"Coyote" | New Single on Streaming Services May 26th 2023

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Hey everyone,

I will be releasing my first single for the new year on Friday May 26th 2023. It is by far, one of my favorite cuts from the new album. It's a song called "Coyote."

While I do come from a generation more accustomed to the idea of releasing an album all at once—perhaps this is no longer a wise decision as an artist in 2023. Doing my due diligence, I am confident that the model of releasing one single at a time may be—better.

So, that is what I will be doing. 

I am uploading this single to be digitally distributed, today, for an official release date on Friday May 26th 2023. You may pre-save my single on your favorite streaming service; I was told that it helps to secure a place on popular Spotify playlists. I would be honored to have you do that if you feel inclined. Do whatever feels good for you though. I’m not even sure that it doesn't anything meaningful aside from just reminding you when it comes out (which would be lovely). Here is a link pre-save:

https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/coyote

I am very proud of all the hard work that I put into this album and this song. I would like to do it justice by releasing it with as much authenticity and sincerity as possible. I create my music in this way—I plan to release it with an equal amount and measure of heart and sincerity.

My compass is the chills I get up and down my spine when I work on art. Losing track of time. Accidentally being late to things because I was having so much fun making something with all my being and soul. It's my inside poking out like the tag on the back collar of a T-shirt.

This song's inspiration came from touring the United States in 2021 after a long pandemic filled with isolation, self-reflection, and rumination. It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life, having the opportunity to see the Rocky Mountains. To drive through the beautiful national park between Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Who knew that was there? Not me—that is, until I was balling my eyes out because of its beauty and depth. The endless stretches of desert between Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah, Texas...

We live in such a gorgeous and diverse country filled with beautiful people. I am grateful and on my hands and knees every day for the privilege of getting to do what I do. It's also incredibly difficult, exhausting, contentious, dynamic, emotional, introspective, risky—and the most rewarding thing I can think of doing with my life—yet still, a privilege. Without a doubt. May I strive to continuously stay within the good graces of Fortuna, Hotei, Ganesha, Jesus, Muhammad, The Way, Yahweh, My Inner Voice, and every other personification and archetype of human experience, story, and history that pertains to the spreading of positive creation in this world. I am a student. I have much to learn until the day I breathe my last breath.

I am a 44 year old man who is trying his best to leave this place a little better than how he found it. Even if all my efforts are akin to just vacuuming the floor, dusting and tidying the place up a bit before the next tenant stays the night in this AirBnB we call Mother Earth, I am confident I will never regret how hard I work. Ever. I will not be an old man sitting on the porch thinking, "what would my life had been like, had I actually applied myself where my heart and soul pointed?"

Instead, I am endlessly strolling. An old desert dog. Amongst sage brush, and bunch grass, and cactus and fog. Slender and gangling my bush tail sags, as I trot through the desert: the cliff face and crags.

You might here my faint howl, when the wind carries my song just right.

Chili in Fort Mill

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Fort Mill, South Carolina (while on my walk)

If there are reasonable amounts of chili to be consumed, I know nothing on the subject. It only occurred to me after 10pm rolled around and I felt a bit drowsy. I had worked up quite the appetite on my five hour drive between Woodstock, Georgia and Fort Mill, South Carolina, which is nestled slightly below the community of Charlotte, North Carolina—right along the border of the two states: this is where my aunt hangs her hat. My aunt Ruth. It’s around 8am at the moment, the next day. She has a lovely home and I’m thankful for her being kind enough to allow me a place to sleep, for the good company, and naturally, the enormous bowl of chili that greeted me, nearly the moment I arrived. I have been fairly religious about maintaining a ketogenic diet while on this tour—however—exceptions have been made in some sort of slightly freckled fashion on my clean bill of health in that dietary department, if one were to subscribe to such beliefs. The diet seems to work for me, however, I also enjoy chili, cowboy toast, and a few slices of pie from time to time.

There was probably a 17 year stretch where the two of us did not see each other, because she moved to the east coast, along with my younger cousin Ryan. On my first United States tour last year, they both came out to see me perform while I played in one of the bedroom communities surrounding Charlotte. I drove to North Carolina on two separate occasions last year. Once this year. Three times of visiting is a gift.

My house concert in Woodstock, Georgia. Thank you brother John for having me.

It feels of fall here. It’s around 47 degrees outside at the moment. I have spent the better portion of the past several weeks in the lower south, where it still feels of summer water amusement parks, shorts, flip-flops, tank tops, koozies, BBQ, and the like. There were a few occasions of folding lawn chairs to enjoy an outdoor concert, or to dip one’s feet in the warm water of Gulf Coast. My bare feet now, are cold, as I write this. I am thinking about hunting for my socks in a moment, while I ruminate on the next several words to put in front of the other. The cold is not uninvited, unwarranted, or unwelcome to me. I can recall purchasing a jacket, mere weeks ago, while in Austin, Texas, waiting for any opportunity to wrap it around myself, should that opportunity had ever arisen in the first place; Austin had other plans, none of which involving jackets.

Apache Junction, Austin, Houston, Mobile, Panama City, the pan-handle, Leesburg, Dunedin, St. Petersburg: Fall almost seems to be a rumor in such places—maybe even a lie told to those with cold cold hearts. I have been reading about it in books—well, for the sake of accuracy—listening to it from narrated books. It has been a lot of driving, and a lot of listening.

Because no great story ever started with someone eating a salad.

I just devoured what could be one of my new favorite books of all time: “The Passenger” by Cormac McCarthy. This has revitalized my interest in his cornucopia of literature I have yet to read. So, after the two day consumption of this new book of his (it was recently released on October 25th 2022), I went back to the year 1992, and started to read his classic “All the Pretty Horses.” There is much talk of Fall, Winter, snow, and the many traits that are cold weather in there—so I know it exists; well, from his literature—and my cold feet. More importantly: Cormac McCarthy is a national treasure. Someone give the man a Nobel Prize. He deserves a monkey trophy. His writing is beautiful. His story telling is exquisite. His conversations are organic and deep and unbelievable, yet within the realm of possibility. I can’t stop thinking about what he writes, for days on end after consumption.

