The Plant, whom I jokingly nicknamed Plutus after the Greek god of wealth and agricultural abundance, was a money tree, surrounded by several rubber tree plants, all housed in a rustic alter fabricated from reclaimed wood and salvaged items from around the shop. Electrodes were attached to the leaves and wired to an interface which was fed into an analog synthesizer.

Now, I have been interested in plant sentience for quite some time. I recorded my album Freedays in the house once inhabited by Christopher Bird, the co-author of The Secret Life of Plants . Though some of the science in that book and it subsequent documentary film of the same name (Free on Youtube with a killer stevie Wonder soundtrack) has been criticized as pseudoscience, it helped spark a conversation that continues today.

Modern research supports some fascinating ideas. Plants communicate and form complex relationships with fungi and other organisms. They transmit electrical signals throughout their tissue. Plants can sense light, touch, sound vibrations, and a remarkable range of environmental cues. Whether that amounts to consciousness is still up for debate. Anyone who has dabbled in psychedelics and taken a walk in the woods could tell you there is a connective energetic tissue that connects any and all things biological, mechanical, and supernatural. If you have consulted my esteemed colleague D.M. Tripp, PhD, you have likely seen it for yourself.

In the Sound Sanctuary, subtle fluctuations in the plants’ electrical activity, potentially caused by water movement in leaves during photosynthesis, were translated into MIDI (Music Instrument Digital Interface), essentially turning the plants into composers that dictate the underlying notes and tempo in real time.

When Karl powered up the system, Plutus let out a series of low frequency grumbles and it quickly became apparent that this would be an interesting experiment.

K and I have been improvising and playing music together for over twenty years, though we don’t often sit down and set out to intentionally create free music. What transpired after they hit the record button was an incredibly beautiful and profound experience. We both dove in head first, and soon I was lost in the music. K quietly shifted between violin and synthesizer, and eventually picked up his guitar and began to sing:

“Who are you? Who am I to you? I am the Plantichrist to you.”

We both chuckled.

I love that part of the recording.

Listening back now, it’s difficult to tell who is playing what at times. There is a constant warble coming from somewhere. Plutus? Hard to tell. It seemed to blend effortlessly into our improvisation, guiding us in and out of new sonic territories, and unexpected textures.
Twenty two minutes and twenty two seconds later, it simply ended.

We packed up our gear, got back on the tour bus and headed off to soundcheck at whatever place in Indianapolis we were playing that night. Honestly, I had the luxury of not thinking about it until K sent me the final mix a year and a half later.

I barely remembered recording it.
Hearing it again, I was struck by the slow evolution of the piece: the initial grumble of Plutus, the gentle acclimation of human music to plant music and the eventual melding of the two. It quite literally felt ‘organic’ in the biological sense as well as musical sense, like a living, breathing Organic Organ. It was beautiful.

So to answer the initial question, Can Plants Create Music?

Yes.

The more interesting question is:

Do they enjoy it?

Kishi Bashi & Tall Tall Trees & The Joyful Noise Sound Sanctuary is available now on all streaming services, as well as in physical form on single 10” vinyl, or in a box set with our other friends and collaborators Deerhoof, JD Pinkus, and Yoni Wolf.

Visit Joyful Noise Recordings to learn more and support independant music!

