The Making Of Our New Album, "Last Of The Free Men"

The making of an album is the birthright of every aspiring musician - and their grateful burden as well.

Now, lots of musicians will make an album right there in the studio. Others will write at a cafe' or maybe home late at night or in some hotel a thousand miles from home. Maybe it's right there on the stage. It's a strange thing, that creative muse; infinitely tricky and infinitely variable.

You just never know when that need to create strikes.

Unless you're us.

The story of the making of our album - Last Of The Free Men - crosses all of the above borders. It was created in a myriad of different ways, yet oddly enough presents itself as a "road" album.

There's a reason for that. And there's a reason our muse stormed into our lives as sudden as a wind squall on the Cobequid Pass.

This album truly began on the first day of our first national tour. We were five hours in, eating at a truckstop diner in Edmundston when we discovered that we had lost a founding member of our band. He had sadly written a resignation letter and had left it in the windshield to tell us. Within an hour of finding it, we had all read it dozens of times.

It was a serious blow to the band.

So, we drove home, slept on it, and the very next day decided to carry on in true New Brunswicker fashion. Where we're from, quitting isn't a very palatable option.

It was hard, but lineup changes do happen (it's water under the bridge now and I'm happy to say he's enjoying a solo career) although often at the very worst time. Murphy's Law has a unique and debilitating set of rules specifically drawn up for us musical folk. And losing a member - no matter what the circumstances - tends to happen, as per our friend Murphy - at precisely the wrong time.

So there we were, just us, a note from the windshield, and our new-found muse, standing by a white Kia Mini Van, a trailer, and the whole world staring us down.

The first track of our album began the next day as I sat in the back of the van, learning songs I thought I'd never have to learn, fighting to keep my anxieties at bay, and waiting to arrive to our first show as now a three piece instead of a four.

I had written the lyrics to "Letter On The Window" as a way to grab hold of how I felt and put it in its place, to accept what had happened and to move on. Great songs often happen this way, as it did with "After The Storm", when I had dealt with loss in a similiar fashion - as if the ground had been swept away from under my feet, as I'm sure it was with Brock and Turtle.

There's comfort in songwriting - a way to capture that emotion and allow the rest of your life to unfold.

We did that tour as a three-piece with my brothers right there by my side - like three soldiers who had decided, once and for all, that we would leave the trench and make a run for it. It was seven weeks of hard work, great adventure, and discovery. We had learned we could survive, maybe even thrive, even when the chips were down.

Brock and Turtle's experience working as a trio with me being the only melodic instrument meant they had to pull out all the stops, and they did. That immense challenge gelled them together in such a way that they had developed a singular sound. They had become a rhythm section in the truest sense of the word.

Also at this time we had invited (while on the road) a friend of ours to help out with shows on acoustic guitar when we got back. When we arrived home from our tour, Danny Roy - my ever-constant guitar compadre - was eager to step in, take on a challenge, and fill a void that brought us not only a greater sense of ease both on and off stage, but brought the band in general to a new, positive, and exciting level.

A few months later, Jason had returned to the band and we were able to enjoy two subsequent tours with him. Now, we were a five piece; Jason was back, sharing lead and harmony vocals with me, his trusty Gibson jumbo in tow. Danny and I were now able to come up with some serious guitar firepower. It was a heady and exciting time.

Before long, the bunch of us were creating new melodies to accompany the lyrics Jason and I had been writing - songs about being born ready, about taking me where my boots were walking, seeing the lights of town, and hopping in my old 83 to drive my cares away, amongst others.

In that space of time, creativity flowed. The Divorcees had truly begun to write and create as a band. The rhythm had personality, the guitars spoke for themselves, and our lyrics had a home.

So there we were, not ones to settle down any time soon, embarking yet again for more touring - this time with new songs for the five of us to road-test and more fans and friends to be made. Slowly, we chipped away at that creative stone and refined our songs to a knife's edge.

Before we knew it, we were at the ECMA's, crashing the party in grand style by accepting an award for our first album "You Ain't Getting My Country". We were on top of the world. Nothing could stop us now.

But Murphy and his laws were just around the corner.