I have decided to take a long stroll around the neighborhood—if just to walk off the copious amounts of chili and pie—and, perhaps to garner a remedy for cold feet. Excuse me for a moment.

This wouldn’t have been an issue yesterday in Woodstock, Georgia. However, there is news of a hurricane in Florida; yet another, above and beyond that of which was previous and has since disappeared with a wake of destruction: Ian was its name, if memory serves me correctly.

No, this yet still, a new hurricane, the one that is brewing over the entirety of Florida at the moment, is a Category 1. It has a name from what I understand, as well: Nicole. I hope Nicole is a lady of easy demur, and that she smiles with only light tears over the coastline. Her breathiness could be to a minimum, however, reports are suggesting otherwise. No matter: I cross my fingers for those who are in its headlights as it drives up the interstate, along with myself. There is no doubt that the cold storm I am feeling on my feet, are a result of Nicole’s currents. May the weather buy a vowel using Wheel of Fortune rules, and give us all the sweet currant of fruitfulness, rather than the rags of battered sails, as we both traverse together.

Some of my extended family in Mobile, Alabama

And yet, only the day before my arrival in Woodstock, Georgia, I found myself in Mobile, Alabama—along the Gulf Coast. I could have sworn that it was swimming weather, sure as it was, also a day for Church for the residents of the area. Even the Flora-bama had a service, flanked as it may be, by the endless shelves of alcohol, to be dispersed shortly after service had concluded (maybe even during for all I know). Speaking of church services held in a bar, and subjects that straddle the line of propriety. The Flora-bama: it straddles the line of the Florida and Alabama border, right along a coastline, freckled with high-rise resorts and the whitest of fine demolished sand one will ever have the privilege to crawl between their toes while walking the beaches of a red neck riviera. I found residents apologizing to me about a place I had yet to visit, and others continued such a trend, well after I had visited the place. I rather liked the joint. There where multiple stages for music, and quite the well-spring of libations to socially lubricate even the most rusted jointed gates of good times to be had. The remnants of feminine approval to musicians world wide, hanging from clothes lines above one of the audience congregations adjacent the stage: enough bras and varieties of which to fill a department store inventory.

Me at the Flora-bama on the Florida/Alabama border.

There was a 1.9 billion dollar jackpot for Lotto, and line of folks standing in line to buy tickets at the Florida/Alabama border. Alcohol and Lotto, given equal billing on the sign outside of the establishment. A line of Alabama residents, buying tickets, as the Lotto is not a legal privilege in their state. Loop holes. Good on them.

It was a jackpot, having the opportunity to play for my friends and family in Mobile, the night before. Playing music I wrote, for cousins I didn’t know that I had, save for the past several years. My cousin Mia, is a musician herself and is very supportive of all my musical whimsies and storytelling tendencies. I love my family dearly, and between you and I: my family is not as close as we used to be. I wish it were not the case. I have tried to make it not the case, through choice phone calls to an aunt, voicing my concerns that we are not getting any younger, and are only becoming more comfortable in our own bubbles of social interaction. This rings true of not only my immediate family, but also of my extended family, much to my chagrin.

The Frog Pond. A house concert venue outside of Mobile, AL.

Were I man of more means, perhaps I could invite them all over to my place for dinner. I am hesitant to think that they would make the trek to Los Angeles, albeit being 4 hours away from my home town of Visalia. My younger brother and I both live here in southern California. My mom refused to make the journey to visit for Thanksgiving. I spoke to her yesterday, and she is open to being picked up by my brother and driven to southern California to stay with him for a week, before the Christmas holiday, something that excites me a great deal (she hasn’t been here to visit me since I moved to southern California to go to college in 2002, and when I graduated from college).

Perhaps the key to this discussion between family, is to truly try to understand the schism between all of us—or that we were never really that close to begin with… I am uncertain. I do know that the cost of being close, is our time and our energy. While I may not be very rich, I do have time and energy to provide to anything that fills my heart with joy.

I am not here to complain either, or to point fingers. I take responsibility for myself, and also wish to make as much effort as possible towards accomplishing whatever I can. I am not afraid to work hard. I am not fearful of being the first to reach out. I do that often, whether it is in friendship or insofar as family is concerned. It does get a little tiresome feeling like no one meets me halfway, but I suppose that is relative—if not also my responsibility to recognize when I am overexerting effort on the wrong people, or that my love is not being put in good places.

Parallel lives. It was something that someone said to me once when I apologized for not reaching out more often. He simply said: no worries my friend; parallel lives.

I can dig that also.

There are numerous ways to look at life. I do my best to choose the methods that feel good, and do not create suffering, where it is unnecessary in the first place. Believe you me: we create our own suffering.

Perhaps we should simply be thankful to be greeted by a bowl of chili and to hug our aunt and our cousin when we can. Be thankful when our mother comes to visit. Be thankful when we discover we have cousins we never knew about. Try our best to get to know our family—and be accepting of parallel lives as well.

I am not a perfect specimen. But then again, neither is anyone else around me, either.

Upcoming Show Dates

$1,016 to the Wind & Suddenly in Charleston

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Charleston, South Carolina

Life changes in a heartbeat. On the flip of a dime. At the whim of my next lousy and trite analogy. Point that moist finger to the sky to gauge the course of the current. It only takes a single moment for opportunities to shift—for the wind to lift contents from my own hands—one’s hat and his right-handed grip on a deposit envelope—the lending towards quick decisions.

Then there’s the loss of a nearly $800 show guarantee because my car retreated into “limp mode” on a foreign Interstate freeway in the middle of Florida. Perhaps it was a problem with the transmission? Perhaps it was the car’s computer acting in self-preservation? Who’s to say these days? Not even the Honda dealership knew for certain, and they created the thing. What they did know is that the car wouldn’t move, because they couldn’t mobilize the now over-glorified-four-wheeled art piece of plastic, metal, and glass into their workspace. I ascertained that symptom as well, while driving on Interstate 75; I was in cruise control—and when I removed my chariot of fire from cruise control, the gas pedal reprioritized itself to a device meant solely to rev an engine that was not in gear. I watched the R.P.M.’s roar across a dial as if I was a little further northeast—in Daytona. Alas, I was one hour and thirty minutes shy of my house concert in Dunedin, Florida—and I never made it there to play. A nice slow goodbye wave to currency, but more importantly, to all the people who were kind enough to be there to see me.