“Last March I was invited by the mother of a friend to be the caretaker of her somewhat run down hippie health retreat referred to lovingly as “The Bird’s Nest” which sat atop an isolated 15 acre plot in the north Georgia mountains. Upon my arrival, my only instructions were to care for the two dogs, mail these mysterious packages containing something called a field broadcaster every so often and, if a shaman stopped by, I was to make up a bed and take care of them to the best of my ability. The house had somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty beds. I later learned that The Bird’s Nest’s namesake was author Christopher Bird, most notably known for writing “The Secret Life of Plants”, a book detailing experiments about plant sentience, which was later made into a movie with an incredible avant-garde soundtrack by Stevie Wonder. He built the house, the entirety of it painted primary blue with yellow and red trim, one section at a time along with his wife Shabari. The Bird’s Nest was cavernous, with each room leading to each other through a series of sometimes nonsensical hallways, in which you might find yourself lost. It was also said Bird was conspiring with the CIA and there was a secret room containing massive amounts of files cc: mind control, yet I never found them. He took his last breath in the house from complications of a stroke in 1996 and left behind a death mask (which I did find), and seven libraries of books, each deeper and more mystifying than the next. Every nook of the four thousand square foot nest was stuffed with thousands of books, spanning religion, philosophy, advanced sciences, and entire shelves on subjects like astral projection, levitation, and vision quest, some penned by rogue authors with questionable writing skills and some way beyond my comprehension.

I originally planned on being there for a few months, but ended up staying there for the most of 2015. I set up my modest recording studio in what was called the meditation room, which was already filled with drums and crystals and bathed in natural light and there, on the side of a mountain I recorded day and night, what is now known as “Freedays”.

I had some visitors from time to time, a young farmer and his wife from the neighboring plot, an old hippie bee keeper and herbalist who came up occasionally on weekends. The farmer and the bee keeper would become very dear friends to me, but most of my time was spent alone. I think I went ten days on a few occasions without seeing another person. Every two weeks or so, I would go to town to pick up things I couldn’t get from the farm and return to the Bird’s Nest. I took walks through the Chattahoochie national forest which was my other neighbor and watched and noticed as three seasons passed in the forest. In my time there I witnessed a tree fall of it’s own volition, packs of coyotes howling and circling the house, a meteor shower like I’ve never seen before, and truly a life I had never known before.

Free Days tells the overarching story of a search for a new home and a new life and through the making it, I accidentally discovered one.”

There’s a mini-docu video on this page that gives an idea:

I lost it.

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The plot? Yeah.
Hope? Kinda.
Motivation? Definitely.
Sense of purpose? A little bit, yes.

Today is my 50th birthday. I can hardly believe it. Like many a naive younger person, I didn’t think I would make it this far (who did I think I was?), and now 50 is waving at me in the mirror.

In fact, at one point, I didn’t think I would make it out of the ‘80s without getting kidnapped by some guy in a blue Chevy Nova with out-of-state plates. Thank you evening news for that one. Fortunately, I only notice my body aging once in a while, when I stand up wrong, or pick something off the floor, or go frantically searching around the house for my readers whilst they sit atop my head of newly silvering hair.

While on tour last year with my buddy Christopher Paul Stelling, we arrived at the conclusion that fifty is the threshold between “young old”, and “old young”. You see, in your forties, you are “old young” meaning an older young person, but when you cross that divide, you begin your journey as a young old person.

My dear friend Valerie lovingly referred to your fifties as your “fuck it” years. I like that. I think I might lean into that. Fuck it!

Fifty years is really not that old when you zoom out a bit. It’s all relative, I suppose. In the company of an octogenarian, I’m a spry-hearted whippersnapper! In the year 1900, the life expectancy for a normal human male was 47, today it’s around 73. Just over a hundred years ago, I likely would have been dead already. These are my bonus years! Fuck it!

It’s wild that in 125 years, we’ve somehow gained 26 extra years of life. Keith Richards is still alive. I think I’m good for a minute.

I must admit, it does feel substantial. I’ve been alive for a half-century! A lot has happened. I mean, the 90s?! Kurt Cobain? The internet! 9/11, 100-year storms every few years, that time when no one could agree if the dress was blue or gold? A global pandemic? Not to mention the inescapable onset of the AI age, where nothing is real, and don’t forget the insane clown posse trying to rule the world with an orange fist. God help us all. You could write like 10 more Billy Joel “We Didn’t Start the Fire” songs if you wanted, but you know who would profit the most from that? Spotify! And they’d take that money and reinvest it in AI warfare. Sheesh.

