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J. P. Whipple | Moab

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United States - Utah

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Pop: Folky Pop Folk: Folk Blues Moods: Mood: Intellectual
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by J. P. Whipple

J.P.Whipple's "Moab", the indie folk pop sister album to "Thinking of You... Staring at the Powelines".
Genre: Pop: Folky Pop
Release Date: 

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  Song Share Time Download
1. Save
5:17 $0.99
2. All Good Things Lost
4:46 $0.99
3. Day After the World Ended
3:08 $0.99
4. Half-Life
3:36 $0.99
5. Back to My Old Self
2:25 $0.99
6. The Chase
5:27 $0.99
7. Laughing With a Cigarette
2:33 $0.99
8. Funeral for a Family Dinner
4:47 $0.99
9. Expectations
6:00 $0.99
10. What Would You?
6:56 $0.99
11. Enough
2:42 $0.99
Downloads are available as MP3-320 files.


Album Notes
Moab Utah.

Perhaps this is a bookend. This was where dream was launched… twenty years ago. 1993. Joel, Jorge, and I came here. We fasted for four days. Nothing but water and marijuana. We wanted to clean our bodies of Illinois. We were going to start a band. It was the 90’s. There was still hope. Maybe more than there ever was. Nirvana was on top of the charts. Independent labels were flourishing. This was before mp3s, Napster and Spotify. I was little more than a barely functional rhythm guitarist. I had a Gibson L6 I bought off a friend but no amp.
We had no money other than what it would take to get to where we were going… the whereabouts of which we didn’t know yet. I was a bit of a small time fugitive. I was arrested for marijuana possession. I refused to pay the fine. The law was unreasonable, I told the judge. The government has no business deciding what I can put in my body. They could come find me if they wanted. They didn’t.
I have a bit of a problem with authority. The problem is that I am usually smarter than most authority figures so I have a hard time listening to the stupid shit they tell me. Yeah. That would get me in trouble time and time again over the years. “Bet you don’t think you’re so smart now” said Officer Dumbass. I shrugged. Handcuffs turn me on and I was looking forward to going to jail. I like visiting new places and he was still a dumbass.
Moab would become a Spiritual Center for me. One of many. This desert. Beautiful and unforgiving. Just like our lives. We hiked that trail behind Marcia’s house. Down to the creek and up an Indian ladder to the mesa. I took off my clothes on top of that rock… soaked in that desert sun and dried out my Midwestern bones… gave the tourists in that plane something to talk about. A naked madman in full glory. Photos to show the grandkids.
Some years later I would return. This time with a lover. I led her down that same trail. Both of us barefoot. Our time together was nearly over. My Summer Love. Our Twenties. It was Fourth of July every day. This can never happen again.
Jorge would leave first. We had it out. He fought with his brawn. I fought with my mind. On that horrible apartment carpet. Haunted by visions of a Psychedelic Utopia, he went up to Flagstaff. Things didn’t quite work out. I heard he left a turd in his boss’ desk. “You shit on me! I shit on you!” He put everything he cared about into his backpack and walked down to Sedona. He is still there.
Joel went to Salt Lake City. He would live a comic existence of his own design for many years. He eventually married. He has a home in Bountiful with children from his wife’s previous marriage. We still make music sometimes.
I could have done that. Settled somewhere. I could have had children. Lord knows I enjoyed trying to make them and failing on purpose. Sometimes I was not so successful at failing. I was slicing turkey at the deli while she was at the clinic. These things leave a mark.
I never did settle down even though it is at least half my nature. There is an old farmer in my blood but even he longed to ride the rails. I hungered for a home but I had Songs. Songs that haunt me. I would be driven mad by Songs. I would break down crying when I wrote them.
With my head in the sky I would be thrown about by the winds. I would be thrown against the unyielding rocks. I would come crashing down on the concrete. A hundred nights with Suicide but never the nerve… or the will… I love life… just not my own. I would be reduced to a backpack and guitar. No home. No money. No shoes but I would always have songs.

Those f**king songs.

I would take them everywhere. To the three people in Liege Belgium. To two people in Bayport Minnesota. Those fucking songs. No one wants them. No one needs them. Still I sing them…. Until I am hoarse… until my right arm goes numb. Always thinking that someday they will be so good and I will be so good at playing them that people will listen. I leave albums in my wake. They are my epitaph. Those f**king songs will be here until the Earth gets swallowed by the sun but I am not sure if anyone will actually hear them.

Moab, May 2014. No Jorge or Joel. No lover. It is just myself, the drummer I have been working with for years and his girlfriend. We hiked that trail behind Marcia’s house. I was barefoot. We cut the hike short to make room for a radio visit and an early gig that night. We played those f**king songs to a half dozen disinterested tourists. The needle skips.

“And when we slip.
Ain’t it funny how we skip…
to ‘We can’t go on like this…’
Then we start it over.”

~Broken Record (one of those f**king songs)



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