The Animal Kingdom at Disney World Resorts

One might realize he has no road-side assistance, although he could have sworn he did. This insurance was procured during the pandemic, so it also doesn’t surprise me that I was caught with my pants down—or that my hat was lifted suddenly away by a hurricane current. One might watch $1016 be carried off in a mighty gust of wind, flopping and dancing towards the wide and hungry mouth of massive storm drains in a Houston metropolis skyscraper complex.

I was in Houston looking for a credit union co-op ATM that takes large cash deposits. The goal was to eliminate all the worry having such large amounts of cash on my person. Ironically, it was the witches brew within a cauldron of chaos that led to the contents of a deposit envelope being thrust into the open gust of a mighty breeze funneled through the endless span of tall buildings peppered about downtown Houston. I watched in shock and horror as the countless amounts of money did tiny somersaults, or sailed like a vessel, dancing macabre in the currents of air, free from their neatly ordered and cramped deposit envelope. Scattered to the wind as the old saying goes—and I was in hot pursuit, as the contents of that envelope were nearly all that I had to my name at that very moment. While there may have been curse words I didn’t have the chance to get to, I’m fairly certain none were emitted from my vocabulary in those moments, that became an hour of hunting for money I had, and then lost.

Savannah, Georgia River Walk

That is, besides the precarious stack of belongings packed into a 2015 Honda Civic—ordered in some half-hazard manner like Tetris blocks, so that the affects of my business, a touring songwriter, may all neatly fit within the confines of such a small space.

At the moment, I imagine my car, and its contents are ten feet off the ground on a hydraulic lift in a Honda dealership, while the good people of Leesburg, Florida try to ascertain its dilemma as a now stationary and non-moving vehicle (this assertion, point-in-fact, was incorrect, I regrettably inform you, dear reader—I was hopeful as I wrote those words—now, I am simply smiling and pragmatic from a coffee shop in South Carolina).

I wrote those non-parenthetical words, pockmarked as they are, within a Microtel not far from the dealership. It’s not a fancy place. I can’t afford fancy. It does however, have Internet, A/C, power, a warm bed, and enough niceties like continental breakfasts and fresh towels, that one should never complain. I deeply and truly, try not to complain.

I, in the past, have found myself complaining. Perhaps we all do from time to time. I don’t want to be that person any longer. I try not to be that person. I fail sometimes at being that person. I also, recognize, that there is nothing wrong with complaining in some reduced capacity. We, like a steam engine, need some sort of release for the welling of emotional burden percolating and brewing in its fleshy tank—albeit, a steam engine with no destination, is just wasting its steam and its reservoir of momentum.

Savannah, Georgia River Walk

My decisions have brought me to this point. There are also, perhaps machinations within the seemingly mechanical? Or perhaps I the writer and you the reader, subscribe to freewill. Things are bound to occur and do happen. Am I the type of person who feels he can control the wills of people or the outcomes of seemingly chaotic events? That is never a possibility insofar as I can tell. This thought was echoed by a gentlemen sitting on a curb, near a minimart gas station, in Leesburg, Florida, asking for me to buy him a few Swisher Sweets to roll a blunt. We talked for quite some time.

Does my fear of the unknown cause me to feel anxiety within uncomfortable situations, or is it the compulsion to control that causes me to cry when things get hard—realizing that I have no control over the current outcome of a verdict-less existence? Maybe yes, and maybe no. Consistency in action would seem to provide answers. Truth for all of us, is also moot and plural. What I can say is that I do the best I can with what I have available to me.

Anymore, difficult situations for me are treated the same as me walking a path. I put one foot in front of the other. I am putting on my jacket, one sleeve at a time. I have countless fragments of problems that arise from one problem, so I deal with each problem, one at a time, until they are accounted for.

I try to picture myself lucky. Perhaps in a manner that is not yet completely evident to my flimsy understanding of reality, The Universe, it’s concoctions, or better yet, my own for that matter.

It is also easy to say things such as, it is God’s path for me—and perhaps that is true as well? However, I move under my own will—just as the wind does, if not with my own unique purpose. Who is to say precisely that wind moves with what particular purpose? No sooner do I say that, than someone reading this mouths the words of what that purpose might be.

We don’t see the wind. We see it act itself out in the nature of that it pushes about: $1016 for example. I watched it sail and scatter and disperse itself into an economy of pavement, sidewalk, grass, flower gardens, parked cars, and moving traffic. I can feel the wind. However, I can’t see it, aside from what it motivates to move.

Charleston, South Carolina

I can’t see the future either.

I can be hopeful though. I can try not to worry.

My car payment went from being $338—to $580, now, with a used vehicle that I drove off the lot of a Honda dealership. I am in South Carolina at my friend Jasmine’s place in Charleston.

I was telling her about a dream I had, shortly after this debacle:

It had to do with deodorant. I was searching for deodorant, and I found it. I swiped copious amounts of it under my armpits. I can’t remember precisely, whether I felt relief over its application to my person. However, my dear friend Josh, appeared in my dream next, telling me “You see? It’s too much.” On his hand, was a copious spread of deodorant, in a rich-red-colored hue, that he was exemplifying his statement with.

House Concert in St. Petersburg, Florida

Perhaps my unconscious mind was trying to express something to me. Maybe the car is too much? I had little choice in the matter though, and little time to work within. I was hemorrhaging money. I had already lost $800 in donations, and who knows how much in merchandise sales, from my car breaking down the night before. My hotel room that night costed $115, and the tow to Leesburg was $167. I had yet another house show to get to in St. Petersburg, Florida, two hours away from Leesburg and its Honda dealership. There was money to be made and one month of touring still ahead of me. I acted in the best capacity I could, with what little time and option I had before me.