If there’s anything I’ve learned in my 50 years, it’s that crazy shit happens all day, every day. The problem is, in the age of smartphones and the infinite doom scroll, we know too much. We are all carrying the weight of everything going wrong all at once on our shoulders. It’s stressful and completely overwhelming.

The million-dollar question is, how does one react?

Well, sometimes you lose the plot. Sometimes you lose hope.

It’s easy to feel lost and hopeless staring into a chasm of social media feed algorithmic fascism. Witnessing injustice after injustice. People dying in the streets? Check. Endless war and suffering? Check. We are addicted, and we can’t look away.

I feel lucky to have grown up in a world with no computers, back when you had to go outside to discover the world with your own eyes and ears, when people weren’t taking photos and videos every minute. You just had to remember things. How it felt. I wish I would have realized how free we were.

Our society is sick. It’s heartbreaking to watch, and as an artist, I sometimes feel paralysed by it all. How are you supposed to promote and get people to pre-save your new single when the literal world is on fire?

When I started this blog entry, I was going to rant about the music industry— how streaming services have completely decimated the business of recorded music, paying pennies for songs that take thousands of dollars and lifetimes to produce, forcing artists to rely on touring as their only income, while social media demands you to crank out pieces of 30-second “content” day after day to amass followers which they then gatekeep behind a paywall when it comes time to try and promote anything that might make you a few bucks.

It’s extremely frustrating for a guy who just wants to play some banjo, write music, keep a roof over his head, and sourdough in the Dutch oven.

Then I started thinking, I don’t want to be this young old man shaking his fist at the clouds. I don’t want to be a jaded curmudgeon going on and on about the “good old days”.

As someone who’s been fortunate enough to make a living as a musician for the past 17 years, I’ve begun to assess the realities of what the future may hold and if I’m being completely honest, it’s scary. It’s very scary, but it’s not hopeless.

As for my motivation, and my sense of purpose? I feel it welling up inside me. I’m not doing this for likes or follows, I don’t care about the streaming numbers anymore, I never got into music for the money. I make music because I love people and I want to spread joy. I make music because it makes me happy and feel useful. Once in a while, someone sends me a message and says my song made their day a little brighter, or got them through a hard time. That’s why I make music. I will continue to make records because it’s what I can do to add a little lasting beauty to this world, to open a little window into my soul that may resonate and echo into the infinite as my body slowly returns to stardust.

I feel lucky to be alive and I intend to spend the better part of my fifties, creating more and consuming less.

I feel much better for having sat here and written this piece. I do appreciate you reading along.

Don’t forget to like and subscribe! hahahah lol. just kidding. Fuck it!

Ok, put down your phone, turn off your computer! Go outside and smell something.
Buy art! Go to concerts! Come see me. I’ll play my banjo for you!

Happy Birthday to us all.
Love,

Michael P Savino, 50-year-old person

Hello friends,

I’ve been having a lovely summer hanging on the shores of Lake Michigan writing music for the new Tall Tall Trees album and playing some music festivals on the weekends. I was recently in beautiful Eau Claire, Wisconsin for the Blue Ox Music Festival and had an amazing time. Now, at this point in my career, not to boast but, I’ve become somewhat of an expert on selecting hotels. That being said, I booked this hotel a little too last minute with a large festival in town, and the pickins were slim as they say. Still, this particular hotel saw fit to price gouge their guests for the weekend so my sweetie and I left them a review. I hope you enjoy… Days Inn Eternity.
hugs,
m

Days Inn Eternity

by Michael Savino & Emma Marie Mock

When you’ve stains on the floor
Imaginations they do soar
When you’ve stains on the floor
You might be asking questions more
Dark and red, a most viscous glean
On the carpet, beds between

When you can’t identify the smell
Imaginations, oh, how they swell
Tell me what stories they do tell
When you can’t identify the smell
You might prefer the vapors outside the door
We thought you had a pool for sure

When more mysteries, they come to light
Behold in bathroom, a whole new sight
When more mysteries, they come to light
One surprise in cotton white
Wet towel laid gently in the tub so deep
I wonder, I wonder in what you’re steeped?