Things changed yet again. Murph made sure of that. Fate had intervened and an old friend and founding member was gone one last time. It's never easy losing one from the fold (again, these things happen) but we were resigned to it. But by this time, Danny and I had really come together as twin lead guitarists. We didn't want to let that go.

Thus entered the one and only J Byrd.

Danny, Turtle, and Brock had suggested J Byrd, a musical die-hard thru and thru,for his acoustic guitar playing and stellar singing voice. But wait. How die-hard, do you ask?

J Byrd, after rehearsing with me for an afternoon - just on the cusp of entering the band - got in an accident which broke his leg and shoulder, amongst other injuries. But being who we were and all and he being even tougher than us, we waited it out. It was a long, hard road of recovery, but in the midst of it all, he vowed that soon enough, he'd be onstage with us. And in time, he was - adding many of the harmonies you now hear on the new album, as well as his one-of-a-kind Northern Nova Scotian acoustic picking.

It was worth the wait.

So there we were - a complete band with road-tested songs and more than our share of ups and downs. Who knew what was going to happen next.

Josh Finlayson happened.

Our pal and record rep for Hay Sale Records, Serge Samson (who we lovingly call Power Serge) and our equally talented manager-drummer Brock Gallant had been busy for months dotting i's and crossing t's, doing everything they could to give these highway-tempered songs the best fighting chance they could get. Serge lucked out - and so did we - when we found out that Josh Finlayson, a founding member of The Skydiggers (a legendary Canadian roots-rock band) would be taking the helm as producer.

Before we knew it, we had secured nine days at the Tragically Hip's Bathouse Studio - a renovated turn of the century inn filled with great old analog gear, antique amps, and more than a few lucky lager beers. It was truly a magical place. Despite feeling like kids in a candy store, what was most important to us was that we had been paired up with Josh, a man who understood what it meant to be tested by the miles and was happy to be working with a band that had its share of hard knocks.

He produced us by giving us room, by stepping in at exactly the right time and only the right time. He emphasized "space" in a lot in our conversations. And in case you haven't noticed, there's plenty of that on LOTFM. That's in direct respect to our outlaw heroes and certainly to Josh.

Along with that, Josh believed in a "live off the floor" sound and, thanks to our relentless touring, we were able to do that. That's why this record has a very live feel. Because, for the most part, it is. He gave us the chance to be ourselves and this record is the proof.

In his own easy, quiet, understated way, he urged us to try new things, too. Thanks to that, "After The Storm" and "When I Say" made it on this record - both featuring the mesmerizing vocals of Angela Desveaux. We're very proud of those songs, and thrilled we were given the chance to make them happen.

It was nine days of laughter and intense effort with Josh, as well as our engineer Aaron Holmberg. And it was night and day. Aaron would mix for 12 hours or more at a time,a veritable Oscar Peterson of the ProTools rig. It was a wonder to watch this man work.

We left the Bathouse Studios with our spirits high, new friends made, and a helluva record committed to tape. The next step was to get it mixed and we knew we needed just the right guy for that.

Again, lady luck smiled our general direction and lit a path for us all the way to Nashville - to an amazing facility called Blackbird Studios...home of some of the best ears I've sat next to - mixing wizard Terry Sawchuck.

Terry Sawchuck was a good friend of Josh and soon enough, he became a good friend of mine. We keep in touch. Me, Terry, Josh, and Serge lived in that mixing room for days on end yet somehow, the mood was always light and a real dirty joke was always around the corner. Best of all, Terry got who we were right away. That big outlaw sound you hear -the big guitars, booming vocals, and that punchy kick/bass driving those songs from front to back - is due in large part to Mr. Sawchuck and to the immense array of fantastic analog gear lovingly maintained by the owner of Blackbird Studios, John McBride.

On that note, Blackbird Studios is a huge complex of a place where many of your favorite artists have recorded - anyone from The Kings Of Leon to Keith Urban. And now, The Divorcees could say they stepped foot in the place. I'll admit it was a bit intimidating, but it was worth the nerves. It was, for me, a rare glimpse at the biggest of the big leagues. I was glad to even sneak a peek.

