkins says breezily, "We’re a closed society. We hire from within." If there’s pre-divorce tension between Cadogan and his bandmates on Blue, I can’t quite hear it. I wish I could, because a touch of genuine, unintentional sonic angst would have made this perfectly damn good record into a rough jewel. For reasons I can’t quite name, the notion of trying to rock Sundance gives me the heebie-jeebies. Then again, I am not a confident, handsome man who has caressed Charlize Theron’s hair. More things about Jenkins:sometimes he ends statements in question form? Like this? In that Newspeak that seems to have been borne straight out of the halls of Choate or Pencey Prep? For example: "The girl in "Wounded"–it’s very personal?" Any elaboration would "ferret her out, and that’s not okay"? My question to him had been,"Who was she?" Because there’s a she embossed all over Third Eye Blind’s narrative; an unnamed and gloriously screwed she who often finds herself waffling, thrusting and ODing under the long shadow of Jenkins, who has more than just a knack for slipping graphic, clumsy references to sex and death into what could be just another good ’n’ forgettable breakthrough hit. She is the wan, intelligent presence who makes Jenkins into a handsome, pained man. Without her, he would be museless, or, at worst, a good-looking 6-foot-2 jock with an acid tongue. He’s got her though, and she’s got him, and Jenkins is definitely the most cleansed when the ending is an unhappy one. "When I walk out of a tragedy, like Lear," he says, "I feel good. The demons were exorcised. I’m like, ‘Drinks for everybody!’" Occasionally, Jenkins serenades this she, and it’s bedroom bard-dom at its most ugly beautiful: "I lift your head while they change the hospital sheets/I would never lie to you," he blurts to his burnt-out babe in "The Background," an excellent power ballad from the first album that cops Jimmy Page’s mincing "Over the Hills and Far Away" intro. And occasionally he’s bragging about the skills all over the FM–Blue’s "1000 Julys" is flanged and phased-out gratuitous Apocalypse rockdom about making some girl come. "She goes down on me" was the cutest, clearest line in "Semi-Charmed Life" (doot doot doot), and this worried a lot of talk show folks when special guest Third Eye Blind refused to change the line into something more like "Let’s spend some time together." One of his favorite words might be "fucking," used adjectivally, flatly and casual, as in, "Some days I feel like a giant, like a demon, and some days I’m invisible and fucking flawed, and neither one is true." His literary heroes (he graduated UC Berkeley in ’88 with a lit major) are Kerouac, Sam Shepard, Wordsworth, Tennessee Williams and "their sons," Lou Reed and Bob Dylan. "Guy writers," he says with a chuckle. He refers to Shakespeare as a "guy." His Valentine’s Day plans included rehearsal and a radio interview thing. No date? "No date," he replied, like this is a foolish question. I wanted to ask, "No Charlize?" But I don’t know how to pronounce her name. He is happy to talk about the trustfund cutie on Prozac who inspired the shouty "Losing a Whole Year," the first track on the debut album, which begins with an alt-rock sledgehammer riff and the line, "I remember you and me used to spend/The whole goddamned day in bed," and disintegrates into a "routine deceit" by the end of the song. "She’d say she was trying to be down. I think she’s a painter now. She sounded like money," he adds, quoting his own lyric. "It was funny and fragile, her desire for grit." Next. We return to "Wounded." It has been my favorite song for what seems like forever, and Jenkins likes it too. A manifesto for the bloodied, damaged and unbowed, which becomes evident when he eagerly sings a stanza for me, a cappella, in a reedy, breathless voice. Anybody could go around singing this. In the Third Eye Blind merchandise catalog, included in the Blue CD case, there are "Wounded" baseball caps for sale. "Boom, I’m out there." He’s talking about visiting the "Wounded" girl, who apparently went to NYU. He seems to be warming to the idea of discussing the story. "I visit her one semester, and she’s dressed all sexy. Suede miniskirt. Big butt, big tits, big legs, long strides." Then the bad thing happened to her. "The next time I see her, she’s got her hair in a bun, loose clothes, and she’s protected and angry." But time happened, the bruises she feels will heal, to paraphrase the song, and eventually she shows skin again, and goes back to sexiness and her long strides. "That’s where I get the line ‘you walkin’ down shakin’ that ass again, and then you walk on baby, walk on,’" he says. I would say this is a happy ending. It is during this moment in the song that the music and the words hit a triumphant climax, spurred by Jenkins’ perfectly timed "Ow!" Chiming, sustained power chord to fade. Don’t tell me you can’t get your hands in the air. David Lee Plath. Sylvia Lee Roth. I can’t think of a more chic, more durable morph: the star who has a few trials by fire in his back pocket, the in-jokey nut who has the balls to thank Klonipin by brand name on his first record, crossed with a man who likes a big blast of anything with a summertime hottie walking on and on like a cherry on top of it all.