When from the bed a thundering roar
Something moved and shook the floor
You might be afraid to discover more
When from the bed a thundering roar
You gave us both an awful fright
Oh babe, you’ll have to hold me tight

When it’s late enough that you don’t care
About this corner of Eau Claire
When it’s late enough that you don’t care
Your tired eyes say you can spare
One Night’s Inn to rest the soul
Amidst the wonders in this hole

But, when you’re feeling very much in love
Unfettered by all that’s listed up above
When you’re feeling very much in love
Good company offsets all thereof
It’s been an adventure in this room’s uncertainty
One Days Inn Eternity

I really enjoy driving by myself; I always have. There’s something about it that makes you feel free; the open road, music cranked, yodeling, throat singing, windows open, doing weird shit. This is the first tour in my new van, which is a huge upgrade from the 3 sequential Honda Fits that I leased previously. I still can’t believe Josiah Wolf and I toured with a full drum set and modular synth in that thing last year. They don’t call it a Honda Fit for nothing. I have since upgraded to the Honda Odyssey, my first minivan. She’s battleship grey and I’ve been calling her “Soccer Mami”, but that is subject to change. I’ve been wanting to have my own van for as long as I can remember and the timing could not have been more perfect.

Last year was not an easy year for me. I split with my partner of ten years, which was already a monumental shift in my life, and then on top of that, our beautiful hometown of Asheville, NC, was devastated by Hurricane Helene. I was on day three of a ten-day break in the middle of an epic Kishi Bashi 50 city world tour when it went down. I spent the first few days of my break packing up my recording studio and moving some of my stuff into a friend of a friend’s temporary sublet so I had a place to crash between tours, but soon that was brought to a grinding halt.

I remember waking up the morning of September 27th with an eerie feeling. The power was out, but that was a normal occurrence in the mountains after it rains down hard. The storm had startled me out of sleep a few times during the night, but I had no notion of the incredible winds that were tearing through the mountains. There was talk of a hurricane in the news, but I didn’t give much credence to it as the news loves to overhype, and I’m a “ believe it when I see it” type of guy. I opened the front door of the house I was subletting, and on the doorstep was a turkey fryer lid. The street was plastered with leaves and branches, but overall, it didn’t look that bad. There was a tree limb down in the backyard, but it didn’t seem that big of a deal.

I called my folks in NY to tell them that I was okay and started to get myself together to continue operation pack and move when my cell service dropped from five bars to SOS. Now, that was strange. I tried texting my ex to let her know that I was coming by to keep working and it bounced back. That’s when I decided to take a walk to try and find some cell service. I was not even thirty steps from the front door when I couldn’t believe what my eyes were seeing. Every direction you looked there were massive trees down, some fallen on houses splitting them in two, some smashed down on top of cars, downed trees and power lines blocking roads and neighbors outside scratching their heads in disbelief while their kids climbed on downed trees like they were playground jungle gyms. I kept walking around the neighborhood and the damage was unbelievable.

The night before, I watched the A24 film Civil War in which Kirsten Dunst portrays a photographer on the front lines in a war town America, not unlike the apocalyptic landscape I was witnessing. It was so surreal. It felt like I was in the movie taking photos of all the damage. After a two hour walk and no luck finding cell service, i got in my newly acquired minivan and went to try and find some supplies and search out a signal. I managed to find one street that wasn’t blocked by a tree and made my way out to the main road. In addition to the many roads blocked, all of the traffic lights were out, adding to the chaos. I drove for nearly two hours and witnessed so much destruction, my heart sank. I saw overturned vehicles on the side of the road, parking lots turned to lakes with half drowned tractor trailers, people scrambling in desperation for supplies. Every business was closed save one Mexican tienda with a generator which was selling some produce basics, cash only. I was thankful I just got home from tour I had some on hand because the line for the working ATM was a half mile long. I grabbed what I could and headed back to the house.

