Brad Jones, who I’ve worked with for years, suggested I come by Alex The Great and cut a couple of songs in a day—no pressure, just see what happens. We recorded “Parnell St” and “Short Order Cook,” both of them very observational, almost like little film scenes. I didn’t think much of it at the time.
A few months later, at a New Year’s Eve party, I ran into Brad again. He told me he’d gone back and listened and thought they were great—that I should come in and do more. Hearing that gave me a nudge. I tend to feel pretty ho-hum about my own material, but it made me think maybe there was something there worth following.
So we did. Three more sessions, two days at a time: tracking and overdubs on the first day, mixing on the second. We work fast like that. At some point along the way, Brad really started to lean into the songs. He’d stay an extra day here and there, adding small flourishes that quietly completed the production—nothing overdone, just a very tasteful touch.
I’ve eked out a living touring solo for more than half my career—listening rooms, airports, train stations, late-night restaurants—has a way of slowing your eye down. I found myself writing more like an observer, turning passing strangers into small, cinematic portraits—postcards from the road, sent a little late.
At some point during the second or third session, Brad asked what to title the folder on his desktop. I said Museums and Women—the name of a John Updike book from the 70’s I’d picked up in a used shop. We both laughed. Then he said, “That’s a great title.” And that was it.
These songs aren’t confessions so much as scenes: desire, memory, and mystery held at arm’s length. They’re conversational and observational, but still romantic—people falling into love, out of it, or simply longing for it.
