When I moved to Los Angeles, this song by Deluka resonated with what then became my definition of home:

“In the bright white, of the headlights
Bouncing off the edge of the sky
Your energy, dancing around me
Keeps me warm it keeps me alive…”

It started with one person, someone I’d really only known a short time, offering me sanctuary during a time of transition. I had quit not just my job, but an entire career with a clear upward trajectory, to chase a mad dream of working in the music industry. Days were a hustle as a writer, an office assistant, a social media consultant, earning half my old salary combined. Nights became an anxious roulette of other people’s couches. I was just starting to question my life choices when an artist I’d met a few months previous landed an apartment next to my office job, and offered a roof over my head during the week.

“You feel like a place to sleep when it’s late
Somewhere I can close my eyes.
When the world went cold you were brighter than gold
We built this city overnight…”

His cat kept me eyeballs-deep in allergy medication, but he filled my days with music. I couldn’t believe my luck. He showed me the hiking trails at Runyon Canyon and introduced me to a local 24-hour diner, aptly called Kitchen24. We spent afternoons in his tiny garden listening to records. I painted my nails while he dug his hands into the dirt to plant tomatoes. That garden became my sanctuary whenever I needed an escape. After a few months, I got my own place in the same building. Even when we spent less time together, we were never physically far apart. In my mind, he will be forever associated with my time in the City of Angels.

The concept of a person instead of a place being “home” to me is not a new one. During those couch-crashing days, my girlfriend at the time was my anchor. She lived an hour away, but was the one I went home to on the weekends, the one who kept me sane when I wasn’t sure about anything. My family is the same. I know they will be there for me, even though I devastated my mother when I eloped to Colorado in the previous relationship. I still haven’t forgiven myself for it, especially when that ill-fated marriage nearly destroyed me.

“So let me go home…”

Deluka was one of the first bands I saw and really got to know during my Hollywood phase. They had recently made the move to the west coast from NYC and played a show for the music magazine I had started writing for. I immediately fell in love with their electro-rock vibe and Ellie Innocenti’s ethereal voice. Some of their songs became the soundtrack to those early days, trying to find my feet in a city constantly rushing towards the “next big thing.” Some of my fondest memories include falling in and out of love while listening to “Dead of Night” and dancing along the Walk of Fame to “Never Alone.”

The band is currently on hiatus, so I asked Ellie what “home” meant to her these days.

“‘Home’ was written more about the idea of home rather than the literal sense. Being in a band for all those years was very nomadic by its very nature, so I became accustomed to clinging to the smallest versions of home I could. Taking comfort in the familiarity of those around me, taking my own pillow wherever I went! Home was more of a feeling than a place, I think it still is.”

Co-founder and guitarist Kris Kovacs started with a different take, but ultimately came to a similar conclusion.

“Well, the song was written about how we would have to make places very quickly a ‘home’: any random number of NY apartments, our tour van to a certain extent, hotels for one night, and finally LA. Still, from all these things, I’ve concluded over the years that home can be anywhere you decide to make it. It’s more (about) where you feel happier and with whom you feel happiest. It’s not where you were born, or even where you grew up. But where feels right for you.”

“I’ll meet you at the bridge.
We’ll talk into the night
Take the first train home
And in the morning light
We fall asleep, in each others arms
And when we wake up…”

The song continues to resonate, perhaps now more than ever. Over the years, I’ve attributed different lines to different people – both friends and those more than. However, during the course of writing this, what it actually boiled down to became clear.

For me, simply, home is love.

Love is a rock solid foundation and a work in progress at the same time. Love isn’t stagnant. It lives and breathes and grows. Love isn’t anchored to any one place. You can take it wherever you go.

I never dreamed I would be where I am right now. No longer in California, no longer working for someone else’s gain, no longer trying to make more than I need, or chasing ambitions of touring with musicians. Instead, I’m sitting in the middle of the Midwest, in the middle of a writing program, doing something I’ve always done and can’t seem to help doing. I started two new jobs, both entry level, doing things I’ve always done and often seem to end up asked to do.

The difference is that now, I’m surrounded by love. Chased a bit by ever-present anxiety and fear of the unknown, sure, but ultimately anchored in the knowledge that I’m walking through this life with someone who will catch me whether I fly or fall. Someone who will let me do the same for them. Someone who encourages me to do the same for myself.

