Every album project has a story. "From There To Here" is no exception.
This articles page is dedicated to the fans, passion, creative people and process that will bring this Stevie Hawkins project to life. While the songs will tell one part of the journey, these articles will explore things happening behind the scenes—from the songwriting to the finished recordings, observations, milestones along the way, and other aspects of the project.
Throughout this series, you'll meet the talented musicians whose performances will shape the music, the producers and engineers who will help capture its sound, the mastering engineer who will give the album its final polish, and the marketing team that will work to share the project with listeners around the world
You'll also find updates on the songwriting and recording process, news about the album's release, and information about the crowdfunding campaign that will help make this independent project possible. Whether you're a longtime supporter or discovering From There To Here for the first time, these articles are intended to offer a front-row seat to the collaboration, creativity, challenges, and dedication that will transform an idea into a finished album.
Thank you for joining this journey from the very beginning. Your interest, encouragement, and support mean more than words can express. We invite you to follow along as we document each step and celebrate the people whose talents and commitment will help take From There To Here from an idea to a completed album.
Hey everyone, I thought I'd share an update on the new album project. After about a month of my songwriting flow paused preparing for my concert at the Capitol Theatre week before last, I'm happy to say I'm finding my way back into the creative groove and moving steadily toward the finish line. The songs are continuing to come together, and I'm genuinely excited about what's emerging both lyrically and melodically. Every time I sit down to write, the universe seems to guide me to where it needs to go. There's something special happening with this record, and each new song seems to open another creative door.
As the writing has evolved, so has the vision for the album. What initially started leaning toward a blues record has grown into something much broader musically. The sounds, textures, and arrangements I’m hearing in my head have led me to a big decision: most of this album will now be recorded in Nashville. It's likely that I will record my final vocals in Atlanta, GA, as well as any necessary instrument overdubs.
One of the most important decisions in making a record is choosing the people who will help bring the songs to life. Technical skill and professional credentials certainly matter, but great records are built on something deeper—chemistry, instinct, shared vision, and the ability to serve the music. The right producer understands not only how a song should sound but also how to help uncover its full potential. Likewise, the right musicians bring more than their instruments to a session; they bring experience, feel, creativity, spontaneity, and the ability to elevate a performance in ways that can't always be written on a chart.
The most inspiring aspect about the gathering of the team for this album is the mix of talent, instinct, and musical intuition. They are players who know how to listen as much as they play, can hear where a song wants to go, and provide immediate, instinctual performances, adding embellishments that take a good track into the realm of something special. The musicians for the project are specialists in blues, blues-rock, Southern rock, and American roots music, accustomed to playing on major recording sessions and on the big stages, which is exactly what and who I want for this project: authenticity. Equally important was having a co-producer who understood that musical language and could help me shape and guide the performances, bringing an experienced ear and a shared vision that tied the entire project together.
As the songs develop, I feel certain that I've put together the right creative team for beginning the journey ahead. The level of trust, experience, and artistry that they all bring to this album will be integral in making it as great a record as I think it can be. Bit by bit, I'll be slowly lifting the veil and revealing each of the people who are a part of making this album happen—the co-producer, musicians, recording studios, engineering staff, and more.
And with that said, I'm excited to begin revealing the remarkable people who have joined me on this project.
Let's start with the first reveal.
I am sincerely delighted and honored to have an incredible co-producer on this new album project, Edd Miller. (Yes, spelled with two d's.) I first met Edd back in 2020 at a blues gig where I was playing drums and singing at the end of COVID. What started as a random meeting through music began to slowly develop into friendship and respect for each other's professional work. And right away from the first conversations we had about the project, it just felt right. We clicked on many levels, and also because we both care deeply about making great music. It was obvious to me that Edd was the creative co-production partner to go on this journey with. He boasts decades of experience, combined with a deep understanding of both the artistic and technical sides of record-making, making him particularly suited for my project as a whole.
What really stands out to me about Edd isn’t just his impressive track record—it's who he is and the energy he brings to every creative moment. He’s genuinely kind, laid-back, and always keeps the big picture in mind: serving the song. Spending time together discussing the project confirmed that we share a common vision, a commitment to excellence, and a desire to make the strongest album possible. Those qualities, combined with his musical instincts, production expertise, and genuine passion for the craft, make him an invaluable creative partner and exactly the kind of person you want helping guide a project.
Edd's impressive body of music production work can be heard on recordings by Willie Nelson, James Brown, .38 Special, Kansas, Drivin' N Cryin', William Bell, Tinsley Ellis, Phunk Junkeez, Jimmy Dawkins, Francine Reed, Randall Bramblett, Theodis Ealey, and many others. Starting his music career as a drummer and percussionist, Edd developed a conscious awareness of musicianship and presentation before his talents turned to the recording console. This foundation guided his collaborative production style, assisting vocalists and musicians in reaching their best possible work in the studio.
That mix of character, background, and skill elevated Edd to among the most respected recording engineers, producers, and mixers in the field.
Edd has also worked with and learned from some of the most influential producers and engineers in the business, such as Paul Rothschild (Janis Joplin, The Doors), Rodney Mills (Gregg Allman, Lynyrd Skynyrd), Bob Ezrin (Alice Cooper, Kiss, Pink Floyd), J.J. French of Twisted Sister, and Howard Benson (Motörhead, Kelly Clarkson). Such an upbringing developed his multi-talented approach to production and technique.
In 1993, Edd joined Ichiban Records as a staff producer and engineer, and his discography soon reflected a diversity that included blues, avant-garde rock, gospel, rhythm & blues, and classic rock & roll. Edd has brought a rare blend of musical insight, technical exactness, and years of professional experience to each project, whether producing an artist's vision, engineering a session, or creating a final mix.
In the late 1990s to the mid-2000s, Edd launched his own recording studio and established CMO Records. This move enabled him to continue expanding his work as an engineer, producer, mixer, and mentor to artists, continuing to build a body of recorded works. With his studio and record label, Edd created a nurturing environment for collaboration and artistic growth, further reinforcing his reputation as a respected figure in the recording industry and a passionate advocate for great music.