Just when you thought it was all sewn up, we had a chance to come home to the 506 area code and drop some more tracks on the record by world-reknowned fiddler and mandolin player Ray Legere. We also brought in our good, good friend Coco McGraw. All those great, tasty pedal steel licks are Coco, lovingly tracked by our bud Nathan Jones at Postman Studios right here in Moncton.

Then it was off to our mastering engineer Richard Dodd - a man who's done work for the likes of Tom Petty and Johnny Cash. You can't go wrong with that.

The final cherry on the top is what a lot of people have commented on - the new Divorcees logo and our album design. It was done by none other than Chr!s Sm!th, a man known on the east coast as a tireless promoter of maritime musicians, a brilliant photographer, and (as you can see in our photo) a crack graphics artist. We think that our album design is going to stand the test of time and truly matches the music contained within it.

So now, we're finally releasing Last Of The Free Men. It's finally -- after many thousands of miles, hundreds of busted strings,broken sticks, blown amps, a couple flats, a lake of beer, and more than a few shots of Jack - here.

It's been one helluva ride.

Enjoy the record and thanks for reading along. And in the words of our title track:

"I'm the last of the free men...maybe until then there'll be one more time that you see me again."




- Alex Madsen



p.s - Honorary mention to our friend Murph.

The Can Ho

The Can Ho (known by the tourists as The Canmore Hotel) is a little slice of the old west – alive and kicking plenty hard, carved by hand into the great northern expanse of Alberta.

It's over a hundred years old and, as many a crusty local would tell you, it's held together by blood, spit, vomit, and beer. And oh yeah – the enduring love of both its savory and less than savory patrons.

Canmore Alberta was a mining town once. Copper, I think. Way, way back, the Canmore Hotel was the center of town. It was around before even Alberta was. When you came to make your way in the copper mine, the first place you stopped to was the Ho.

Like any mine, they had to close sometime and this one did. Luckily, people in Canmore realized that it was surrounded by some of the most awe-inspiring mountains in the world. It was a hiker's dream, a skiers fantasy – and only 15 minutes from the renowned Banff National Park.

So, the little mining town became a tourist destination and, through it all, the good ole' Can Ho stayed put. Funny thing is, while their Pilsner has stayed cheap and their room rates cheaper, any old shack on the edge town has shot up in price to half a million and up.

And in the Can Ho's defiance to change lies it's eternal charm.

It's an amazing thing to see; a town full of often frowning, always aloof folks who in a week make more than a country picker like me does in a year – who rarely, if ever, set foot in the Canmore Hotel. They have mountains to climb (or say they've climbed), woven or carved trinkets to buy, rare wines to toast the endless horizon to. But they won't acknowledge where it all began.

And that's fine. Really.

The Can Ho, and everyone in it, like it that way.

About ten years ago, the Can Ho started bringing in bands – guys like us, Corb Lund, Tim Hus, and a who's who of Canadian bands, both country and otherwise. Ask any of them what they think of the Canmore Hotel and you'll likely get a “love to hate it” response. The rooms upstairs are, well, not exactly 5 star quality. You'll wonder what that smell is, you'll wait in line for the communal showers (which run hot or cold but never in between), and you'll try to not make eye contact with that slightly off fella that's just passing through.

You have to take it for what it is. There's no a choice in the matter. But not a single one of my musical peers mind in the very least. Many big name artists still play the Ho purely out of their love for the place.

Here's the thing. There's a humility to the Can Ho, an unassuming trait that makes you feel at ease the moment you walk through the door. It keeps you honest, grounded. Sure, every thing's fried. Sure, the regulars start to drinking at 10am. But they outright demand that you be yourself in their presence and if you are foolish enough to bring arrogance into the Ho with your designer ski pants, well, tough shit for you. You had it coming.

Musicians and the Ho get along for this very reason. Music makes the same demands of me as the locals do of their regulars. It's a common bond that's celebrated, over whiskey and beer, in a bar older than Alberta, beneath the heavenly peaks of The Three Sisters.

Long live the Ho.

- Alex Madsen

Nashville, Nashville...Nashville Tennuhsee

A Newbrunswicker's Week In Nashville


Music Row was both cabin and Fortress, Corporate Headquarters and converted living rooms.