We wear deodorant trying to cover up the natural fragrance of our person and its perspiration—perhaps because we worry as to how our body odor would come across to others. Worry is the optimal word. Perhaps I am full of worry. As I write these words, I feel calm and collected.

I don’t feel worry or anxiety at the moment. This may change later as my responsibilities, my fiscal obligations, rear their burden more closely in my face.

I have a beautiful new-to-me car. I suddenly care about its shiny nature. It being clean all the time. It’s interior.

I also care whether I am living outside my means.

Oddly enough, my friend Taylor told me, as I was purchasing the car that just took a dump on me: “The Universe doesn’t throw anything at you that you can’t handle.”

And so I put one foot in front of the other, and then another, and then another.

Janice and I in Panama City, Florida. She was kind enough to host me and have me pay her backyard the night before my car broke down.

It’s starting to get a bit chilly from the wind outside, rustling the leaves and the trees. I put on my jacket, one sleeve at a time, and continue my journey forward into the unknown.

Perhaps my dreams are like that breeze. As I sleep at night, I collect my unconscious mind’s observations. It is always there: watching and observing. Perhaps it has insight into my behavior. After all, it is me, and I am it.

But perhaps most of all, it is like the wind. You can’t see the wind without its interaction with the world around us, and likewise, we can’t see our unconscious mind, without its interaction with the world within us.

I only lost $22 to the wind, out of $1,016 being carried off by it. I found all the rest of it.

I lost my old car to who knows what, but it was replaced by yet another.

I am trying my best not to worry, and to just be. To smile. To have gratitude. To appreciate the wealth of everyone around me, both friend and stranger alike. I work to not have any strangers in my life. I fail at that sometimes as well.

I’m in Charleston, South Carolina at the moment. I am writing this now, from Jasmine’s dining room table. She’ll be moving with her husband to Ireland, shortly. This opportunity may never happen again. I stare outside, through her dining room window at the leaves on all the tall trees, moving with the breeze. Tears roll down my face as I write this.

It’s a good life, and Bob Marley was probably right.

Don’t worry about a thing… because every little thing, is gonna be alright.

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COME SEE ME WHILE I TOUR THE UNITED STATES

Austin, Texas

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S. Congress in Austin, Texas

Austin. Austin City Limits. Being within Austin City limits—literally, not so much the hit musical phenomena that encompasses and personifies the great city in which I speak. It’s magic. The city is pure spectral spectacle.

I would live here. I have a feeling I will live here.

Growing up playing music, I was entranced by stories of Stevie Ray Vaughan, and his brother Jimmie. Willie Nelson. Johnny Winter.

These days, you can find murals and statues that celebrate the music of Stevie Ray Vaughan. He died young, but he made a lasting impression on his adopted home of Austin, Texas—who lifted him on their shoulders in celebration of his music and his passion for the blues.

An acquaintance of mine in Long Beach (another musician), once shit all over the name Stevie Ray Vaughan, saying that he couldn’t stand that white horse shit that passes as blues. It bummed me out hearing him rant on a guy whom he never met… nor have I for that matter—however, I carry his spirit in reverence, much as I do Eric Clapton as well, for they helped to introduce me to wide variety of African American talent that contributed to years of truly authentic American Culture and American History. Yes, they were white: but, they loved black music and carried it in the deepest reverence and respect, which showed in their craft. Furthermore, they brought black music to me, a kid in Visalia, CA, who passionately researched who Stevie Ray Vaughan’s influences were, and then listened to them, hearing all the riffs he lifted from their repertoire: Albert King for example. You can listen to Albert King and hear his inarguable influence on the playing of Stevie’s.

Then again, what does a guy in Long Beach, CA know about Austin, Texas? What do I know about Austin, Texas for that matter? Nothing. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I keep coming back. I keep returning because the place is pure imagination and sorcery on my senses.

There are more music venues here than I have ever seen in my entire life. There is talent of such a caliber, that it constantly has me questioning not only my own merit as a musician, but also my sanity in continuing to create music as a songwriter—that is until I meet said musicians after they have proceeded in tearing my face of with their talent, and politely handing my facial features back to me at the end of the night: feeling their genuine sense of connection and intolerance for being overly vain insofar as it is concerned with themselves—their curiosity of my own music, their kindness in listening to it, and in showering me with compliments.

I was connected with a local musician and guitar player in the area named Phil Hurley. He is a Los Angeles transplant as well, who has been living in Austin Texas now for around 14 years. He has lived all over the place. He has played guitar for countless people of merit and distinction, and has operated within bands and musical acts who were signed to major labels, from an early age. We became quick friends and I am astounded by his talent and generosity.

He was kind enough to make time to meet with me, and to show me around a bit, to take me to some of the coolest hangs in town such as Donn’s Depot on a Monday night. There is a weekly residency that has been happening at this old venue, constructed from the remnants of 5 old train cars, nestled politely and sheltered within the entrance of tall tall buildings and sky scrapers. Chris Gage has been playing piano and singing there on Monday nights for nearly 27 years. Phil brought me down to Donn’s Depot, and shared me with the all of the wonderful folks who are a community. They haunt that establishment every week, and listen, in deep love, of what Chris Gage provides as a musician and pianist.

As we walked around these 5 train cars, everyone greeted Phil Hurley, as he was acquainted to nearly every individual in that place. Chris Gage recorded and produced his latest record, which is available to listen to right now on all the streaming services. Phil and Chris quickly began catching up with one another on one of Chris’ breaks from playing, and Phil asked if we both could come up and play a few songs, to which Chris was beyond receptive.


I met more beautiful and wonderful people in Donn’s Depot in one night, then can possibly be expressed in words—or good intentions for that matter. There are good people here in Austin, and Donn’s Depot is just a small subset of the greater whole that is this beautiful city. Don Emmons for example. A photographer and gentleman, and scholar. Or, the videographer Jay Curlee, who was a Hawaiian transplant—him and his wife both, who have been living in Austin now for 7 years. Don Emmons came from New Jersey, if memory serves me correctly (we were having drinks—quite a few of them).