The vision for this album continues to grow clearer with every song. While there's still plenty of work ahead, the pieces are falling into place, and I'm more energized than ever about where this journey is leading.
Thank you all for your continued encouragement and support. I can't wait to share more as the project continues to take shape. Remember, "be a realer, a healer, and a peace and love dealer."
- Stevie Hawkins
And now for Part 2 of my Nashville album session team announcements, and I’m excited to share that Bart Walker will be joining us as a featured guitarist on the project.
I shared the stage with Bart a few years ago at the Daryle Singletary "Keepin' It Country" Jam. There were some outstanding guitarists on that stage, but Bart immediately caught my attention. His playing was soulful, confident, and effortless—the kind of guitarist who makes you stop and listen. On top of all his talent, Bart is just a great hang—laid-back, kind, and genuinely friendly. He brings a smile and a relaxed, positive energy to any room he walks into. It's no surprise that he's earned a reputation as one of the most respected and genuine musicians in Nashville.
Today, Bart tours and records with both Hank Williams Jr. and Jamey Johnson, and those are not gigs that go to just anyone. Both artists are known for surrounding themselves with musicians who bring authenticity, passion, and world-class talent to the stage every night.
What excites me most isn't his résumé. It's the way he plays. Bart has deep roots in blues and Southern rock music, and he combines technical skill with something that can't be taught—feel. Other musicians love working with Bart because he serves the song, not his ego. There's honesty in his playing; his solos tell a story, and that's exactly what I want and need on this record—honesty and storytelling. I have no room for egocentric ramblings of technical prowess that don’t serve the song.
Bart plays custom guitars built for him by Lucky Dog Guitars in Cleveland, Tennessee. If you've heard Bart's unmistakable tone on stage or in the studio, there's a good chance one of these handcrafted instruments was part of the equation. Their quality and character make them a perfect match for a player who values feel, expression, and serving the song above all else.
Many fans recognize Bart as one of Nashville's top blues-rock guitarists, but ask musicians and guitar players in the know, and you'll often hear the same thing: Bart Walker is one of Nashville's hidden gems. Over the years, his guitar has taken him around the globe, sharing stages throughout the U.S., Europe, Australia, and the U.K. with artists such as T. Graham Brown, Buddy Guy, Derek Trucks, Warren Haynes, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Robert Randolph, Delbert McClinton, Lee Roy Parnell, Steve Cropper, B.B. King, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Styx, and REO Speedwagon.
His studio credits include work with Dolly Parton, Mike Farris, Bo Bice, Royal Southern Brotherhood, A.J. Croce, Steve Gorman, Texas Hill, and many others.
Among his many accomplishments, he won the Gibson Best Guitarist Award at the International Blues Challenge in Memphis. He later released the acclaimed album Waiting on Daylight, produced by legendary producer Jim Gaines.
Bart is also passionate about giving back, mentoring guitarists from around the world through Bart's Badass Guitar School and hosting guitar camps at his farm just outside Nashville. If you'd like to learn more, visit https://www.badassguitarschool.com.
When thinking about assembling a small team of next-level musicians based in Nashville, I knew I wanted specialists in blues, blues-rock, and Southern rock—players who truly understand the feel, authenticity, and storytelling that these songs demand. I'm fortunate that two of those musicians are old friends of mine, and Bart was an easy choice for the team. I am honored to have him on board and can't wait for all of us to hear what he brings to these songs.
And yes... I'll be revealing that second guitarist soon!
- Stevie Hawkins
Part 3 of the Stevie Hawkins Nashville album sessions: team announcements. I couldn’t be more fired up to share that “Sparky” Mark Matejka—my friend of over 20 years and guitarist for Lynyrd Skynyrd—is bringing his creative fire and guitar command to my songs. Most of us just call him Sparky. To be honest, if I called him Mark, half of his friends would probably wonder who I was talking about!
For my new album recording sessions, Mark brings a refined, modern Southern rock guitar approach, while Bart Walker comes from a deep blues and blues-rock foundation. When I started putting this team together, I knew exactly what I wanted the guitar foundation of this album to be. I wanted the authenticity of blues, blues-rock, and Southern rock, and that meant bringing in energetic musicians who specialize in those styles. Bart and Sparky aren't visiting these genres for a recording session—they've spent their careers living in them. Mark's precision, melody, and modern edge sitting right up against Bart's raw, soulful grit create a push-and-pull contrast that will give these songs a fresh energy and a sound rooted in blues-rock but pushed forward with a strong Southern rock voice running through it. There is a method to my madness, ladies and gents! Contrary to popular belief, I don't just throw darts at a wall when putting a record together—although it would probably be faster.
Sparky and I first met in early 2006 when we played together during a week-long residency at the Ameristar Casino in Kansas City, Missouri. Right away, there was a natural musical chemistry and mutual respect that made that week feel special on and off stage.
At the time, Mark was in the middle of a major transition. After a five-year run playing guitar with The Charlie Daniels Band, he was joining the legendary ranks of Lynyrd Skynyrd—walking straight into one of the most iconic guitar roles in rock.
What many people don't know is that Mark's musical path was a little different from a lot of Southern rock guitarists. Born in Houston, Texas, he learned plenty on stages, in clubs, and on the road, but he also pursued formal training at the University of North Texas. Studying under noted guitar educator Jack Peterson, he focused on jazz improvisation, music theory, and ensemble performance, earning a bachelor's degree cum laude in jazz studies in 1990.
That education gave him a deep understanding of harmony, improvisation, dynamics, and arrangement, but what has always impressed me is that you never hear the education getting in the way. Instead, it enhances everything he does. Sparky can move seamlessly from blues to country, from hard-driving Southern rock to sophisticated melodic improvisation, all while sounding completely natural. In other words, he knows enough music theory to make the rest of us nervous, but he's got too much good taste to show off about it.
As it turned out, whenever Sparky was off the road with Skynyrd, our paths kept crossing. Before long, we found ourselves sharing the stage on various weekends at The Dinner Bell in Cookeville, Tennessee—a former roadhouse-style nightclub owned by my good friend Kevin Poe. Alongside country artist Ronnie Swift and a weekly rotating cast of Nashville touring and session players, we spent many nights making music, swapping stories, solving absolutely none of the world's problems, and having a great time doing it!
