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“You always wear black”, a friend once said. “It’s like you’re constantly in mourning”. She, my friend, was joking. But like any good joke, there was truth in it. Those grainy verses by Johnny Cash come to mind, “I wear black for the poor and the beaten down, living in the hopeless…for the sick and lonely, for the lives that could have been….”. I don’t remember when I first started wearing black, but it must have coincided with the touching down of rock music in my life. My childhood friend David and I used to loiter behind our elementary school, with our skateboards and our headphones, and talk about how we wouldn’t live past sixteen years old. We were too young to be romantic about death, barely pre-teens. And it would still be years before I’d discover Kurt Cobain, Shannon Hoon, and even many more years till I’d discover guys like Jeff Buckley; men turned gods, lives turned legend, immortal mysteries scrawled across the history of rock music and the pages of SPIN Magazine and Chuck Klosterman books like Fargo Rock City. At any rate, I don’t know if we understood death fully, but we had a feeling about life anyway. We were sad kids. Or, at least I was. But, I think David was too. We were sad but it wasn’t all of who we were, even though sometimes I think we feared that it could be. The first time I heard Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness was behind that school, thanks to my friend Dave. He even had Billy Corgan’s black “Zero” shirt from the Bullet with Butterfly Wings video and we both thought that was so fucking cool. Zero. How could one word say so much? It was around that time that we started a band, my first band, I was 9, maybe 10 years old. I don’t know who’s idea it was, it just happened, like it was the logical next step for kids like us. Did we even have a name? We played one talent show and wrote one original song called “Ode To No One.” It really was an original song, even though we had ripped the title from the Pumpkins. Those days of first guitars, blue slushy tongues and perfecting ollies were great and sad and slow. They seemed to go on for forever, though we knew that they couldn’t. Ultimately, my elementary school only went as far as Grade 6 and while David and I kept in touch through middle school, we inevitably were set adrift from one another. In Highschool, I only became more apathetic and seemingly disillusioned about the ‘state of content’ of most people. Everything was so fucked up. And to my point, there existed a whole world of palpable discontent in rock music, where no one was playing along. Rock music was proof that there was life outside of wherever I was. It wasn’t about escaping the hurt, it was about feeling it. I lived past sixteen, it just kinda happened (obviously there’s more to it than that, but looking back, sometimes I can’t help but feel that way). I would run into my old friend David on and off throughout our teen years, he was still brilliant and alive, and he had his own band called The Diamond Teeth. I had my own band too. And ever so periodically, there were others. In middle school, there was a school counsellor, who also was an artist. I knew we were the same, because he wore black every day too. He also wore a black leather jacket, I recognized it from the sleeve of Rocket to Russia by The Ramones, but it was the first time I had seen someone wear one in real life. It was around that time that I got my first leather jacket and I think maybe even my first Les Paul (which was a knock off of a knock off). In Highschool, I managed to re-connect for one year with some kids from grade school who were a year older than me. We all wore black, it wasn’t planned, we hadn’t seen each other in three years, we all just showed up that way. There’s a line in High Fidelity that goes, “what really matters is what you like, not what you are like… books, records, films, these things matter.” I don’t think we believed that all the way through, but we all had chronological / alphabetized record collections, and it seemed like someone always had a copy of a Kurt Vonnegut book on hand. And that day that Layne Staley died was rough. None of us knew Layne, but I think we all felt like we did. I grieved similarly, recently, for the death of Chris Cornell. This isn’t about the swirling speculation or the rumours. But like death does, the news gave me pause. It reminded me of my own challenges, and the challenges of other kids I’ve met along the way. I think in the rock community, we rarely consider where everyone has come from, or how far it’s taken any of us to get to wherever we are. Sometimes it feels like we’re too busy reminding everyone that we don’t care what anyone thinks, which is great. But, for the gentle flickering of a lyric from the wick of hopelessness. The voices, reminiscent of a lonely howl. And the rage. The protest. The grit burnout endurance. The scrappiness. The desire for sense, or sometimes just for something more. Who knew three minutes and forty-five seconds could ache so much? Bono once said, “pop music often tells you everything is okay, while rock music tells you that it’s not okay, but you can change it.” I think we all sense this otherwise, what are we doing here? The rock community has born thousands of songs, of an alarming range, from Testify to Disarm. The kids in black, who knew you had so much potential? Who knew you were made with so much purpose? And beauty? Who knew that you are loved? Did you know? Do you know that these things are true? As an adult, one of my favourite places to be is in a room full of other kids dressed in black. Chris was one of those wonderful kids. I am one of those kids. If you’re reading this, you’re probably one of those kids too and I’m glad that you’re here. In the midst of all our not caring about what anyone thinks, I hope you hear that you’re cared for. The dearest kids in black, sometimes it’s a lonely place to be. But it doesn’t have to be. Galations 6:2 says “carry each others burdens”. We don’t wear black solely for ourselves, we wear it for others too, and you can trust that for all of your darkest hours that I am wearing black for you. I wonder what it would look like if we lived this out together in a conscious way. Because the prophetic Cash still rings true, “I’d love to wear a rainbow every day, and tell the world that everything’s okay. But I’ll try to carry off a little darkness on my back, till things are brighter, I’m the man in black.” In loving inspiration of Chris Cornell, - Frankie

