Liner notes for “It’s a Mean Season” (by Jim Dyar) Brian J. Kenny’s music brings me joy. That’s the primary thing. That’s probably why I return to his tunes again and again during a mean season, or any season, really. Here we have a self-described compulsive writer. By the time you’ve cracked your eggs in the morning, he’s already written a song. By the time the toast pops up, he’s finished an album. These aren’t hasty sketches. The layers, concepts and structures (or, more often than not -- non structures) reflect a deep level of channeling, a deft ability to let the muse flow. “It’s a Mean Season” is a fabulous album and Kenny’s creative iron is aglow in a sublime shade of red. In the title track, listen for how he “just blew his mind writing that part right there.” The free-form journey leading up to that point had already blown my mind. Kenny delights when his lyrical magic carpet ride takes him some place unexpected, but humility and humor are always aboard. Brian was bringing a punk sensibility to his roots music long before popular acts like the Avett Brothers and Devil Makes Three banged their strings on festival stages. On “I’ll Put You On Steady,” he remembers that a great man once told him: “Kenny, you ugly sucker, you can try to be country, but you’re always gonna be a rockabilly.” That was the late Darce Chriss evaluating his new, young, live wire of a bandmate. Criss was the genuine article, playing traditional country music into his late 70s at the Redding senior nutrition hall with a multi-member electric guitar band. Brian could have just as easily replied: “you’re a lot more punk than you realize my friend.” As you listen to “It’s a Mean Season,” you won’t know all the characters and references Kenny drops (I certainly don’t). But to namedrop on the anonymous is very Brian Kenny. If you’re listening to the rest of the stories, you’ll gather the appropriate imagery I think. Kenny’s sonic stream of words and thoughts have long dynamited my brain and left me satisfied and happy. He survived some hard living through his younger days not so long ago (like a George Jones song), some of which spills out throughout these tracks. Kenny would probably agree that it’s a miracle he’s still alive after flying to Northern California from South Korea and proceeding immediately and directly to an Indian Casino in Oroville to see Merle Haggard in concert. The first flash of pick and blue neon with corpses at the slot machines nearly killed him, but the Hag saved him. I think about that night and the everyday flashing chaos of modern American life as I listen to the track “Why Am Painting the Living Room” for the eighth time in a row. Through my friendship with Brian, I’ve learned a great deal about honesty, love, loyalty, bravery, creativity and living in the moment. In music, he continually teaches me lessons in perspective. Some of this information I’ve rejected at first, only to come back later and chuckle at the wisdom. In breaking down structure, Brian consistently finds a creative freedom that serves him very well. The next jump in his craft begins right here with this collection of nine self-recorded and produced songs. If you hear tones that are dirty and dissonant and perhaps not radio friendly, know that Kenny could have polished the edge for a couple grand over at Shoot For the Moon Recording Studio. However, you may get the idea. I hope you get the idea. If you don’t, may the Supreme Being of your choosing ease your mind. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Ain’t it a Mean Ole Season? (by Brian J. Kenny) Music can heal people; I have seen it: it is real. I touch on this in the title track, and it can be a bit mind-blowing, but both energy and matter can neither be created nor destroyed. Neither energy nor matter can be created or destroyed. While "It's a Mean Season" was surprising to me on every level, it came from somewhere. I am grateful to have received the energy and the inspiration to make this album, which is the culmination of every day in my life that has lead up to it. It has been a mean season, and I miss so many people that I have lost. They may no longer be with me in the flesh, but they are all here on this album. This is where it all comes back to the laws of conservation of both energy and matter, and this is why the supreme being of your choosing is so important. On that point, I have some simple advice: say thanks for ten things aloud before asking for anything else. My favorite prayer these days goes like this: “thank you.” I have no grand pretensions about this album: there is nothing sacrosanct or beyond reproach herein. I want you to know that you have at least one song inside of you. Let this album stand as