Fortunately, this new place had a gas stove, so I was able to cook meals and use the provisions we already had in the fridge before they could spoil. With no power and water service reduced to a drip and a boil order in place, the next seven days were incredibly challenging. It took three days for cell service to be restored, and when it did, it was spotty. Days were spent walking around the neighborhood, helping neighbors cut down trees, and trying to pitch in. One of the elder neighbors was trapped in her house by downed trees, and the neighborhood sprang into action to rescue her. Another was taken away in an ambulance when his insulin supply ran out. It was amazing to see people out in the streets, coming together to help each other, accompanied by the soundtrack of constant sirens, chainsaws, and military helicopters flying overhead. I had not seen this kind of human connection since the aftermath of 9/11 when I lived in New York City. Something about a tragedy can really bring out the best in humanity. I tear up just thinking about it.

The most surreal part of this story is after the ten days, I left Asheville to rejoin the Kishi Bashi tour in Carrboro, and as I drove away and put this catastrophic event in my rearview, I had the profound feeling that I was closing this chapter of my life. From a week with no power, baby wipe showers, eating food on the brink of spoilage, essentially camping in a house, I hopped on a tour bus to continue another three Weeks of sold-out shows with my adopted music family, doing what I love for appreciative fans. I felt extremely blessed but also so guilty. Fortunately, being the kind-hearted friend that Kaoru aka Kishi Bashi is, he allowed me some time each night to spread awareness and bring to light some of the organizations that had boots on the ground and were actively running supplies and rescue missions. Through our efforts, we were able to raise several thousand dollars for relief efforts, which made me feel better about leaving my community behind, but still my heart hurt, and it still does.

Asheville will never be the same. The French Broad River that runs through town, one of the world’s oldest rivers, swelled thirty feet and destroyed pretty much everything along it, including an entire arts district where so many artisans had their studios and precious artworks. Thousands of homes were lost, and in a place that was already experiencing a housing crisis, many are desperate. There are parts of town that are completely washed away and will take years to rebuild. It is completely heartbreaking to witness it now compared to what it once was, but the one thing Asheville has going for it, and what drew so many people there in the first place, is a community of incredibly creative and talented individuals. There is magic in those Blue Ridge Mountains. Some folks say there is an enormous quartz deposit directly under the city, and that is what draws so many artists and empaths to the region. I believe it to be true, as evidenced by my ten years there and all the beautiful, kind-hearted people I connected with. I can’t wait to see it come back stronger and better than ever. I encourage you to pay Asheville a visit if you can. There is still so much happening there: great food and beer, and the artistic folk cannot be held back. They could really use some tourism right about now.

As for me, my sublet in Asheville has reached its end. With a lot of touring and some new, exciting prospects on my horizon, I have packed my Odyssey with all my essentials: my sourdough starter, Benedict Sourpatch, a few banjos, and a portable recording rig. I am going to be a nomad for a while. For the first time in my life, I do not have a mailing address. I can’t help feel a bit like Old King Odysseus, who wandered for 10 years after the Trojan War, trying to find his way home. Fortunately, mine has cruise control. Send me a postcard on the wind, will ya?

Love you guys! Thanks for following along on this journey.

Michael

Some things I’m listening to on the road:

Bruce Molsky - Warring Cats & Lost Boy

Elis Regina & Antonio Carlos Jobim - Elis & Tom

Frank Fairfield - Out on the Open West

John Francis Flynn - I Would Not Live Always

Ye Vagabonds - The Hare’s Lament

Melissa Carper - Daddy’s Country Gold

Duncan Trussell Family Hour!