Anyone who's shared a stage with Sparky knows what he brings. Beyond his playing, he has the ability to elevate everyone around him. His feel, musicality, and instincts are top-shelf, and his constant stream of ideas keeps every performance fresh. You never know exactly what he'll do next—but it always works. Whether it's the perfect fill, a blistering solo, or subtle textures that reshape a song, Sparky brings music to life. Every now and then he'll play something that makes the rest of us look over and think, "Well, I sure didn't see that coming."
This time, we're not playing someone else's music—we're bringing my songs to life. Having a player of Mark's caliber contribute his talent and musicality to these recordings is a real gift. I know what he brings to a performance, and I'm genuinely excited to hear how Sparky's guitar sits alongside Bart Walker's on these tracks. I have a feeling they're going to push each other in all the right ways, and I can't wait for all of us to hear the results. If I have anything to say about it, we're going to have a whole lot of fun getting there, too.
Back soon with Part 4 of the Stevie Hawkins “From There To Here” album sessions!
Revealed thus far are, co-producer Edd Miller, guitarist Bart Walker, and guitarist Mark "Sparky" Matejka.
- Stevie Hawkins
Part 4 of my Nashville album session team announcements. If there’s one thing I needed for these sessions, it was a rhythm section built on players who don’t just know the language of blues, blues-rock, and Southern rock—they are the language. Joining me on bass for several tracks is my old friend Randy Threet.
Randy sits in a rare space in American music. Most people know him as an exceptional bassist, but what really sets him apart is that he also carries the vocal weight of two of the most harmony-driven bands in the genre—Blackhawk and The Outlaws. That combination—deep-pocket groove on the low end and elite tenor harmony vocals above it—is what makes him one of the most complete support musicians working today. He doesn’t just hold down the rhythm section. He helps define the sound of the entire band from the bottom up.
I’ve known Randy for 19 years, and long before these recording sessions were ever planned, I knew that if the right songs called for it, he was somebody I’d want in the room.
When I started assembling the team for this album, authenticity was everything. I wasn’t trying to “build a band” in the traditional sense—I was building a musical system. Bart Walker brings deep blues and blues-rock grounding. Mark “Sparky” Matejka brings modern Southern rock authority. Randy brings the low-end foundation and structure that ties those worlds together. Put simply, this isn’t three players occupying space—it’s three specialists working the same musical ground, where groove, melody, and harmony come from lived-in experience rather than formulas or guesswork.
Years ago, Randy and I first played together in the band of the late, great Daryle Singletary, whose hits include “Too Much Fun,” “I Let Her Lie,” and “Amen Kind of Love.” That’s where I really got to know him—not just as a musician, but as a person you want in the room every night on the road.
And if you’ve ever spent time on a tour bus, you already know: that matters just as much as the playing.
Randy also happens to have the best Billy Bob Thornton “Carl from Sling Blade” impression I’ve ever heard. Back in those Daryle Singletary days, that alone probably kept a few long drives from feeling twice as long as they were.
But none of that would matter if the musicianship wasn’t real—and Randy’s reputation is exactly why he’s been trusted for decades in two very different musical worlds.
For more than twenty years, he’s been a cornerstone of both Blackhawk and The Outlaws, bringing the versatility, consistency, and musical instincts that have made him one of Nashville’s most respected working musicians. Whether the music calls for country precision, Southern rock grit, or deep blues-influenced groove, Randy has spent his career proving he can move seamlessly between them. That’s exactly the kind of musician I wanted on this record.
On bass, he plays exactly how great Southern rock and blues bass players should play: no excess, no spotlight chasing—just time, tone, and feel. His groove is smooth, powerful, and unshakably steady. Playing with him feels like everything locks into place without effort.
And then there’s his voice.
Randy is one of the most reliable high harmony singers I’ve ever worked with. The ability to sing demanding tenor parts while locking in a bass performance at that level is rare enough. Doing it consistently for decades across two major touring bands is something else entirely. His harmonies don’t sit on top of the music—they complete it.
What I’ve always respected most is that Randy never plays for attention. Everything he does is about the song and the people he’s playing with. That mindset is exactly why he’s been able to sustain such a long career at a high level across multiple major acts.
He’s performed and recorded with artists including Trisha Yearwood, Pam Tillis, Larry Boone, Buddy Jewell, Daryle Singletary, Blackhawk, The Outlaws, and many others, and has shared stages with members of Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Marshall Tucker Band, and The Allman Brothers Band.
But credits only tell part of the story.
The real story is consistency—decades of showing up, being focused, locking in, singing the hard parts, holding down the foundation, and making everyone around him sound better while doing it.
That’s why I wanted him on this record.
Because when you combine Bart’s blues foundation, Sparky’s Southern rock edge, and Randy’s musical system of rhythm and harmony, you don’t get a stylistic experiment—you get something that was always meant to exist. Nothing is decorative. Everything has a job. And when it locks in, it feels like it was always meant to be that way.
And I can’t wait for people to hear what that sounds like when it’s all in the same room.
- Stevie Hawkins
Part 5 of the "From There To Here" album project... We've spent the last few updates getting to know the incredible musicians and co-producer who'll be helping bring this record to life. I thought we'd step away from the creative team for a moment and talk a little about the songs themselves—and the journey that's been shaping them from the very beginning.
For the past few months, I've been living in a pretty solitary songwriting world—and I expect to stay there until it naturally feels like it's time to move into the recording sessions. I'm not trying to rush the process or force songs onto the page. I've learned over the years that songs have a way of showing up when they're ready, not necessarily when it's convenient. My job is simply to be there when they arrive.
Some of you have probably noticed the phrase "From There To Here" appearing alongside this project. That's more than just an album title. It's really become the thread connecting almost everything I've been writing.
This record reaches back to childhood and follows the road all the way to where I stand today. The people who shaped me, the places I've been, the victories, the disappointments, the lessons, the music, the friendships, the love, the losses, and all the unexpected turns in between—they've all found their way into these songs in one form or another.