testimony for what can happen if you give your inner editor a month off while you get jiggy with a few guitars, eight or nine chords, free recording software, and a little faith in what you have to say. Please trust me, courage is just fear holding on a moment longer. This album is about the now: live in it, it is a gift from God, that is why it is called “the present.” Back to the healing power of music, Darce Chriss taught me that music is a ministry. I was lucky enough to be an intermittent member of Darce's band for four years. Playing his weekly gigs at The Senior Nutrition Center in Redding, Ca., I began to grow up as a musician. This is where I began to play music without the aid of armor. Playing sober, in the natural light of day, to a cadre of elderly looking for a release from the aches, pains, worries, and humanity of daily life, I learned that playing music is a form of ministry. As Darce said, "we are all some of these people get for live entertainment: they depend on us." Old people would enter that hall, but the music turned them all 18 again. It was miraculous, but it wasn’t automatic. We had to commit to the music for the transformation to occur: our energy became the audience’s energy. I remember my first gig there, playing “Hey Good Lookin’” and seeing this old timer named Jimmy, who walked in with a slow limping shuffle, get up, adjust his hat, and strut over to one of the ladies: a dance ensued. A the music surged, Jimmy got younger, bolder, moving from old man to young man-about-town. It was therapeutic for me, and it was therapeutic for Jimmy, and probably for his dancing partner as well. Music can be a win/win ministry. "South Street Exit" is a great example of music as therapy/ministry. It is a true story of a very near miss on Highway 101 from the fall of 2007. It took me three years to get past the guilt that I felt over being "strangely disappointed that I didn't die," and I remain 99% over it. Listening to the song now is both therapeutic and satisfying: I am surprised and delighted by the result, and I feel somewhat healed from the experience. I am grateful for the matter and the energy that I have repurposed here: I hope you enjoy it as much I as enjoyed making it. May the Supreme Being of your choosing look favorably upon you. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "It's a Mean Season" is reflective of the times. Here I am in 2011, I have lost a bunch of friends and family members in the past year, and I have had to deal with a bunch of stuff that I'd rather not deal with. However, I remain grateful and alive. Grateful for a myriad of reasons, and alive because I found writing and recording this album to be a very invigorating process. I have often said that I work to make a living but I write to be alive: never has this held truer than during "the mean season." Special thanks to Hana, Sahrang, and Himchan: your support and critique was invaluable. The songs were written with gratitude to the following people: 1 - New Eyes - John Francis Doering, Robert Glenn Ketchum, Cliff Garrison 2 - Amelie - Hana Yoon 3 - I'll Put You On Steady - Darce Chriss, Steve Hearst 4 - Smoke 'em If You Got 'em - General George S. Patton, Marty Cepkauskas, James Lee 5 - Why Am I Painting The Living Room? - David McComb and David Chick 6 - Moonstone Skipping - Jim Dyar, Chef Che Stedman 7 - Getcha Home Coffee - Cliff Garrison 8 - Spring Street Exit - The Great Magnet, Mom and Dad 9 - It's A Mean Season - Jim Dyar, Roland Camacho, John Kaney, Shawn Grassman Special thanks also Steve Hearst, under whose management I have grown tremendously as a musician. In the words of Darce Chriss, "Be careful, I might put you on steady." Brian J. Kenny 12/28/2011 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Additional notes from Brian J. Kenny: I went into the basement to record this is in early February and I had six "songs" to record. The title track, "Moonstone Skipping", and "why am I Painting the Living Room" were the three of that group that happened. I finished it in the 26th of the month: just in time to finish it as part of the "2011 Record Production Month Challenge." The goal was to create an album of music that didn't exist before, a much more nuanced task than one might think. "New Eyes" is for Cliff Garrison, John Francis Doering and Robert Glenn Ketchum. One morning in February 2011 at the ranch, Cliff stated that he wanted to check his email but he never got past his password. A frank observation that inspired me to answer with my own series of frank admissions. This is a song of gratitude with the capo on the fourth fret. Ketchum once wisely told me that I had to decide to "Choose Joy." He has a pieve of art he created called "Choose