Hello, my name is Michael Savino. I sometimes go by Mike if I’m feeling casual, or if I’m holding a banjo, people might call me Tall Tall Trees. I’ve been making music under that name since 2007 and released my first album in 2009. I picked the name because i loved the country singer Roger Miller and he wrote a song with George Jones called Tall, Tall Trees. I really connected with Roger’s ability to write songs that made you laugh but also broke your heart, sometime in the same song. Tall Tall Trees wasn’t really my favorite of his songs, it’s actually kind of corny, but I liked the name and my bandmates were into the arboreal vibes, so we went for it. None of us had any clue that it was a massive hit for a flaxen mulleted country singer from Georgia named Alan Jackson in the 90s. It made googling our music a bit tricky for a while but I think it’s been sorted out by now.

It’s difficult to comprehend that I’ve been doing this for nearly twenty years.
The fact that I am still making records and playing concerts is truly and honor and a blessing. I am continuously humbled that there are folks out there that are interested in my strange brand of niche banjo music, and some that have been following along the whole ride. I have been blessed with the rare gift of doing what I love for a living and I’ve had amazing opportunities to travel and share my passion for music with people all over the world. It has been a dream of mine since i was a teenager growing up in Long Island, NY in the 90s (also rocking a mullet), and I am still living that dream. Last year I played a total 92 concerts, a full US and European tour with my friend Kishi Bashi, as well as a bunch of Tall Tall Trees shows.

I’m starting this Substack with the intention of sharing a side of me that I normally wouldn’t put out there. The scary bits, so to speak. As someone aging in the music business, I am finding that it is becoming increasingly difficult to exist as an artist in this modern world. Spotify and streaming services in general, have completely upended the music business and devalued recorded music. They are now slipping their own AI generated music into your playlists so they don’t have to pay anyone. Now, I have faith in humanity to discern the difference between a real human heart beating and a computer generated lofi bedroom beat, but it is going to take a while for that to come to a head.

In this age of social media, artists are forced to continually push out “content” to remain relevant and build their brand. It’s embarrassing. It’s exhausting. It’s certainly not punk rock. I’m sure many of you are feeling burnt out on it. I certainly am. Especially with the recent union of the billionaire “Superfriends” that now appear to be running our country.

I don’t want to give another dime to META. It makes me physically sick to do so but…

How do I advertise my concerts?
How do I get the word out about new music?
How do I reach new banjo lovers around the world?

How do I continue to exist as an artist?

How do we keep our treasured artists afloat in these changing times? In all honesty, I do not know, and it is very scary. The only way I make money these days is packing up my banjo and hitting the road. Now, I love playing live and connecting with folks out there. It is the absolute most fun thing I know how to do, but touring is hard work. I know it seems somewhat glamorous, posting instagram photos of cappuccinos in Milan, and currywursts in Berlin, green chili in New Mexico (any surprise this Italian kid from NY is very food oriented?) but the reality is that travel does a number on your body. Now after all these years I have learned how to keep myself reasonable healthy on the road but between hauling gear, long drives and flights, time zone hopping, and weeks without seeing loved ones, it continues to be challenging and is not getting any easier for this forty eight year old man. That’s for sure.
One thing you can do to help support musicians is go see some live music. Buy your tickets in advance and grab some merch from the band directly. That is a surefire way of putting money into artists hands.

I want to continue to perform live throughout the rest of my life but I’m feeling a need to start stepping away from these companies that are using my work, the products of my lifelong dedication to my craft, for a wee tuppence.

I’m starting this SubStack to have a place to share my stories, my process, my song demos, my recipes, musings on music and film, maybe even some poetry.
That is, if you want to follow along.

The neat part about SubStack is that you can subscribe for a few bucks a month to help keep me going and get some exclusive content, particularly new song demos and the occasional banjo tune if you like that sort of thing but there’s no pressure to subscribe. I’d be extremely grateful if you did but, you catch my drift…

Anyway, welcome.
I would love to hear from you. Ask me some questions. Get me started on something.
I’ve recently started writing a book and have been blowing the cobwebs off memories in the attics of my mind and there’s quite a lot to unearth.
I hope you’ll continue on this journey with me.

Thanks for being here!
Michael
Banjo lover and Memory Archaelogist