Writing this album has been a little like flipping through old photo albums. Every song seems to bring back another memory, another face, another chapter I hadn't thought about in years.
I suppose you could call it soul-searching. Maybe even a bit of emotional housekeeping. Whatever it is, it's been one of the most honest writing experiences I've ever had. There are a few songs that still catch me off guard. I'll be halfway through singing one and suddenly remember exactly where it came from. Every now and then I have to stop, collect myself, and start over. That's usually a pretty good sign that I'm writing about something that matters.
I've started down the road of writing more 'radio-friendly' songs a couple of times, and by design there are a few songs that step outside the album's core concept, but I keep finding myself pulled back toward something deeper.
That doesn't mean it's a heavy album.
Quite the opposite.
There's plenty of energy here, plenty of optimism, and more than a few moments where the volume knob gets turned to the right. At its heart, though, these songs are about perspective, resilience, gratitude, believing in yourself when life gives you reasons not to, and finding light even after walking through some darker places. If someone hears one of these songs and finds a little piece of their own story inside it, then I'll feel like I've done my job.
Musically, the album has surprised me, too.
When I first began planning this project, I thought I was making a traditional blues record. The blues is still very much the heartbeat of what I'm writing, but somewhere along the way the songs started asking for something bigger. What has emerged feels more like contemporary blues with a healthy dose of blues-rock and Southern rock woven into the fabric. Some songs breathe quietly, while others dig in with a little more attitude. It all feels remarkably natural—as though the record has quietly been telling me what it wanted to become all along.
As the writing starts to wind down, my thoughts are naturally beginning to shift toward the recording sessions. I've got a Nashville studio in mind that I believe would be a terrific fit for this project—a room with the sound, character, and atmosphere to capture these songs the way I hear them in my head. Nothing is set in stone just yet, and I don't want to make that final decision until the writing is complete. I want the songs to tell me exactly what they need before we roll the first take. After spending months living with these songs on paper and in my head, it'll be a pretty special moment to finally hear them come to life with this incredible group of musicians.
So that's where things stand.
Still writing. Still listening. Still discovering where these songs want to go. And enjoying every step of the journey.
Thank you all for following along and for the encouragement you've shown throughout this process. It means more than you know.
- Stevie Hawkins
Part 6 of the "From There To Here" album project... Although the recording sessions for my *From There To Here* album project are still a few months away, I've already been thinking a great deal about what I want those sessions to feel like and how best to communicate that vision to my co-producer and the musicians who will help bring it to life. I am nearing the completion of writing the songs, and as that process continues, my thoughts are naturally turning toward how these stories, emotions, and experiences will come alive in the studio.
The music and vocal melodies are taking shape. The songs are finding their voices. Now I am thinking about capturing not just the notes, but the spirit behind them.
As a vocalist, I know my vocal lane well. I understand where my voice naturally belongs, where the emotional arcs are, and where they should be to best serve each song. At the same time, I remain open to thoughtful guidance and suggestions from those with the experience and credentials to help me continue developing as a vocalist. Ultimately, I know my voice, my instincts, and the emotional connection I want to create with each song better than anyone, while still appreciating the value an experienced perspective can bring.
My approach to singing has been shaped by a significant shift in how I write and create music. I don't believe I truly found my own voice as a vocalist and songwriter until I stopped writing primarily from a commercial perspective—where vocals often needed to follow a strict, predictable, or more repetitive melodic structure. Stepping away from that mindset allowed me to focus more on interpretation, emotion, and telling the story within the lyrics.
Over the past 30 years, my approach has not been one of simply repeating a vocal melody for a verse or bridge exactly the same way every time. Instead, I approach each performance as an opportunity for interpretation—exploring what I'm feeling in the moment and what I'm hearing from the musicians around me, and allowing the emotion of the song to guide how I deliver each phrase, each word, and even the subtle character of a single vowel sound.
That said, a chorus often serves a different purpose. I'll usually keep its melody and cadence consistent when doing so strengthens the song's emotional connection and gives listeners something familiar to hold onto. For me, singing is a creative process of painting a vocal picture of the lyrics, allowing the emotion of the song to shape each phrase naturally.
Something has shaped me as a musician for decades, and it will be an important part of how I want to approach these recordings.
It's easy to believe that the best recordings come from carefully planned performances where every turn and every note is mapped out before the red recording light comes on. I've learned something different.
Most of the greatest musical moments I've ever experienced weren't planned at all. They just happened. Those are the moments I still live for as a musician and vocalist.
For years, I've been fortunate to play in bars, tour with bands, and perform at concerts, festivals, and university fraternity and sorority events, experiences that have allowed me to share the stage with remarkable musicians who helped shape the way I think about making music. I've also had the privilege of performing alongside blues and rock legends—musicians whose recordings helped define an era. Some were connected to Capricorn Records, the legendary label that introduced the Allman Brothers to the world.
What those experiences taught me goes far beyond technique. They taught me that some of the most powerful moments in music are the ones that can't be planned. They happen when musicians are listening as closely as they're playing—when one player offers an idea, another responds, and suddenly the music becomes a conversation. That is when musicians stop simply performing a song and begin creating something that exists only in that particular moment.
For a musician, there is no substitute for experiencing that kind of connection. It teaches you to trust your instincts, to leave room for discovery, and to understand that sometimes the most meaningful note is the one you didn't know you were going to play until the moment arrived.
You can actually feel it when an entire band lands in that place together. The musicians begin listening more than they're thinking. The music develops a personality of its own, wanders down an unexpected road for a time, then somehow finds its way home again. When it happens, everyone on stage knows it. More importantly, the audience knows it too. I've seen the reactions time and time again, especially among younger audiences.
But that kind of musical freedom only happens when every player is fully connected and capable of responding in the moment. Every musician has to be in sync with the others, much like the cylinders of a finely tuned engine working together to create something greater than any one part could produce alone. Each player has a role, but the real power comes from how those individual parts communicate and work together.
