Rykarda Parasol on musical discovery, lost highways, the weight of memory,
and Jeff Zentner's "The Dying Days of Summer".

"I see the ghosts of the days I spent loving no one else but you"

Highway forty is one of the longest interstates in the US. From North Carolina it drifts and winds through Arkansas, Tennessee, Texas, and the southwest all the way to California. Like a long highway, music can carry us to each other and lead us to venture on our own. Indeed, there are great distances between us and it' s rare that we' re together in one place in both mind and body. If you are a drifter, you will find that good road music is as essential as a pair of worn blue jeans. True, you could theoretically disco and metal your way through this life, but at some point your soul requires time to quietly reflect upon the miles traveled. Not to mention it may need a good look-see for what lay ahead. Even for those who don' t move about, road music still can transport you to far-away places. Jeff Zentner does exactly this in his song " Highway 40" . He is remarkably talented at inviting thoughts to drift for a while.

My experience in knowing Jeff and his music is personal. A year ago I was throwing things into a suitcase on my way to catch a train to Paris when I received an email saying " hello" . Jeff caught me on a very blue morning. I' d been up all night on the phone with California sorting out personal issues and was truly numb from shock of the disorder back home. My excitement for Paris was suspended and I was without family or friends nearby. To hear from a fellow musician was a deep comfort, I have to tell you. Moreover, to hear his songs created a sense of warmth and purpose, at least toward music, which I needed to pull me through. And it did. I hadn' t been acquainted with his music before, and if there is anything I can collectively sum up about it, it would be this: If you do take the time to listen to him, then it will inevitably be linked to somespecial moment with an image captured in your mind like a photograph. A souvenir of where youhave been. I know this to be true.

" There are no angels whose company I prefer /
These lessons we learn under gas station lights"

Many years ago Highway 10 was a road I got mixed up with. I found my musical voice on and near its course. I can recall the moments when the most distance was covered. Every day I was learning and growing musically. Not playing so much, mind you. Just listening. The times I spent in Texas fed that part of my soul and I was lucky enough to have found a musical mentor that helped me build upon my sonic tastes, which delved deeply into traditional American genres: Soul, country, southern, folk, Motown and blues... I can' t say that I trust anyone who hasn' t got a Johnny Cash album in their record collection. You know? Even for me: a city dwelling fashion girl with glamorous friends and crazy parties… well, even Edie Sedgwick would' ve known that a disco ain' t a home.

My best friend and I would lie on his futon mattress in a small room in a duplex just south of the river, when that town still felt small and manageable. We' d lie together listening to Smokey, Hank, and Leonard. Two young rockers clad in black and in love with music and its curative power to make flimsy lives feel unreserved and connected. Amidst the humidity, a room fan would chug back and forth while we daydreamed. We' d let the songs consume thoughts and inspire creations. So much was never said, but in those days music said everything. Music was god and witness. That particular memory is one of my most precious. I know I can' t ever return there, but I suppose that I morbidly long for that sensation now and again. Like any good drug, it leaves you yearning for the first time that you embraced it. Maybe we got in the way of the music. Maybe music drove us to the things that tore us apart. Maybe you knew the music you shared with me would fill me up for the rest of my life and would carry me long after you' d gone. You may' ve not realized the impact your musical wisdoms had on me, but I know them to be endlessly giving. That wisdom fortifies my core and I cannot lose hold. There were lots of mistakes between us, but music was not one of them. I imagine, if you listen close, you can hear the chug of that fan in many a songwriter' s song. Sometimes I worry it grows faint, but I know it continues to blow me forward and sometimes pushes me back. I' m relieved that within Jeff' s music I hear the soul of song, of far away times and places we' ve surely all shared. Within it, I can still safely revisit such things, which is rare.

" This place I' m from its grown inside of me / its vines cover my heart / Its soul is on my tongue/ I carry it with me wherever I go."

I' m no longer able to love you the same nor do I long for love. Maybe love just ain' t for me. Time has passed and I' ve traveled on. But I share the above memory because the scene is so remarkably visible just now. I feel sad and joyful to have it again. I couldn' t help but think of this in contemplating the " Dying Days of Summer" . It rushed up on me. Just as a fragrance can make you recall childhood reminiscence, there are songs that will ignite a remembrance so distinctly that you feel cradled along on some highway you once knew -- amidst all the tenderness and bitter beauty.