[officialdeadblog]

A short unedited soliloquy on 2016:

‪A friend of mine texted me a few days ago and asked for my 2016 highlights. I appreciated that he might anticipate I would have any. From a health standpoint, 2016 was the most relentless year I've ever had to endure. I lost my life and my ability to do things as I once knew how. I say this fully knowing that only days ago I stood squeezing toothpaste onto my hands, brain thinking it was moisturizer. There was certainly no shortage of humbling moments in 2016, toothpaste being the least of these. ‬ ‪As a kid, I thought there was nothing greater, nothing more satisfying or worthwhile than writing songs, standing on stage, or playing my guitar. Many of you who are musicians can probably testify to this kind of love affair. As a young adult, I continued in this way of thinking and it was perhaps this that led me to accomplish many milestones over the years. To be sure, I still believe that standing on stage, writing songs and playing guitar is immensely important; it is something from which I derive much joy, inspiration and mission. Having said that, I would now qualify it as a noble pursuit and less of an ultimate thing that also feels phenomenal. (Which it does.)‬ ‪This year I have found things that are incomparable to even that though. A well known verse from the Sermon on the Mount, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." Suffice to say, it is a profound kind of love that embraces when there is nothing left, that won't stand for curation, that is raw and receives it all. My highlights stem from this place and it is because of this place, that so far as being sick is concerned, I am able to consider it joy. ‬ ‪So, for some, 2016 was a pile of rubble to stand poised upon, for others, yet a mountain, still for others, a ceaseless night that only grows longer than the one before. I know those years too. One might presume that I would ascribe a ceaseless night to the kinds of things I am still currently in the wake of medically, and a great year to that of personal accomplishment, perhaps even a bit of professional acclaim. After all, who would believe the opposite to be true. Though I must say, it is a peculiar notion to realize that losing my life could in fact be the best thing to have ever happened to me. ‬ Happy New Year, - Frankie

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Sorry I haven't written, Internet. The dog days of Canadian summer were full of daunting complications and defining moments, all of which my neurologists and I continue to be in the midst of. In any event, we wake and put one foot in front of the other, even if only incrementally, in an act of trust. One of my favourite quotes as of late, "I'm not bitter about what happened to me as a child, and my mother was instrumental in keeping me from being so. She taught me to be grateful for my life regardless of what that entailed, and that's directly related to the image of Christ on the cross and the example of sacrifice he gave us. What she taught me is that the deliverance God offers from pain is not no pain, it's that pain is actually a gift." - Stephen Colbert / cc: The Late Show with Stephen Colbert Thank you for your continued messages of love and support. Though I am not always able to reply, I read them all. From recovery, Frankie