If one element isn't there—if one player can't hear, react, or rise to the moment—the music can't truly transform. It can't take on a new personality and follow that unexpected road. But when every musician is locked in, something special happens. The music begins to breathe, ideas are exchanged in real time, and the song can travel somewhere nobody planned for it to go.
That is one of the reasons bands like the Allman Brothers, the Grateful Dead, Gov't Mule, Widespread Panic, and so many others built such loyal followings. Their audiences weren't only drawn to the songs themselves; they were drawn to the moments that happened within those songs—the extended conversations, the unexpected turns, and the spontaneous musical passages that could never be recreated exactly the same way twice. They trusted the musicians. They trusted the moment. They left room for discovery.
That is also one of the reasons Bart, Sparky, and Randy are such a perfect fit for this project. They are not only exceptional musicians; they are a group that understands how to listen, respond in the moment, and move together as one. They trust each other's instincts, they leave room for discovery, and they have the ability to follow the music wherever it wants to go while always finding their way back home.
That's the spirit I want to bring into these recording sessions. Yes, I want the tracks to be tight. Yes, I want every song to tell its story. But at the same time I want the music to be loose and "breathe."
When listeners eventually hear my album From There To Here, I want them to hear more than songs. I want them to hear four musicians listening to one another... Taking chances... Smiling when something unexpected happens... Having fun... And enjoying the journey together.
Because sometimes the most memorable moments in music are the ones nobody saw coming.
- Stevie Hawkins
Part 7 of the "From There To Here" album project... With the music demos almost finished and the lyrics for From There To Here nearing completion, I'm about to start hearing these songs the way they'll eventually be sung. The next step is recording my guide vocals—a stage that quietly shapes almost everything that follows.
These aren't final vocals. In many ways, they're working blueprints.
The purpose of these recordings is threefold. First, they help me learn and internalize each song before stepping into the studio. Second, they provide my co-producer a structural and emotional blueprint. Third, they give the musicians a clear roadmap as they begin developing their own parts for the master recording sessions.
These tracks become the first musical conversation between me, the co-producer, and the other musicians involved in the album. They give all of us a shared musical starting point, providing a sense of the melody, phrasing, and emotional direction while still leaving room for each player to bring their own creativity into the final recordings.
Although I've been writing and rewriting these songs for several months, these sessions are often the first time I actually sing them from beginning to end.
While writing the lyrics, I have always had a basic melody in my head for each song. The way this project has unfolded, I intentionally chose to continue writing one lyric after another instead of stopping to record guide vocals along the way.
I felt that constantly shifting between writing and recording would interrupt the creative wave that has continued to flow throughout this project. For me, it was more important to stay in that creative space and allow the songs to keep coming.
Now it's time to give those melodies a voice.
The Recording Setup:
People are often surprised to learn that I record guide vocals at home using a very simple setup. I've never believed that good recordings require the newest gear. In fact, I tend to gravitate toward older equipment because, to my ears, it simply sounds better. These ears have spent a lifetime listening not only to music, but also to the details behind it—the tones, textures, performances, and production choices that make a recording feel alive.
Looking back, I've realized I've been listening to music this way since I was about eight years old. While most people naturally connected with the song itself, I found myself wondering why a vocal sounded the way it did, how an instrument achieved a particular tone, why certain sounds were placed where they were in the mix, or why a song was arranged the way it was. I didn't know it at the time, but I was already listening like a producer and recording engineer.
I use an Avid Mbox Pro 8x8 audio interface as the digital hub for recording my vocals. Designed by Avid's Pro Tools | HD hardware team, it features professional-grade microphone preamps, 24-bit/192 kHz audio resolution, flexible I/O routing, and a dedicated hardware monitor control section. Even though it is no longer the newest piece of equipment on the market, it continues to deliver exactly what I need.
I record and edit my vocals with Avid Pro Tools 10.3.10 HD, an older version of one of the music industry's most widely used digital audio recording programs. I've been using Pro Tools for more than 20 years, and it has continually proven to be a reliable part of my recording process. Since it still does everything I need, I've never felt the need to replace it simply because a newer version exists.
Depending on the personality of the song, I'll choose from several different microphones. Each one has its own character, and sometimes changing microphones is enough to inspire a completely different vocal approach.
People sometimes ask if I have a favorite microphone. The truth is, every microphone has its own personality. Choosing one isn't about finding the "best" microphone—it's about finding the one that best serves the song.
Over the years, I've learned that there really isn't one microphone that works perfectly for every voice, instrument, or style of music. While many producers and engineers have their go-to microphones—often classic choices like the Neumann U47, U67, or U87—and those microphones have earned their legendary reputations, I've always believed the right microphone depends on the source and the song.
I learned that lesson in the 1970s while watching and working around legendary producers and recording engineers such as Bob Ezrin, Ed Sprigg, Corky Stasiak, and Jim Frank at Record Plant East Studio in New York City. What stood out to me was that they didn't limit themselves to only the most expensive or celebrated microphones. They used whatever best captured the sound they were looking for. The microphone locker at the Record Plant Studio contained about 250 microphones, everything from inexpensive to high-end Neumann, Telefunken, and AKG condensers and RCA ribbon microphones.
One example that has always stayed with me was watching engineer Ed Sprigg choose a Radio Shack Realistic Highball 2 microphone to capture Dick Wagner's guitar amp speaker cabinet during an Alice Cooper recording session produced by Bob Ezrin at Record Plant East. Seeing a top-level engineer make that choice in a major studio environment made a lasting impression on me. It reinforced the idea that the value of a microphone isn't determined by its price tag or reputation but by whether it captures the character and emotion the recording needs. I eventually bought one myself, and it remains in my microphone locker to this day because, in the right situation, it still has a character and usefulness all its own.
Seeing and hearing how they chose microphones—not based on price or reputation, but on the character they brought to a performance—was an invaluable part of my education. That approach has stayed with me ever since and continues to influence the way I make recording decisions today.
When I’ve chosen the microphone that best fits my voice for a song, the signal path itself is intentionally simple. The microphone signal passes through a tube microphone preamp imparting warmth, analog color, and harmonic richness before feeding into my Mbox Pro and then directly into Pro Tools running on my Macbook Pro laptop.