I don’t know how long I’ll be in this town. I don’t know if I’ll ever find a place to “put down roots” or if I’ll continue to keep moving. What I do know is that wherever I end up …

“We will be home.”

The post When Music is the Muse: At Home with Deluka appeared first on KRUI Radio.

It happened to me January 2017. I was living in Los Angeles, at my first live show of the year. I’d just discovered a band called King Washington and learned one of its frontmen, George Krikes, was playing an acoustic set at a new-ish joint on the Sunset Strip, a wood-paneled, cozy cavern aptly called “The Attic”.

The song was untitled back then, at least as far as I knew. I was pretty emotional that night, trying to get over a two-week fling. By the time I showed up at the venue, George was already onstage, teasing out the intro to a song. I closed my eyes and let the clean guitar lines soothe my bruised ego. Somewhere in the first verse, the lyrics hit me:

“So go find answers, go find proof
Let the wings of your spirit guide you

Go find new love, take it in
And let your heart break again and again.”

I nearly fell off the stool. How could he have known exactly what I needed to hear at that moment?

Half a year later, I returned to the same venue with a new date. George was playing again and I was doing my best to move on. By then, I had gotten to know George so I felt confident enough to approach him and request the song.

This time, what landed was in verse two:

“Now I finally realize
That you, you gotta be set free
And I’m gonna be all right
And you, you’re gonna find yourself
Just wait and see…”

Though I’d forgotten the lyrics, my subconscious mind remembered. Or at least suspected. Hearing the song again was healing. It was the reminder, the push I needed to strengthen my resolve.

On September 16th, George released his first EP, LM.

“It stands for ‘love you, miss you.'” he revealed when I asked. “That is what me and one of my exes used to say to each other because I was always out on the road.”

The five tracks were inspired by that same relationship, including the now titled, “I Don’t Need You, You Don’t Need Me.”

“That song was just completely me as far as everything that was recorded on it. I tried to make it more general, about things I want to remind myself. It still has little touches of the sadness of losing someone but there’s also the need to move on and find peace in the closure, not hate.”

The rest of the album follows suit. From the melancholy musing in “A Long Time Ago” to the more upbeat “It’s Not Over,” through the hypnotic “Come Be With Me Awhile,” and the crisp, clean guitar in “The Right Combination,” George explores what he calls “different points of the ‘getting over it’ journey.” His lyrics are honest, sometimes brutally so. Relationships tend to be messy affairs, no matter how black and white we might want to make them out to be.

“I can be a real monster, I can be pretty sweet
I could stop you from falling after I pull the rug from your feet…”
(from “The Right Combination”)

But this California-based musician is a master storyteller, even without words. He can tease out longing in a chord progression, draw out loneliness from a lingering slide. I can picture scenes while listening to the music: sitting at a fireplace on a cold evening, staring out the window of a train (or van) going down a long country road, spending a dreary Saturday with a bucket of raindrops for companionship.

For the recordings, he got a little help from some friends. “The guitar and the vocals were the first things that I did, and I did those just at home. Then I worked with Ross Garren to re-conceptualize certain things and think of what other instruments could go here and there. It helped to have him keep the emotion grounded. And we had some other great performers including David who played drums in King Washington.”

“I Don’t Need You, You Don’t Need Me” has certainly grown up since I heard it last, with a new call and response bridge. I fell even more in love with it, and said as much.

“I think you heard the first time I ever played ‘I Don’t Need You’ and it stuck in your craw. So that was a good sign.”

Indeed, the song continues to ring true for me to this day Its meaning has changed. I can listen to it now without clinging to it. During our conversation, I confessed to George that his music not only helped me get over one instance of heartache, it had also served as a compass to find my way through anything I had to let go of, from past loves to past versions of myself which no longer serve me.

“’Cause you don’t need me

And I don’t need you anymore

I don’t need you
And you don’t need me anymore…”

It’s funny how such a seemingly simple concept could mean so much.

“These songs aren’t trying to be experimental classical compositions or crazy King Washington arrangements. I wanted these to be a bit more from the heart and intimate.”

They are. And I highly encourage you to find your own guide in them. Because sometimes what speaks to us the strongest is not in the loudest voice. It’s in the quiet moments, when we can truly listen and hear ourselves. Bonus when accompanied by some killer slide guitar.
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The post When Music is the Muse: On George Krikes appeared first on KRUI Radio.