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Many have asked what my days look like. I liken recovery from a traumatic brain injury to a kind of monasticism. It requires discipline, focus, prayerfulness, peacefulness. Many injuries and ailments relieve you to sit and watch TV, talk on the phone, or read as often as you prefer. It is not so with TBI, which unequivocally and mercilessly demands silence, quietness, stillness, darkness. Efforts beyond healing are exhaustive and risky. To put it peaceably, if you don't "obey" the regimen of recovery, things tend to fall apart pretty fast. The business of brain trauma recovery is a false economy: take that 10 min phone call or send that text, but be prepared to pay for it for days. Perhaps it is superfluous to mention that the brain can no longer perform even the most basic of daily tasks (putting together a post like this takes pacing over months, though "my voice" remains intact). Thus, a slow and steadfast journey of relearning and reshaping. So, in a sense, all you have is time and at the same time, there is no time at all. Discipline, focus, prayerfulness, peacefulness. Quietness, stillness, darkness. Sickness. I put on shoes every day because it makes me feel productive, and because now, I am able to. In the contemplative spaces, a great deal of thoughtfulness is devoted toward, naturally, the realness and rawness of life and faith and the nuances that those types of things entail. There are sobering questions about how I want to spend my life and what matters. There are spaces to remember too. There are good movies worth watching again, or a thousand times even: that time we wasted the day driving around LA listening to Ryan Adams interpret Wonderwall on a mixtape. How stunning that fourth note is in the chorus melody. How soft the air is sometimes. Laughter in the night for no reason. How your voice sounds in closing prayer. These are the things I can remember. And how delicate these things are. Moments, born in seconds, molecular moments, so small you could miss them if you weren't careful. And yet how powerful, these cracks in the night sky, sustaining fractures in time, traces of a kind of wholeness we are able to hold in our own hands. Somehow all living becomes a privilege. best, - Frankie

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Hey Internet. A quick note. There are so many misconceptions about traumatic brain injury / concussions and recovery, though I have observed the media making great educational and compassionate strides as of late. Still, it can be hard for the public to wrap it's figurative head around something that appears so elusive to the naked eye, particularly when there's not a lot of good information available. I thought I would put together a list of the symptoms I have had, 27 of which I continue to contend with on a daily basis, in an attempt to demystify / provide greater culture-wide understanding. I hope this helps. - Chronic nausea - Chronic fatigue / exhaustion - Spaceyness - Dizzyness - Vertigo - Loss of depth of field - Disorientation - Depersonalization / inability to differentiate between waking and dream state (this is my least fave) - Headaches and pressure in the skull - Severe Sound sensitivity (a fork hitting a countertop sounds like a fire alarm) - Severe Light sensitivity (a sunny day is like walking with a flashlight in your eyes) - Mood disorders - Blurred vision - Loss of peripheral vision - Fluttering and ripples in remaining vision - Visual motion sensitivity - Severe bodily aching and felt sensitivities - Identifying objects by the wrong name - Hallucinations, and observing additional objects that aren't there - Loss of consciousness - Clicking sounds and ringing sounds - Near total deafness in right ear - Pendulum weight swinging from left ear to right - Inability to walk / stand, and impaired / limited walking - Amnesia - Impeded response time - Large fluctuations in body temp - Fine motor skills impaired - Impaired hand writing - Impaired reading - Limited tolerance for screens - Inability / impaired ability to perform daily cognitive tasks (ex. putting on makeup, wearing shoes with laces-- thank God for Vans). - Struggle to hold several pieces of information at one time. - Loss of bodily cues: for example, loss of hunger sensations: loss of ability to realize hunger and loss of ability to determine when full. (Don't worry. It's getting better.) Will write again soon. Off to the doc, Xo Frankie

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There are five stages of recovery for the brain after a trauma, and I have recently been assessed at stage two. To put this in perspective, stage 1 was: can you stand up, can you tie your shoes, how do you process light, how do you process sound. Now it's can you walk, and for how long. Can you look at a page in a book. Can you problem solve coherently. Can you write things down and if so, for how long.

Certainly the arc of recovery is longer now looking back than I could have estimated or imagined in September when I had the accident. But I think that's okay. Perhaps oddly, even amidst moments of extreme illness or incapacitation, this concussion season has never felt quote-unquote like something "bad" that has happened. It is really hard at times, scary at other times, painful, it is challenging, it is purposeful, but to put it as succinctly as I can for those who ask: it mostly feels like life. We live things and they become our stories. And we have all kinds of stories: tales of victory and chapters of loss, we have unresolved endings, and glimpses of resolve and restoration. The world thrives on quick fixes and instant antidotes (one person asked, "can't you just take a pill for that?"), but whether or not we like to admit it, it is quite often the case that some things take longer than others: in this case, it's taking longer than anticipated to get back to being healthy.