Other than using the tube microphone preamp, one thing I don't do is record using compression or EQ. I prefer to capture my vocals completely natural and unprocessed, preserving the performance exactly as it comes through the microphone. If any equalization, compression, or other processing is needed, I'll apply it later after the vocal has been recorded and committed to its own track. I prefer making those decisions during playback rather than while I'm concentrating on delivering the performance.
Interestingly enough, this is essentially the same recording chain I've used on nearly every vocal performance you've heard on my recordings over the years. Simple, familiar, and dependable
Finding the Vocal Performance:
The goal during these sessions isn't perfection. It's exploration.
This is where the songs really begin to take on a personality. I experiment with vocal melodies, phrasing, dynamics, emotion, breathing, and even silence. I'll try different ways of approaching a line, emphasizing certain words, softening others, stretching a vowel just a little longer, or changing the way I attack a phrase.
Sometimes I'll discover that singing less actually says more. Other times, I'll find that a lyric I loved on paper needs another rewrite once I hear it performed.
These guide vocal sessions also help me discover whether a melody feels natural to sing, whether a lyric flows the way I intended, and whether the emotional arc of the song feels genuine from beginning to end.
After a guide vocal is recorded, I don't immediately move on. I'll live with it for a while—listening in the car, through headphones, or while working around the house.
Oddly enough, I often hear things differently when the music is playing in another room while I'm in the kitchen cooking. Something about the way the frequencies travel from the listening room through the kitchen area changes the perspective. It allows me to hear the relationship between the vocal, instruments, and chord changes in a different way.
Sometimes I'll notice a vocal phrase that needs a little more attention, an instrument part that may need to be adjusted, or a chord progression that could be strengthened. These are things I might not recognize while sitting directly in front of the studio monitor speakers, focused on the technical side of the recording.
Distance has a way of revealing things. Stepping away from the speakers and simply listening as a listener—not as the person who created the song—often reveals what the song truly needs.
The Importance of an Honest Performance:
That philosophy doesn't end once I step into the studio to record the master vocals, either.
While I certainly want every performance to be human and good, I'm not chasing technical perfection. In fact, I'll often leave small imperfections in a final vocal on purpose.
A note that's ever so slightly sharp or flat, an unexpected breath before an important line, or a voice that cracks just enough to reveal genuine emotion can sometimes say more than a perfectly polished take ever could.
For me, great vocals aren't measured by perfection—they're measured by how they make someone feel. I'd rather capture an honest, emotionally compelling performance than a flawless one that sounds sterile. Those little human imperfections are often what listeners connect with because they're real.
Over the years, I've come to realize that's become a defining part of my vocal sound.
"It's never been about delivering a technically perfect performance. It's about delivering an honest one."
If a vocal makes someone stop, listen, and feel something, then it's done exactly what I hoped it would do.
By the time I walk into the studio to record the master vocals, I want the songs to feel completely lived in. I want to know every lyric, every phrase, every breath, and every emotional turn. The technical side of singing should already be second nature so that all my attention can be focused on delivering the performance.
These guide vocals won't be heard outside my studio other than by the project's creative team, and that's perfectly fine. They aren't meant for release. Their job is to prepare me—and everyone else involved—to make the very best record we can.
They're where the songs begin finding their voice...and where I continue finding mine.
For me, this is another step in the journey from there...to here.
- Stevie Hawkins
Part 8 of the "From There To Here" album project... As I continue finishing the music demos and prepare to begin recording the guide vocals, I've noticed my thoughts drifting away from microphones, preamps, and recording schedules. Instead, I keep coming back to a much simpler question: What kind of record do I want From There To Here to become?
At first glance, that might not seem like an important distinction. After all, a song is a song... right?
I mean, if it were really that simple, every record would leave the same impression. We would all just need the right microphone, the right guitar, and apparently a lot less time arguing about gear.
Not exactly.
More Than Notes and Performances:
Over the years, I have come to believe that the way a record is made becomes part of what the listener ultimately hears. It is not just the notes, the lyrics, or the performances. It is the spirit in which those performances are captured.
Some records sound polished. Some records sound impressive. And then there are those rare records that simply feel alive. Those are the records that have stayed with me throughout my life. They make you feel like you are sitting in the room with the musicians. The performances breathe. The humanity feels genuine. Every song seems to have a heartbeat of its own.
Those are the records that reminded me why I fell in love with music to begin with.
That is the kind of record I want From There To Here to become. Not because it is technically perfect. Because it feels honest.
I have never believed great records are made by equipment alone. And trust me, I love gear as much as the next musician. I can spend plenty of time talking about microphones, tones, and all the little details that make recording engineers lean in and other people slowly realize they may have accidentally joined a very specific conversation.
But equipment alone has never been what makes a record special. Great records are made by gifted people, in the right environment, trusting one another enough to let the technology fade into the background and simply make music. When that happens, something special begins to take shape. It becomes more than a collection of songs. It becomes a living record.
Chasing The Moment:
Sometimes the most memorable moments in music are not planned. They are found. A subtle change in dynamics. A guitar phrase that was never expected. A drummer responding to the weight of a lyric. A bass line that suddenly finds exactly where it belongs.
Those moments cannot be scheduled, and they cannot always be recreated through endless repetition. That is the funny thing about music. The harder you try to force those moments to happen, the more they seem to hide.
They happen when musicians are listening and reacting to one another instead of simply playing their assigned parts.
Those are the moments I live for.
Controlled Abandon:
Over the years, I have also learned something important about myself as a musician. I do my best work when I am playing from instinct instead of analysis.
For my own original music, I have made one commitment to myself that I carry into every recording session: I will not record more than three drum takes.
That is not because I expect the third take to be the best take. It is because I know where my best performances come from. The first few takes are where I am most connected to the song. I am listening, reacting naturally, and allowing the music to guide me instead of trying to control every note I play.
Then something begins to change.
The fourth take is where things get dangerous. That is where I stop chasing the performance and start chasing ghosts.
I start thinking about what I am playing instead of simply playing it. I begin analyzing choices, questioning decisions, and becoming aware of the mechanics instead of the feeling. That is when the performance starts moving away from instinct. Not because we have run out of ideas, but because I do not want to lose the very thing we are trying to capture: spontaneous energy and emotion.