Joy," he told me that the realization that he shared had changed his life. I didn't get "Choose Joy" at first, but it later made all the sense in the world. "Aemelie" is for my beautiful wife Hana and is about an Audrey Toutou movie of the same name. I knew I was in love with Hana when I started seeing her face in every passing bus in Dublin, Ireland in the summer of 1993. I still see her in the bus windows when we are apart for more than a few days. I am not sure if there is a better way of summing up obsessing over someone than to say "I hear your name with every beat of my heart." I am open to suggestions, I breaks my heart in a good way everytime sing it. "I'll put you on steady" is for Darce Chriss who helped me to heal people at the Senior Nutrition Center in Redding, Ca. I was lucky to be a Traveler in Darce's band intermittently for five years. At that time, I was focused on being a front man, and Darce taught me how to be both an accompanist and a band leader. By playing gigs with him at the Senior Nutrition Center at 9am, I learned how to play sober: as the song says "you don't have another choice." The Senior Nutrition Center in Redding, Ca is where I began to grow up as a musician: it is where I began to play music without the aid of armor. Playing sober, in the natural light of day, to a cadre of elderly looking for a release from the aches, pains, worries, and humanity of daily life, I came to the realization that playing music is a form of ministry. As Darce said, "we are all some of these people get for live entertainment: they depend on us." "Smoke 'em if you got 'em" is a battle song, owed almost entirely to General George S. Patton, and the parts not owed to him, to Rudyard Kipling, and Cliff Garrison. I was trying to impress Jeff Clinton with the guitar solo. Jeff is my brother-boat-mate on the river of music. This one just happened just as I was getting ready to cut off the first night's session, the vocals were the last thing recorded for the album. The harmonies are for my brothers Denis and Brendan. "Why am I Painting the Living Room" asks a bunch of questions, including a number concerning the shocking effectiveness of the simple sugar pill in clinical pharmaceutical studies. My dad, the Captain John S. Kenny, wryly observed that we should start marketing placebo: cheap, effective, confusingly simple. The Placebo parts are owed to Dear Old Dad. The painting of the living room to David Chick and David McComb and Ryan Patrick McGlaughlin who were there when that part was "written" almost 20 years ago. "Moonstone Skipping" is for Jim Dyar, about and for Chef Che Steadman, father of the "police flash-mob" movement, short-lived as it was, the swirled around me and my bands in early 2001 in Redding, Ca. Che created quite a buzz for me, and Jim thought I was vindictive about it. I wrote this song from a position of love and acceptance and it is also a tribute to many dear and deceased. I think it might be the prettiest song I have written. "Getcha Home Coffee" is for Cliff Garrison. It is an essay that ends in a prayer: "may your next cup of coffee get you home." Cliff turned me onto "Getcha Home Coffee" at McClintock's in Paso Robles. Cliff, you are a dear friend and a beloved colleague, may your next cup of coffee get you home. "South Street Exit" is a great example of music as therapy/ministry. It is a true story of a very near miss on Highway 101 from the Fall of 2007. It took me three years to get past the guilt that I felt over being "strangely disappointed that I didn't die,"  and I remain 99% over it. I had written an earlier "South Street Exit" but it was about 3 pages long. When the music for this song came together, I was toying with some lines about "my success with excess." All the while, I knew that this song needed to be "South Street Exit," so I used the length of the instrumental as the boundary for the lyrics and I wrote the song accordingly. "It's a Mean Season" still feels raw to me. Listening back, it sounds like Bob Wills and Darce Chriss are in the front of my mind, Nick Ciampi is right there with them. It is a kick-a** song with a sensitive side and it is dedicated to Jim Dyar, Shawn Grassman, Roland Camacho, and John Kaney. My manager, Steve Hearst observed that I might be able to do some cool things if I used a capo. I have grown tremendously as a musician under his your management, Steve, and I am eternally grateful. Thank you for allowing me to play with so many great musicians and in so many amazing places. At it's heart, this is an album of gratitude. I am thankful to have access to the energy and matter requisite to create an album like this. The people to whom I owe thanks for this album are to many to list.