" The day has passed and gone / lay your head to sleep / the birds have gone to roost / I' ll be here when you wake / there aren' t words for how I love you / lay your head down to sleep / and in dreaming maybe I can tell you / and I' ll be here when you wake"

Jeff Zentner' s " The Dying Days of Summer" is a delicate and introspective sortie into intimacy, personal reflection, emotional and physical distance, and gentle goodbyes. As with some of the best storytelling, the balance between sparse instrumentation and narrative gives way for one' s mind to imagine the scenes, characters, and situations. The lack of percussion lends to a larger lyrical expression. If you' ve lived a life, then you will no doubt call up old flames, fires, and burned out roads. Jeff' s style is a familiar old friend and a calming presence despite all the heavy heart and break. Embedded in southern folk, Jeff' s sound is thoughtful and carefully drawn. No matter what' s scattered or torn, his gentle singing style seems to counter the dark thoughts with an appreciation for the experience. Trails, not trials. Tender music for souls who travel, but whose hearts are still where they felt loved the most.

Jeff likes to carry a lyrical line slowly. Thoughts take two, sometimes three or four lines to complete. If you've got a sense for the sticky heat of the south and know things move slower there, then you have time to sweat it out with him. Since I' ve had it on repeat, I will tell y' all quite honestly that the standout track for me is " Burning Season" . It' s wonderfully layered with male and female vocals, a haunting slide and a mandolin that swings things along. I' m no musical technician and I can' t explain all the mechanics as to why such things work together. Within this genre of southern folk songwriting, it' s easy for musicians to deliver clichés, but not with Jeff Zentner. It' s simply too authentic to get goopy on you and yet, it is sentimental. " The Dying Days of Summer" is of course, a melancholy and dreamy set of songs beset with warmth. I reckon " Your Siren Song" to be about a person, but it could just as well be about a place, inner struggle, or music. And the gentle lull of " I' ll be here when you wake" is undeniably sincere. All these tunes are a soft dialogue between just a few of us sitting sleepily in the dark, underneath an old oak perhaps.

I' ve never been to North Carolina, but I' ve held its brown leaves of autumn in my hands. They were waiting for me upon return from France, and arrived in the mail along with a couple of CDs. When I wasn' t a musician I may' ve loved music more. I want to love music like the way I once did. I' m temporarily a burnt out field, yet the charred foliage still resonates truths I know that have yet to be revealed.

" Maybe something new will arise from the ashes / maybe something that looks a lot like love / my angel desolation / I will love you again"

This past spring, I made another sojourn. This time, I was back south of the river near that old house where my best friend and I would lie listening to music. So many years had passed and I hadn' t realized the last time would be the last time for so long. I climbed down to the bank of the Colorado and I scattered some ashes along with a trinket or two. A burning season has been a long time coming… and old things pass away to make way for new. The ashes first hovered, then speckled in the water in every direction. The trinkets slowly floated down. I sat for a while and pondered the purity of music and other things too. If these were the olden days, the "Dying Days of Summer" would' ve lightly sung from the duplex' s old stereo. Between my best friend and I, the cat would nestle, as both our heads would rest upon a single pillow. All the day' s sultry heat would drift out in dreams and I would be right there when you woke. That summer day has long dissipated and flames no longer rise. As I prepare to go overseas again, I am set on taking my American road music with me. Some Jeff Zentner for certain. Maybe even some of my own. Music is still profoundly inside of me and it links me to the places I am from and places where I will land. But from the days in between, where ashes now dot rivers, it' s the only thing I have
left… and I go on singing. " It' s not your fault I know / I am the only to blame / I am the one who gave / you free reign on my heart / you just keep drawing me in… keep singing your siren song"

www.myspace.com/jeffzentner

Rykarda Parasol

Rykarda Parasol uses the term "Rock Noir" to best describe her brand of dark and mysterious music. In it, there is a cinematic component that calls up images akin to Lynch or Hitchcock giving way to an icy blonde plot. Indeed, the notion of the smart fearless femme fatale is an image that Parasol finds intriguing and one that her low sultry sing/talk seems to embody. Though often compared to the likes of Nick Cave and The Velvet Underground, Parasol's music uniquely personifies both swamp and sophistication. A uniquely guttural gender-bending voice, her strength is in delivering Faulkner-like tales with conviction and suspense. Her music draws on American rock, soul and southern influences as well as the Northern European genres. Parasol has self-produced and self-released two well acclaimed albums ("For Blood and Wine" 2009 and "Our Hearts First Meet" 006). A strong presence on the San Francisco music scene, Parasol continues to write songs based on her true-life occurrences and performs near and far.

Rykarda Parasol and Jeff Zentner are currently working on a song together that will travel across many a
state line. Stay tuned…

www.RykardaParasol.com