Maybe other musicians can stay in that creative space longer. I haven't found that to be true for me.
For me, this is what controlled abandon means. It is not playing without discipline or awareness. It is trusting the connection I have with the song, trusting the musicians around me, and allowing the moment itself to guide the performance.
The preparation is understanding the heart of the song deeply enough to allow instinct, creativity, and freedom to take over when the recording begins.
Building The Foundation:
For a project like From There To Here, preparation does not mean creating a traditional band environment where the identity of the music is developed through repeatedly working through songs together before recording.
This record begins with the foundation of the songs—the writing, arrangements, demos, and creative direction behind the music. That foundation is where much of my responsibility as the artist and producer exists, along with Edd Miller, my co-producer.
Together, our role is to establish the direction and create the foundation that allows the musicians involved to bring their best into the recording process.
The People Who Bring the Music to Life:
The musicians I chose for this project bring something that goes beyond technical ability. They have the rare ability to instinctively sense what is about to happen musically. That kind of awareness is not something that can simply be taught. It comes from a natural connection to music, strengthened through years of listening, performing, and developing a deeper understanding of what a song needs.
Deeply musical people understand where the music wants to go. They do not just play the notes. They listen, respond, and contribute to the movement of the song.
That is one of the reasons Bart Walker, Mark “Sparky” Matejka, and Randy Threet are part of this project. Beyond their exceptional musical abilities, they are simply great people. They bring a humility and openness into the room that makes collaboration natural. They are comfortable being themselves, they leave ego behind, and they bring a sense of fun that allows creativity to flow freely.
For me, that matters.
The best sessions are not only about having great musicians. Equally important is having the right people with the right energy in the room.
I want the musicians involved in this project to bring their ideas, creativity, and personalities into these songs. I do not want people simply recreating demos. I want musicians responding to the music and allowing the songs to become something greater through their individual contributions.
The goal is not for everyone to hear the exact same thing. The goal is for everyone to contribute something that helps the song become what it was meant to be. That is where the magic happens.
Lessons From Nashville:
One of the reasons I believe so strongly in this approach comes from sitting in Nashville studios, quietly watching musicians I admired do what they do. I learned far more in those rooms than I ever expected.
The master session musicians I have worked with there have taught me something important: Seasoned musicians do not need endless time to find their place in a song. They have already spent a lifetime developing their craft.
They listen.
They understand.
They contribute.
A typical Nashville tracking session is a great example of this. The musicians gather together and listen to a song demo. They discuss the arrangement, make any agreed-upon adjustments, suggest ideas, and make sure everyone understands the direction.
Then they play.
The engineer records the first take.
And many times, that first take captures something special.
That moment when everything connects—that is the magic.
If there are small adjustments needed, they make them. A band leader may ask for a correction, a "fix," or an overdub where necessary. But the goal is never to endlessly chase a performance.
Once the song has what it needs, they move forward.
There is a confidence that comes from experience. These musicians do not have to overthink every decision because their instincts have been developed through years of playing. They are not searching for the music. They are bringing the music with them.
There is also something freeing about watching musicians who trust their instincts. They do not spend 45 minutes searching for an answer that the song has already given them. They make a decision, they commit, and they play.
Recording with those musicians is inspiring. It is also a little dangerous because it reminds you how much you still have to learn. You leave the session excited, motivated, and briefly considering whether you should practice another six hours a day.
Even after all these years, I still love that moment just before the count-off. Everyone knows the song. Everyone knows why they're there. And for the next few minutes, nobody really knows exactly what's about to happen. That's still one of my favorite places in the world.
Creating The Environment:
That is the environment I want to create for From There To Here.
I am not trying to build a band in the studio. I am bringing together accomplished musicians who already know who they are and giving them the freedom to bring their own voice into these songs. The goal is not for everyone to become something different. The goal is for each musician to contribute who they already are in service of the music. That is how a collection of great musicians becomes something more.
A Living Record:
A great record is a living thing. That is what I want to achieve with From There To Here.
Not a collection of perfect performances, but a record that feels like something alive is happening every time someone presses play.
A record where musicians trusted one another.
A record where emotion was never sacrificed in pursuit of perfection.
A record that captured the moment when preparation gave way to instinct.
A living record.
- Stevie Hawkins
Part 9 of the "From There To Here" album project... So, how did I end up wearing a Sopranos shirt, holding a cigar, wearing diamond rings, and standing alongside a white Cadillac Escalade?
It was all in good fun.
But sometimes life has a strange way of circling back.
What started as a playful photo opportunity unexpectedly connected two very different chapters of my life.
Because this wasn't just any Cadillac.
It was Tony Soprano's white 2003 Cadillac Escalade ESV driven by James Gandolfini during the final two seasons of the HBO series, The Sopranos. Before his passing in 2013, Gandolfini personally autographed several places inside the vehicle, making it a genuine piece of television history.
Today, the Escalade has found its way back in front of the cameras. Actor Pete Davidson brought it to Atlanta, where it's being used during the production of Tommy Karate, a feature film based on the life of Bonanno crime family associate Thomas "Tommy Karate" Pitera.
Through someone Charlotte and I know on the production team made the rare and fun photo opportunity with the Soprano Cadillac possible while it was off set.
What surprised me was what it reminded me of.
The car wasn't just connected to a fictional mob boss. It unexpectedly took me back to a real chapter of my own life—one that became a part of the inspiration behind a song I wrote for my upcoming album project, From There To Here.
What follows isn't the history of a nightclub. It's the true story behind a song I recently wrote as part of my upcoming album project—the people I met, the events I witnessed, and the lessons I carried with me from a remarkable chapter in my life at The Lower Level.
Before I could write the song, I had to live it—and that journey began when I was sixteen years old, behind a drum kit in a place called The Lower Level.
The Lower Level:
The Lower Level sat on Asheville Highway just outside Knoxville, Tennessee. It was a late-night roadhouse where the band didn’t begin until midnight and played until five in the morning.
