A distance between friends generally results in one of two things. Either the distance is diluted by the unspoken understanding that solidity remains despite geography and time, or things drift virtually unnoticed at first until, several years later a reunion results in that awkward recollection of things that no longer unite.
Fortunately for us David Mikkelson and Ivan Silva, the tune concocting duo behind Honey Bones fall into the latter category. Having started on the trail of music creation through high school, David somewhat inconveniently relocated to Spain while Ivan stayed in Idaho. Collaboration continued, until post graduation, David returned to Idaho, only to watch Ivan pack up and head to California.
Were they trying to tell each other something?
Clearly not, the longitudinal gap had closed, but perhaps more importantly the creative seeds cultivated whilst miles apart were starting to come to fruition. Honey Bones was born, a strangely emotive mixture of life celebration and introspection. From the faded glamour of the dust-covered piano loop that hastens sobriety in ‘Breathfeelbloodbones’ to the bass drum rolls and vocal elasticity of disco drunk ‘Shutter’, and cosseted in between the ‘growing pains’ of highway indie pop ‘Dragg’, a burst bubble of gum on the face of pessimism.
So there we have it – apparently it doesn’t really matter how it works, so long as it works. Honey Bones – all the better for the distance. Which seems ironic given the title of their submission:
Fear and Loathing in the Middle of Nowhere
Years ago, perhaps seventy-two hours of visiting and having been within the borders of the Gem state we had been pulled over by a lone peace office, with blood redder than the dusk that lay on the horizon.
We were on an anonymous road with an anonymous friend, on our way to an undisclosed location, deep in the wilderness, and we had just taken a very powerful not-to-be-identified hallucinogenic substance.
We figured we had about thirty minutes to arrive at our friends cabin in the woods and that we would have ingested the magical elixir just in time to begin enjoying its effects upon arrival. With coffee mugs in hand, filled with Merlot, we were listening to something uppity and nostalgic while smoking cigarettes and eloquently discussing “whatever “ when one of us gently released the cherry tipped cotton cylinder to the wind.
Cue Newton’s Third Law
We have just been pulled over by the cops. It was like a shitty extended commercial that we didn’t want to watch, much less be the featured villains, with some obscure but comical moral adage because the look on our faces was probably something like being caught masturbating by our grandparents… except they were ghosts – a look of pure, unadulterated fear.
Limp and defeated, our nameless friend, who was driving, pulls over, turns off the radio and in a resigned fashion, turns the car off. With a grand bravado, as the cop is exiting the car, we can hear him yelling in rage. We measure his distance to the car with how much louder he sounds as he gets closer and with each incremental increase in volume a little shot of adrenaline is released.
If your curious, he was barking things like “You have to be kidding me..” and “..do you know you could start a fire”. We all give each other a quick pep talk of “it’s cool” and “relax” and again, just in case we forgot, “just be cool” but it was mostly silence.
So he finally arrives, asks for everyone’s ID in the car, makes a comment about one of us being from California and goes back to his car. I remember looking up at a lonely street light, already imagining how terrible a trip this was going to be. I was imagining what a jail cell would be like and how terrible I would feel for the next 8 to 10 hours (I hoped that was all).
I was wondering if I would be alone in a jail cell or if I would at least be with my mates when I noticed that the street light was beginning to emit lasers. I was witnessing a little sun and I could see the path of each particle of light travel when I am again reminded of our predicament. The officer had demanded the Captain of our 1990’s model land vessel that he exit the vehicle and tell him what in the world he was thinking. So as he walked the gravel plank to face the shark, we asked how the other was and confessed that we were both beginning to feel the effects.
It should be noted that our martyred friend was exactly that: a sacrificial lamb, a scape goat, a bald imitation (but without the malintent) that had fallen prey to the predator of the law because he did not in fact toss the cigarette out of the window. I don’t excuse myself but within my panic-induced, cosmic state I could utter little more than a “Yes, sir…” and “it’ll never happen again sir”.
Interestingly, instead of accepting his fate, our friend outside pleads his innocence between being berated by the officer and our prayers for him to simply extend his palm and allow the cop to cite him with a pink slip.
In the end, it was only the beginning. The beginning of a beautiful night, filled with campfire and guitars and more wine and finally the dawn. Our friend got cited, we received our ID’s with trepidation and made our way around the bend to arrive at our destination just a few miles down the road. A night that began with our first step outside the car, with the weight of gravity revealing itself on our shoulders.
This doesn’t tell you much about us nor does this story reflect the subject matter of what the majority our memories and experiences consist of. It’s simply a story. A personal one, and partly the basis for the song ‘Dragg’. We hope you’ve enjoyed a glimpse into this small memory.
The Original Version and Dance Killer Edit of Dragg can be accessed here. Check them out.
Keep up to speed with Honey Bones here.