Performing with Chris Gage at Donn’s Depot in October of 2022. Photo courtesy of the winker with an eye, Don Emmons.

A place is always the people who live there. Austin is exceptionally lovely.

Truth be told: most places I have the privilege to visit in order to play music, are exquisite and lovely—because they are full of good people who let a ragamuffin such as myself, stay and play some tunes he wrote about life. They listen to my stories. I am the luckiest man alive—and my brood (artists and musicians most specifically) are thankful for the love, gratitude, kindness, and open hearts being displayed by individuals who understand that we just travel around trying to spread some love. Sure, now and then, we all get a little lost sometimes—but love is most certainly the answer to nearly every quandary asked… and gratitude is the doorway to happiness… and happiness is work. It does not come easy to us. We work for it and we work at it.

A deep and special thanks to my friend Scott Spencer. He is an Austin native. I met him through my brother from another mother, Frank Reina. Both of these gentlemen are Texas natives. Scott, has shown me more kindness and support than I could ever hope to repay to an individual in a lifetime. Nonetheless, I hope to one day. I suppose the first step in that endeavor would be success at what I am trying to achieve. I will focus on that notion with all my might—and swing back to previous when I have more to offer this world than the love in my heart, the songs that I write, and the stories I tell. In the meanwhile, may those suffice my friend.

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Come see me live on my 2022 FALL TOUR around the UNITED STATES

Santa Fe, New Mexico | Santa Fe Brewing Co. & Desert Dogs Brewery

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When in Rome—or Santa Fe, New Mexico for that matter. I had the pleasure of visiting with my friends Brenda and Dave here in Eldorado Santa Fe, New Mexico for the past several days, while playing a few shows at the local breweries Santa Fe Brewing Co. and Desert Dogs Brewery—the later of which shares the title of my newest album, being released July 11th 2023.

I met both Brenda and Dave while living in Long Beach, CA. They recently relocated here to Santa Fe, New Mexico after having visited here on several occasions. They have been making their dream home in a rural suburb of the greater Santa Fe area, nestled within the rolling hills of high desert, 7,000 feet above sea level. A future full of four seasons: sunshine, snow, the color of leaves changing—an atmosphere somewhat far removed from the daily life of those from Southern California. It’s own unique history and culture.

Red and Green Sauce, lovingly referred to as Christmas style Pozole. A spicy and delightful soup: pork, verde, hominy; a side of finely shredded cabbage, cilantro, diced red onions, and tortilla chips.. A perfect dish for cold, rainy, and dreary weather, which apparently swooped in with me, as I visited Santa Fe for my first (and hopefully not my last). Local residents assured me that the amount of rain they were experiencing currently was very much out of the ordinary, however, to me, a visitor, it felt nice and complimented my soup, my desire to wear a poncho, and my brand new hat.

Brenda and I shopped in the downtown area in which I found that perfect hat and poncho, almost immediately. It was a mission that I chose to accept, arbitrarily, as if it were necessary—and for all intensive purposes as far as I was concerned: it was.

Insofar as the gigs were concerned: bars are always hard. People are not necessarily there to see me specifically, so it’s an effort to find new ears and minds that enjoy what I do: to find new friends and to connect with them in a capacity in which we will see each other again in the future, whether that be through a mailing list or through a social networking service. This might mean that I need to warm people up with a few familiar covers, before politely asking if I might play a few of my own songs. I find that this works nicely. I also find the conversations after my set to be the most important part: this is when we have the opportunity to connect on a level that is meaningful.

I am up for the challenge and I welcome the opportunity for friendship. I am so immensely thankful for anyone who finds anything to like in my music.

I play Desert Dogs Brewery this evening from 8:30pm to 11:30pm.

Perhaps in some ways, I am a burro with a load of wood, waiting in the alley. In other ways, ways which are far more abundant: I am a free spirit, traveling where he pleases, making friends along the way, and enjoying every damn minute of it. I have been ruminating on the idea of purchasing an RV and getting rid of my apartment in Los Angeles. I am thinking about touring year round, seeing as much of the United States as possible and to play as many places as I possibly can. It sounds like a spicy proposition. It sounds like the life of a steamboat pilot, who as Mark Twain pointed out, were the freest people on the planet. I like being free. I like rowing my boat gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily…

- Mike

PS

I met Brenda at 4th Street Vine in Long Beach, CA. She is a lovely lovely human being and I am thankful to know you. Congratulations to you and Dave on your dream home. May the blessing you desire be found in your new home. It’s a gorgeous and stunning place to live and I am so thankful to have had you open your home to me for a few days and to offer me the comforts of your place and your company in the future. My heart is full of gratitude.

Come see me live in the United States while I play out in October and November of 2022

Apache Junction, Arizona | Desert Valley House Concerts

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Superstition Mountain

Where to begin? The question most of us might ask—then again, perhaps I am being presumptuous: some of us may not ask. Some may lack the interest. Others of us might just do, and forgo the asking aspect of things. Whatever the case may be, the beginning seems like a good place to start, so let’s arbitrarily work with that. After all, it’s the beginning of my Fall 2022 tour, so it seems the most logical place to begin.

In the beginning: I found myself in Apache Junction, Arizona. I’ve been here once before, however, it wasn’t a thorough affair. It wasn’t even a one night stand. It was one step away from a drive-by encounter—such as my experience with Phoenix, Arizona: a city I have only truly appreciated from a Freeway (which does not count for anything by anyone’s account). I played a show for the DESERT VALLEY HOUSE CONCERT series, and was immediately on my way home the next morning. I had been on the road for two months, and Apache Junction, was the last function of my multi-city-trans-state adjunction. I was on tour. That’s what I mean.

This time, as the fates would have it (not to mention my own insatiable curiosity) my kind hosts Darice and Lance offered to have me stay a few days to see Apache Junction and its natural splendor. Its Ghost Town: Goldfield.

Its Mountain Ranges, as barren and jagged and dangerous and unforgiving as its surrounding valley. History as seen through the eyes of various Native American tribes who inhabited this region. Superstition Mountain, observing from on high, the people of Apache Junction in their air-conditioned homes.

