I, Believe
What 2012 taught me about what's possible
It was early morning in Brisbane. We were flying home later that day, and I got up before anyone else and walked outside into air that felt completely foreign… warm, unfamiliar, southern hemisphere strange. There were mangrove trees everywhere. I just stood there and let the past year wash over me.
The night before, I had played sitar on stage with Beck.
Not because I was invited. Not because anyone set it up for me. Because I had looked at Beck from the side of the stage, watched him play “Loser” without a sitar, thought that’s a shame and then thought: I believe I can make that happen.
That distinction matters more than it might seem.
Let me back up to the beginning of 2012. My wife Kirsty and I had just had our second child, Ishaan, in December 2011. In Canada, parental leave gives you real time away from work, and rather than spend that time at home being a supporting father/husband (my self-centeredness and mixed priorities will be discussed in a future article), I ended up taking a call from the Black Angels.
I’d known them since the mid-2000s, before they were even the Black Angels; back when we were all just figuring it out. Earlier in 2011, I’d joined them on stage at Austin Psych Fest, playing sitar at the Seaholm Power Plant.
So when they reached out again and asked if I’d want to come play bass and sitar with them at Coachella — Nate had left the band — I said yes without hesitation.
I spent my parental leave essentially moving back and forth between Montreal and Austin. Kirsty and the kids would come down when they could. I toured with the Black Angels through Coachella, Lollapalooza, and shows across North America with the Horrors. I’d already been touring for about ten years by that point, but something shifted for me that year. Seeing how a band operates at that scale — from the outside, as a collaborator rather than a member — gave me a new kind of clarity. I saw what was possible. I saw how powerful it could be.
By the end of 2012, the Black Angels were invited to play the Harvest Festival in Australia, and I went out with them. Elephant Stone had recorded our self-titled album throughout that year, and I remember feeling a quiet kind of dread starting to settle in. My parental leave was almost over. I knew the Black Angels would eventually need a more local musician; someone they could call on short notice, not someone flying in from Montreal. My time with them was winding down.
I had this record that I wasn’t sure anyone would care about. A whole run of great experiences behind me. And I found myself thinking: is this it? Was this my last hurrah?
That’s when I saw Beck play at the first show in Melbourne.
He was playing “Loser,” and there was no sitar. I mentioned to Brett Orrison, my friend and the Black Angels FOH (front of house), that I thought I should get up there and play with him at the Syndey show. Brett said: “Yeah, brah. You have to do that.” So I reached out to my friend Wally Kempton, an Australian who runs Cheersquad Records, who happened to be tour managing one of the other bands on the bill — a band that was doing some off-venue shows with Beck. I just asked: do you know who’s tour managing Beck?
About a week later, in Sydney, I got a text from Wally. A few minutes after that, someone found me backstage and brought me to a trailer. Beck was there. Roger Manning JR was there. Joey Waronker (who I would meet again on the Oasis reunion tour… but that’s a story for another time). Justin Meldal-Johnsen. I pulled out my sitar, Beck pulled out his guitar, and we ran through about thirty seconds of “Loser.” I smiled sheepishly and suggested he should tune his guitar; we played through it once more. He said: “I’ll see you on stage.”
During the set, he walked over and gave me the nod for a sitar solo. I took it. Christian Bland (The Black Angels guitarist) was hiding behind a guitar amp taking photos. It went great. Afterward, Beck asked if I wanted to do it again in Brisbane the next night. I played on “Loser” and “Soldier Jane”.
So there I was, the next morning, walking through the mangroves before the flight home. Thinking about the year. Thinking about how all of it — the Black Angels, Coachella, Australia, Beck — had started with a belief. Not certainty. Not a plan. Just a belief that it was possible.
I’m not trying to sound like a motivational speaker here. But I genuinely think that’s the first step. If you don’t believe something is possible, you won’t reach out. You won’t ask. You won’t put yourself in the room. And if you do believe — really believe — then at the very least you’ve given yourself a chance.
That morning in Brisbane changed something in me. I stopped thinking of the Elephant Stone record as something nobody would care about. I stopped thinking my best years were behind me. I came home and I kept going. I believed things would get better. And they did. I, believe.
om shanti om. rishi.