Skateboards though. I bought this deck online just a few days after my accident when I wasn't allowed on any device. I bought it for two reasons:

1. In my mind (pun kind of intended), it wasn't a question as to whether or not I would skateboard again. Many of you would attest to this notion: we get knocked down, and by grace we get back up. Some of us just have to concede to wearing helmets.

2. "You will be mine, oh yes, one day". We all remember that familiar scene from Wayne's World where Wayne longingly gazes at the white strat. Truth be told, I'd wanted this skateboard for so long but had been conservative about the purchase. Now I had been told several times that I was lucky to be alive, and what do you frivolously spend your money on when you want to affirm a kind of profound thankfulness? That whimsical thing you've always wanted but nevertheless put off. So if you're me, apparently you get a Tony Hawk hot pink Powell Perelta reissue. It's currently misted with a thin layer of dust, but I like to look at it with a kind of expectancy.

Anyway, Internet. I'm sure I will write more in depth when I am physically able. If you take anything from this post, I hope you feel encouraged: if there is something in your life that is taking longer than you or anyone could have anticipated, life isn't about playing catch up. If you're in the middle of something, it's okay to say it sucks. It's okay to be at the beginning, however daunting. It's also okay to say you don't know where the end is.

With all my love,

- Frankie

Write me at ... [email protected]

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A Few Thoughts On Scott and Velvet Revolver. My business partner Andre is my musical yin/yang twin. We were even born on the same day and our names are opposite shades. While our age difference is actually too minimal to mention, we often joke about how he is a 90s kid through and through, and being born just a few years later, I am an early 00's kid. What a difference a few years makes in your critical music listening years. To put this in perspective, we both love U2 but my discovery of U2 was based on a song called 'Beautiful Day’. Where as if memory serves, Andre was exposed to Joshua Tree. Even further, Dre discovered Smash by Offspring, I discovered Americana and had to work my way back to find Smash etc.

Scott Weiland is another example. If I had been healthy enough to be in the studio yesterday, I know Dre would have been talking passionately about how great STP was, impressions of Scott and all. As an adult STP is unforgettable, as a kid I was deeply familiar with STP but I spent the bulk of my childhood rummaging through 70’s and 80’s rock.

While most will recall STP as pivitol, my first real connection to Scott was when he sang in Velvet Revolver. Ex members from Guns N Roses had a new band and they released a song called "Slither”. The video premiered on Much, it was dark and brooding and impossibly seductive. I mean, impossibly. The performance was magnetic. I remember thinking that I had never seen a guy move like Scott before, not even David Lee Roth and he was in Van Halen. I also had never seen a guy wear tighter pants before, then again perhaps I had just become old enough to want to notice. Guitars had never been slung lower, human skulls had never been in such plethora, shadows weaving with light, light weaving with shadows. The power and importance of rock n roll mystique was not lost on this band, and especially not on Scott. He was a rockstar in the most authentic sense. His confidence was stunning. He made me want to drive fast (even though I didn’t have a licence), push things over, and at the very least was a further confirmation of how badly I wanted to be in a band and wear tight pants.

I never met Scott, but I understand from those who knew him that he was complex, and aren’t we all. These are just a few memories that I really enjoy thinking about not just now, but truly often. It was only a month ago that I introduced the Slither video to a new friend and isn’t that something powerful: the sharing of music. I am thankful to Scott for his energy, inspiration and for running wild with me in my imagination. I went to the Contraband tour with my brother Mark, I think twice. Scott sang through his trademark megaphone the whole time. And I really do mean the whole time. Literally every song. I remember thinking “come on, I just want to hear your voice.” After a few songs however, it became apparent to me that what was happening was infinitely cooler than anything I could have preferred. Scott didn’t give a shit about what any of us thought. He felt like singing through his megaphone and I think he had it more right than any of us ever could.