Miles and miles of publishers, agents, management companies, and labels - large and small - stretched further than my eyes or imagination would allow.

The band I am lead singer of - The Divorcees - had just completed their second release titled "The Last Of The Free Men". Having finished production of the record with Josh Finlayson (Of The Skydiggers) at the Bathouse Studio in Bath, Ontario, we were lucky to secure the services of Terry Sawchuk, a mixer working at the legendary Blackbird Studios in Nashville - a sprawling complex owned by John McBride (husband of Martina McBride). I would come to discover that, from room to room, board to board, and booth to booth, it astonishingly spanned an entire city block right to the edges of the sidwalks.

To get to that massive studio required a swing thru Music Row - the great wall of music dynasty, where careers have been made, lost, swapped, and obliterated. Where dreams come true or are dashed upon the rocks of false hopes. Where competition is celebrated and where fools are not suffered kindly.

Serge (our record label guy) Samson accompanied me on this trip through the endless layers of business and sublety that is Nashville.

And we were happy to do it.

We spent a full week at Blackbird Studios mixing our sophmore release. Terry manned the board with the ease of a schooled jazz player, equally heartfelt, equally intuitive, and equally precise. Old aircraft switches and knobs adorned outboard gear that once belonged to Abbey Road studios. I often looked at the meters dancing on those units and wondered if they did the same for John and Paul, Mr. Martin, and his engineers.

Throughout the mixing process, a myriad of people came and went from Blackbird studios - managers, musicians, singers, songwriters, producers, and kids dreaming to be at the helm. These same young men and women would run food orders for Serge and I with the eagerness and cheer only a dedicated dreamer can have. And it was easy to understand why; in Nashville, everyone was equal. Everyone had a chance. Some had already succeeded; others were on their way. But it was obvious to me that everyone was enjoying the ride.

On Broadway, I was introduced, later one evening, to the culmination of a childhood dream - visiting Tootsie's Orchid Lounge. This gritty little bar was and is the museum that Nashville built for its own; a true testament to the foundation of the entire city.

The song.

Nashville is all about songs, and Tootsie's reflected that. The walls were replete not just with excellent entertainers, but songwriters as well. Webb Peirce, Willie Nelson, Faron Young, Kris Kristofferson - they were all there, on signed five dollar bills and worn out headshots.

While I gazed at layers and layers of yellowed and signed history, a band played for the tip jar. Requests were accompanied with American 20's and bottles of Bud. I wrote "Play some Waylon" on both sides of the bill I gave them. I got two songs, and a healthy dose of humility to go along with that.

As the band played for their supper, I realized that in Nashville you could start with nothing and end up somewhere, but only if you were ready to walk that far, accept some help along the way, and give some to others as well before you got there. Ambition must be held in equal sway with musical solidarity, drive must be tempered with selflessness, hard work nurtured by warm comraderie. I learned, very quickly, that the most successful citizens of Nashville were as equally talented in the business as they were at being good neighbors.

Only the most mindful and ambitious can succeed here; those who suffer from narcissism or delusions of grandeur can sadly spend their lives knocking on doors and getting no answer.

I was unceremoniously shown that you had to fight for every greenback, entertain for every beer - from a stage the size of a postage stamp to sold out stadiums, from a mic booth in a closet to a building bigger than my home town's city hall...yet you had to do so from a place of gratitude, of humility, of respect and dignity for your musical friends and fans.

And no matter matter what, you had to have a great song by your side every step of the way.



Fin.

thoughts organized and otherwise

Weather And Skull-Splitting

Well, I'm not one to get migraines but holy smokes - there's bound to be something happening to your body when the temperature outside goes from a dry -20 degrees celcius to a very damp +10.

Sheesh.

Having your skull expand and contract like that can have a detrimental effect on, say, sleeping. Or eating. Or even writing out this blog.

So I'd like to say a big thank-you to the American Dream for providing me the wondrous environmental factors needed for my brain to attempt to explode out of my eye sockets. Your Excursions, Explorers, and 3500's to the grocery store three blocks away have been a huge help.

Arseholes.