Goldfield Ghost Town was a wealth of photos. It was also 100 degrees outside. I met it somewhere in the middle and tried to give it a few hours of my time, as I was concerned that further investments might result in me melting, or spontaneous combustion: whichever comes first.

It felt as if I was spread, butt-naked on the hood of Goldfield’s automobile on a hot summer’s day—running on the assumption that it has an automobile. They for sure had a tractor. And a train for that matter. The later wasn’t functioning as they were waiting on a part to fix it. We’ll settle with me naked on a tractor. Fair enough? (And on that note, I bid ado to my male audience). I kid and promise to not hold your imagination hostage with naked insinuations that lead to mental perturbations over hot surfaces.

I am avid fan of all things old, and an even bigger fan of daydreaming about what it would be like to live in an era such as this. I can only imagine what people smelled like. The advent of a daily shower was not quite a staple of the residents of this centennial plus legacy. The occasional bath perhaps? That might even be an exaggeration. I let my mind wonder, along with my senses. I can always plug my nose while I do.

What I can say is that there were no shortage of air-conditioners in this ghost town.

… and I appreciate that. I was sunburned either way, but the cool air felt nice across my scorched person. Let’s not mince words: that was my fault. An intelligent-forward-thinking individual wears sunscreen. As I am none of those things, I wore my sunburn like a badge of ignorance, in the remnants of a ghosty village. People pointing and stating, “Look at the visiting village idiot.” I waved and kept that stupid smile across my face, nose plugged, thinking about bygones well past, absently. It’s easy to be happy on occasion, and this made me happy—that is until I felt the overwhelming urge to retreat back to Darice and Lance’s air-conditioned home for a nap. Am I the only one who feels as if the heat is a vampire of energy when the temperature is well near the surface of the sun? I would share a picture of me napping, but I haven’t the foresight for that either. The photograph is resting comfortably next to my sunscreen: unused and under-appreciated.

This small town had to be the constellation of a gold mine, and sure enough, there was a gold mine present. For $7 you can take a guided tour of this gold mine, but believe it or not, it was so hot outside, and I was so depleted of energy, that I couldn’t picture myself going down there on this occasion. I will probably regret that decision—more likely, I will probably revisit it in the future, as I have quite the fond fascination with the gold rush of the 1800’s, especially as it was recounted by Samuel Langhorne Clemens in “Roughing It.” Words will suffice where our eyes fail us, or more closer to the point as it pertains to me, where my drowsy eyes outweigh my curiosity. Which is not often, mind you.

A day of recovery was in order, so I spent most of the next day reading. My friend Darice with Desert Valley House Concerts told me, “You should read this book.” I have been gobbling it up like a hungry hungry hippo.

At the moment, it’s all I find myself wanting to talk about. So, what is the book about? It’s about Quantum Physics and reality. All of the discoveries made by the Quantum Physicists of the 1900’s and 2000’s. Tangible reality. Is this reality objective? Older sciences before Quantum Physics have never taken into account the role of consciousness into this equation.

We are not inactive observers of reality. We are simultaneously observing it and creating it. An analogy that is accurate, is reality being like a dream. As we sleep and experience the dream, we feel like merely a participant—however we are also simultaneously creating the dream we are experiencing subjectively.

Quantum Physics for the past 100 years has been finding this exists in our observation/creation of reality (The Universe).

An example: “The Double-Slit Experiment”

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double-slit_experiment

This and many subsequent experiments points to the direction that we are not and never will be independent entities in the Universe. We, in fact, live in a participatory Universe, whether we particpate or not. What does this mean?

Everything we do, or don’t do, alters that which is around us. Everything is probability, much like the second law of thermodynamics. A quantum computer, is a direct reflection of this notion.

It's a direct reflection of reality. It's more powerful as a computer because we are designing something that is closer to the function of nature. Probability. It takes into account as many possibilities as possible, and runs on this very notion.

It's like the second law of thermodynamics. Just because we have never seen a shattered glass move backwards into a solid form of un-shattered existence, does not mean that it can't happen. Quite the contrary. Mathematical probability shows us that it CAN exist, even if the probability of it is low.

A quantum computer is taking all possibilities into account, much as reality does, apparently. Probability wave.

I don't completely understand all of this—but this book is helping me to get a general sense of what quantum physics is.

It's both freedom and probability. That we are an active part of the Universe, whether we try to be or not. If you find this alarming to read. It’s okay. Einstein did too. He saw that is was real and how experiments such as the double-slit experiment verified these notions, and this is why he found it so hard to accept, as its very notion contradicted classical concepts of sciences. The very notion of science is to maintain a detached observation of reality around us, at least, in a traditional sense maintained over the corse of pre-existing efforts in understanding reality (The Universe).

It's like a dream. We feel like a participant in the dream while we sleep, but we are actually making the dream that we feel like we are along in the ride for! It's magic, in a sense. And reality: it functions the same way.

Nature only appears to be objective, to those who want to see it that way. If we realize that we are the active imagination of all probability, we realize we are actually not outside of the Universe, but helping it to become what it is at every moment, regardless of whether we try to or not. We simultaneously are spectator and creator, creating as we spectate, and spectating as we create.

The craziest thing, is that nature seems to reinforce whatever we “want” to see, speaking outside of the boundaries of quantifiable experimentation. If a group of persons wants to believe that they are outside The Universe, observing it in a cold and detached manner in a subjective stupor, feeling that their actions/inaction play no role in the constant creation, nature does not argue. It’s simply reinforces that possibility like a warm blanket.

If however, people take the time to really try to see that reality (The Universe) is probability, than they collectively realize that everything is a possibility, no matter the small nature of the number describing the probability of the action: i.e. a shattered glass becoming whole again before your eyes. That is real statistical analysis of a shattered glass. There exists the minute possibility of it becoming whole again.

In the words of the standup comedian Bill Hicks: “Young men on acid realize that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration—that we are all one consciousness experiencing our self subjectively. There is no such thing as death. Life is a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Here’s Tom with the weather.”