Write me at ... [email protected]

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One Song That Changed My Life.

By the time I heard Summer of 69, I had already heard it a lot. At least in passing. It was one of those songs that if you didn’t know it by heart, you at least knew about it. You knew about it in the same way you know about Major League Baseball, grilled cheese sandwiches or New York City. These things exist and most of us know that they exist regardless of whether or not we can recall a definitive moment in which we were taught about them. Anyway. Summer of 69. A lot of people say that life is about timing and I don’t think I had been ready for it. I had been working on my guitar and getting that together. I had been establishing a philosophy for myself, my instrument and my approach to creating art. The best songs (or art for that matter) shatter your self proposed philosophy - in other words, it challenges the way you think things “should” be. Summer of 69 totally broke me and it was awesome. It took 3 minutes and 42 seconds for me to realize that I knew nothing about music. Particularly, songwriting. “But how?”, I would say. It was so good that I had no ability to conceive how it could have possibly been created. A journey was unfolding sonically and lyrically and creatively, and I was on it. What made this song particularly peculiar was how truly humble it was in its nature. It was about taking the hammer and the nail and building the f*ck out of a sure foundation. Who knew (besides The Ramones) that holding one chord off the top could set such a strong tone for what was to come. Each part was written thoughtfully and with purpose. The tones were pure. The song didn’t capitalize on a gimmick or rely on any one thing to make it good, except the song itself. It fully realized what it meant to look at a skyline rather than just any one building. Alternatively, like going for a drive versus sitting in a parking lot. To put it simply, it just felt good.

With Summer of 69, I was all feels but no perspective and it was driving me crazy. I was holding a hammer and a nail and I had no idea what to do with them. I knew that if I ever wanted to get close to it, I would have to go back to the basics. I would have to be comfortable with being the person in the room who asked the most questions, who knew the least. I would have to arrive earlier than everyone else, and I’d have to stay later. I would have to derive a system for myself that made sense because of my learning disability. I would also have to ask for help and be willing to learn from others. I didn’t think twice about any of these things, Summer of 69 was so good. And with it came other songs that were exciting too. Songs like Boys of Summer, Small Town, Cuts Like A Knife. Songs that were also built with a hammer and nails.

At times I was hopeless. While songwriting seemed like breathing for many of my peers, I had to work. And work. And work. I had to dig deep for years just to learn how to use a hammer, and it hurt. Like running an Ironman with no training. It was this pursuit however that inevitably took on a life of it’s own, where I learned almost a monastic type of self discipline. I learned how to problem solve creatively. I learned about the gifts of mentorship. I learned how to build something out of nothing. And eventually, I learned how to write songs. Songs that I love.

What is one song that has changed your life? Write me at ... [email protected]

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A Few Thoughts On Letterman. Growing up, my family had various no-TV rules. My folks always preferred their kids to be outside climbing trees rather than inside watching characters have their childhoods in a box. And so we were always outside. All of us. One day I discovered a cable outlet in my room. All of a sudden life (to me) became about helping the outlet fulfill its greater purpose or "life-destiny". For an outlet to feel useful and needed, it needed to be plugged in, baby. My folks had none of it though. I found an old junk TV on the side of the road once. Yes. A magic box. And it was mine. I carried it home and plugged it into the cable outlet, and bid the outlet it's official due."Godspeed, cable outlet" Moment of truth: static, static, static, and then one channel. That one channel was so. boring. It was so boring that I didn't care to spend much time with my new friends in the magic box. When I went to bed that night however, I flipped on the tv "because I could". And there was Letterman. David Letterman. He was humorous and sarcastic with an enthusiasm for music that is so often lost. I wondered if he was a secret musician. And besides, I had never seen an adult have so much fun before. No, I didn't spend too much time with the magic box, but I did spend every chance I could with my new friend Dave. Listening and laughing. So. Bye Dave. Thanks for a fun childhood and for never giving up on music. "We take all kinds of pills that give us all kinds of thrills but the thrill we've never known Is the thrill that'll getcha when you get your picture on the cover of the Rollin' Stone".

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If you are suffering, I encourage you to check out the following link:

http://twloha.com/find-help

If you are looking for more information: http://twloha.com

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