And let there be no doubt, the weather didn’t disappoint. It’s the tail-end of monsoon season in Arizona. Micro-bursts are abound. They pickup patio furniture to great heights, only to drop them in places the owners of which might not agree with. I quickly helped Darice to collect her patio belongings under the confines of cover, to prevent mother nature’s exterior decorating options.

Chili was had. Conversation was abound. Discussions of a hike the next morning were agreed upon in the Usery Mountains above Mesa, Arizona.

Joe, one of Lance and Darice’s friends chose the location: Wind Caves. We made a morning of it.

It was a conjoined effort to remove my own naiveté in regards to Wind Cave, this Mountain Range, and it’s trail, in general. Specifically, I’m still pretty absent in so far as most other things are concerned—and it’s always great to know that Wind Cave was named aptly: plenty of wind and plenty of cave to go around (they both were very generous and we shared). Listening to these fellas both brainstorm a painting company in which the painters put the F.U. in Fun Home Renovation was my personal highlight to an already stunning view (not pictured).

However, the main reason I am here in Apache Junction is to play music—which was done. I done did that for Desert Valley House Concerts. We had a wonderful time. Exhibit A (good time):

As with most places, it’s not the place, its the people that make the place, and Apache Junction is no exception. Thank you Darice and Lance for making this such a lovely experience.

WHO IS MIKE VITALE?

I am a storyteller, singer, songwriter, music producer, traveling musician, Jungian dream analyst, all-around curious fellow (Spiritual, Mathematical Historical, Scientific), Taoist, and much much more, based out of Los Angeles, California. I’m constantly releasing new music, in all sorts of different genres. You can listen to me below, on Spotify:

SOCIAL LINKS

Come on out and see me play live in a city near you:

UPCOMING SHOWS

"Fool For You" has 18,000 plays on TikTok

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Fool For You (Live at Studio 333) could go viral! What??

I have never had anything like this happen to me before. I recently joined TikTok, and a few days ago, I uploaded a brand new mix of a song that I wrote called "Fool For You (Live at Studio 333)". I had this really beautiful video footage that Damian Apunte filmed years ago, of the band and I playing the song live at my friend's recording studio.

I didn't have a lot of money at the time of filming that video, and so I decided to try and mix the audio myself. Long story short, the audio didn't turn out all that great. Fast forward five or six years later. I sent the audio off to my friend Ryan Lipman, to mix. This was during the pandemic. I had lots of time on my hands, and it had always bugged me, that the audio wasn't as good as the video footage. Well, let me tell you: Ryan fixed that problem. He sent me a gorgeous mix for the song.

I then proceeded to forget about that mix.

That bring us to three days ago. 

I was looking through my hard drive, and I found this mix that Ryan Lipman did. I took the existing video footage I have, threw that into Adobe Premiere Pro (a video editing program), and added Ryan's audio mix to this footage. It looks (and now it sounds) beautiful.

Instilled with this new confidence in the song, I posted it on TikTok. Two days later, it has 18,000 plus views. My follower count suddenly explodes. People are asking where they can listen to the song. It's been incredible.

I decided to re-release the song. It's now live on Spotify and Apple Music: the new mix of the song. I also re-uploaded it to Youtube:

These are small victories.

The song hasn't gone viral. It's just received more attention than I am used to—from a younger demographic. I am not accustomed to that, I suppose? It most certainly isn't unwelcome. It warms my heart and lends to me feeling the furthest from being antiquated: relevant. Special even?

For a short period of time, it feels special. I feel special (just a little bit—forgive me for that if it is an ugly thing).

Who knows what the future holds? Perhaps the song will continue this upward trajectory. Then again, perhaps it won't, and perhaps it will fall into obscurity once again.

Regardless, I am thankful for the new ears and new hearts and new brains that have found this song.

I make music to connect with people, and it feels really lovely to connect with new people. People who I have never met in person.

In all honesty, I hope and dream that it continues to gain momentum. I texted my aunt Doreen yesterday, to share with her that it was exploding on this platform. I told her that I had my fingers crossed that it goes viral. She said, "I'll pray for it. It's more reliable." I used to tell Doreen that I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a little kid—or a professional baseball player. And whatever it was, she always supported me. She is supporting right now in prayers. Prayers that it will go viral.

I hope that it does this because it's a good song. I truly believe in this song. I always have—seeing the reaction I receive from people when I play it live.

Here is a link to check it out on TikTok:

Click this image to find “Fool For You (Live at Studio 333)” on your favorite streaming service. The new mix by Ryan Lipman is now available on Spotify, Apple Music, Youtube Music, and every other streaming service you can think of.

You can also click this link below to find it on your favorite platform of choice to listen to good vibes:

https://songwhip.com/mikevitale/fool-for-you-live-at-studio-333



Additionally, here is a link to my latest release from 2021. It is a Country and Americana inspired collection of songs. The album is called Φ. It is available on all the major streaming services by either clicking the album cover to the right, or the link below:

https://songwhip.com/mikevitale/phi

I am thankful to have you all in my lives.

I am thankful to be touring in October and November of this year.
(You can see all my show dates here: https://www.bandsintown.com/mikevitale

I am thankful for all the people who have been contributing to this tour on my GoFundMe. Every little bit helps, and I hope you have been enjoying my newest album, DESERT DOGS (which I send when you contribute to it), before it gets released next year on July 11th 2023: https://gofund.me/7876a2cd

May you all cross your fingers for me, or pray, or carry me in your thoughts. Whatever suits your demeanor and life outlook. May this song soar, even if just for a little while, over small mountain ranges. May it see a small bit of what the world has to offer, and connect me with more folks than my wildest imagination could ever fathom.

- Mike

FALL 2022 United States Tour

Booking Southern United States Tour for October and November 2022

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Some of the lovely folks who attended last year's Houston, TX performance.

Yes. I am booking a tour. A tour is being booked. I did it last year too. I did it before the pandemic. I’m gonna keep doing it because its fun.

I’m working on bringing my friend Chris out to play as a duo with me as well. Fingers crossed.

There is still a lot of booking to be done. My friend John in Houston has been helping me with the Houston, Texas area. That man is my spirit animal.

If you or anyone you know would like to help. By all means, please. I could use it. I am juggling a lot and anything and everything that pertains to booking would be of immense assistance.

I am looking to tour Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, and perhaps some of the other peripheral states in the immediate vicinity of these listed.

Here are my current bookings as of today.

FALL 2022 U.S. TOUR DATES

As you can see, I still have a lot of booking work ahead of me. Small beginnings. I am making out with my laptop and home computer for most of the day; its got cold lips. We get a lot of face time these days.

Talk to me Goose.

Singles Release Show at Hotel Cafe Main Stage on Friday August 26th

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The Hotel Cafe Main Stage

Hey Everyone,

I’m proud to announce that the band and I will be playing our first big show of 2022 at the Hotel Cafe main stage on Friday August 26th in celebration of three new singles I will releasing here shortly.

I would be deeply deeply honored to be surrounded by friends to ring in these new songs, before I leave to tour the United States again throughout October and November of this year. The tour booking is coming along nicely by the way. Here the dates I have scheduled thus far:

I would be honored to have you at Hotel Cafe to celebrate all the hard work I have been pouring into my music and its production, but also all the touring, promotion, management and booking I have been doing. I would be so thrilled to be surrounded by the people I love, hopefully with love in their hearts for me as well.

-Mike

Paul Simon on Creativity and Songwriting | The Subconscious Mind and Unconscious Contributions to Creativity

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A while back, I had mentioned to you all that I feel that I sometimes write from the subconscious, and that I am not alone in that evaluation of my creative output. I went on to list a few artist names where I have heard or read them saying such in their own words.

And in all fairness, it is easy to say just about anything on this planet:

- I look great in this underwear.

- I'm a nice guy.

- I know what I am talking about

- I know what I am doing when I song write.

You name it. We as human beings can say anything: so it is important to cite our sources from time to time. So, as shown above: straight from the horse's mouth:

Paul Simon on Subconscious Writing: 29:44

Additionally, it is a different thing altogether though to be a student: and to not just be a student, but to realize that we are never a master. We are always the student. We have much to learn: always.

I have much to learn about songwriting, so I do research and I study. I have for years. I continue to.

I am a student. I love to learn.

We should treat each other as someone worth listening to—because I can guarantee you: no matter the individual, if you remain open, you will learn something from them: profound to the mundane.

I have a friend who's wife tells him that he is a shark.

What she means by that is, he must keep moving so that water flows through his creative gills, so that he may breath and stay alive. I understand what she means.

I too must constantly be moving, whether it is intellectually, creatively, physically, or any other type of movement you can think of, whether in the abstract sense or in the real real true true.

In one of the more poignant spots in this interview that took place in 1986, Mr. Simon talks about marketing—and how musicians primarily should be busy making music. It is unfortunate that in 2021, the trend of musicians is very much tilted towards marketing themselves. While there is nothing wrong with marketing per se, there is when it is 80% marketing and 20% self-reflection, creating, study, craft, practice, history, reading, poetry, listening, and so forth. We as artists must be mindful of this. If we do not remain mindful, we become out of balance—perhaps with ratios just described—but in other matters as well—some of which are far more detrimental, or any number of degrees proceeding such.

FOR SONGWRITERS, A FEW (but not exclusive) USEFUL TIMESTAMPS:

- 22:00 - Technique

- 22:38 - Interests and Technique

- 26:45 - 12 Notes of the Chromatic Scale

- 27:45 - Instruments and their Importance in Creativity

- 28:00 - Rhythmic Writing vs. Melodic Writing

- 29:44 - Subconscious Writing

Another book that I own that has been invaluable to me is "Songwriters on Songwriting" by Paul Zollo.

This whole interview is a blessing to watch, as is that book just mentioned. We learn from the kindness of those who share.

I have made one small addendum to this post. It is on today, Friday May 10th 2024. I just got off the phone with a person whom I admire a great deal. I was asking for his advice—his wisdom. He gave me some thoughts that were a little hard to hear—however, I can’t say that he is wrong. He could be right. It’s in regards to why my own music is not more widely embraced by a large audience. In the larger context of this post: I write music from my unconscious mind; I am deep believer in the work of Carl Gustav Jung and his research on the Unconscious: that is where I write from. This is a gift for you, my dear reader… wherever it may find you. It is a private streaming link to a song that I wrote from my unconscious mind. It’s about humanity. It’s also about me, because I am a part of humanity. It’s called “The Incredible Shrinking Brain.” It will be released this year, in 2024. To me, it is a profound song. I wrote the words very quickly (hence the Unconscious Mind aspect). My friend, whom I was having a discussion with just a moment ago, could think any number of things about it… I believe in it though… and that is what is important. Please accept it as a gift from a portion of me, that I was not conscious of, until it presented this to me, as a gift. Now, I give it to you as one:

Lots of love y'all!

I'm heading to the store to pick up some gardening supplies. (this was in the past—I remember that. I bought a pair of shears—as you can see, I time travel as well)

- Mike

WHO IS MIKE VITALE?

I am a storyteller, singer, songwriter, music producer, traveling musician, Jungian dream analyst, all-around curious fellow (Spiritual, Mathematical Historical, Scientific), Taoist, and much much more, based out of Los Angeles, California. I’m constantly releasing new music, in all sorts of different genres. You can listen to me below, on Spotify:

SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS

UPCOMING SHOWS

"Satin Doll" | Arrangement by Joe Pass

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Boy oh boy. Am I a horrendous jazz musician. I’ve been trying to chip away at improving this deficiency over the past 10 years or so, but to be completely honest, I haven’t made much headway—and that’s okay: it’s just for the fun of it. It’s a hobby. Most of what I’ve been doing is trying to treat music as a language, and learning some of the lexicon of jazz musicians that I admire. This is the A Section of Satin Doll as arranged by Joe Pass. There is so much to playing jazz, and these are some small baby steps I’ve made.

Thank you to everyone on Patreon for your encouragement and support: https://www.patreon.com/mikevitalemusic