The room had its own personality. Orange shag carpet covered the walls. Colored flood lights on the stage reflected through the haze of cigarette smoke, and by two o’clock a.m. the dance floor was usually full. Out front, people came to hear the music. In the back, poker and blackjack tables stayed busy, with poker games sometimes continuing on for several days.
But the club itself is not what stayed with me. It was the people.
I had landed a job that placed me among seasoned musicians, business owners, gamblers, law enforcement officers, politicians, and a collective of people whose stories I would not fully understand until decades later.
I thought I was there to play drums, to develop my craft.
I was receiving an education no classroom could have provided but was unaware of that until later on in life. I was learning about music, but I was also learning about people—their personalities, their choices, their struggles, and the experiences that shaped them.
Decades later, those observations found their way into one of the songs on my From There To Here album project.
The Musicians Who Shaped Me
I found my way to the Lower Level through two musicians who would have a lasting influence on my life.
Phil Lord and Les Gray had been performing together for years. Les sang while playing drums, and Phil played guitar and sang while handling bass pedals with his left foot. They were seasoned professionals with far more experience than I could imagine at my young age.
Then everything changed.
Les was seriously injured in a motorcycle accident and spent an extended time in the hospital. Suddenly, Phil needed a drummer and singer.
My mother, who had occasionally worked with Phil and Les as a vocalist, told Phil about me. I auditioned, got the job, and found myself playing alongside musicians who were my mother's age.
When I stop and think about it, that was an extraordinary opportunity.
I wasn't just learning songs. I was learning from professionals who had already spent years on stages, in clubs, and navigating the realities of the music business.
Phil, originally from Boston, often shared stories about playing clubs in the North-east during the late 1960s and early '70s. Some of those venues, he explained, had organized crime connections, and getting paid at the end of the night was never guaranteed. Sometimes you were paid in full. Sometimes only part. Sometimes not at all. The unspoken rule was simple: don't argue with the people in charge.
Those stories fascinated me, but Phil's greatest influence wasn't in the tales he told. It was in the example he set.
He believed that being a musician meant far more than playing the right notes. Professionalism mattered. Presentation mattered. The way you dressed, the way you carried yourself, and the respect you showed your audience were all part of the performance. He constantly challenged me to grow, encouraging me to play and sing material well beyond my years.
Many of the habits that stayed with me throughout my career began with Phil.
When Les recovered and returned, the band became even stronger. Besides being a drummer, he was also a piano player and a good soulful vocalist, but what impressed me most was his ability to understand people.
Les could read a room.
He knew when to speak, when to listen, when to ease tension with humor, and when to simply let a moment pass. Watching him taught me that communication wasn't just about words—it was about timing, awareness, understanding body language and the people around you.
He also gave me something every sixteen-year-old dreams about: my first car.
It was a pea-green 1959 Volkswagen Beetle. It may not have been the prettiest car in Knoxville, but to me it represented freedom. Suddenly, I wasn't depending on someone else to get me to rehearsals or late-night gigs or to the grocery store.
Without a doubt, Phil and Les gave me far more than a job. They helped shape the musician—and ultimately the songwriter—I would become.
People Are Rarely Just One Thing:
The musicians were only part of what made the Lower Level unforgettable. The people who owned it, worked there, and walked through those doors taught me lessons that had nothing to do with music.
I was surrounded by people whose experiences were far beyond my own. I wasn't studying them or trying to understand their histories or reputations. I was simply getting to know people one conversation and one moment at a time.
Only years later did I begin to understand the holistic perspective.
Howard Stormer and Jim "Jimbo" Green were the owners of the Lower Level, and they were two of the most memorable personalities connected to the club.
To others, Howard may have been known as the businessman who owned the property where the Lower Level was located. To me, he was simply Howard.
He loved his Cadillac, enjoyed dressing the part of a high-roller, and had a larger-than-life goofy personality. But the side of Howard I remember most was the person away from the nightclub—the man whose home I visited, where we would shoot pool, tell jokes, have dinner, talk about cars, women, and music, and enjoy ordinary moments.
I didn't know Howard through headlines or history. I knew him as a person.
Through Howard, I occasionally crossed paths with people whose names would later become associated with some of the most talked-about Southern mob figures and stories of that era. A couple of those people were Dixie Mafia, State-Line Mob ringleaders, the charismatic Kirksey Nix Jr, and the fearless, intensely ambitious and ruthless ego-centrist, Carl “Towhead” White.
In 1973, I met Sheriff Buford Pusser. His notoriety as the sheriff of McNairy County, Tennessee, the films, and the compelling events surrounding his life had made him nationally recognized. To many people, he represented a fight against organized crime and corruption along the Tennessee-Mississippi border, including Nix and White's State-Line mob. I remember him showing me the large stick he carried and explaining that he used it instead of a traditional firearm. However, to me, he was simply a person standing in front of me.
At the time, those meetings did not feel historical. They were simply moments. I judged people by how they treated me, the conversations we shared, and the experiences we had together. The broader context came much later.
At this juncture, you discover the indirect but unique connection I made to the Soprano Cadillac, the new Bonnano film, and my past intersecting with those wild and woolly Southern mobster characters and this larger-than-life sheriff who was actively shutting down their illegal operations.
That was one of the most important lessons the Lower Level taught me: people are rarely just one thing.
Jim “Jimbo” Green was the other owner of the Lower Level, but to me, he became much more than a businessman. He was one of the funniest people I ever knew. He always had a joke ready and could turn almost any situation into laughter. He loved entertaining people and would occasionally sit in with the band to sing "Hot Nuts" by Doug Clark & The Hot Nuts, much to the delight of the crowd.
That was Jimbo.
But beneath the humor was something else. He looked out for me. In many ways, he became my protector at the Lower Level. He understood that I was young and that I was stepping into an adult world before I fully understood it. He watched what was happening around me and made sure I was okay. Those actions meant more than I probably realized at the time.
Robert, the bartender, taught me something different.
He worked every night in an environment filled with people from every background imaginable. Some carried kindness. Some carried prejudice. Some carried reputations that could be intimidating.
But Robert had a quiet strength. He was patient. He was respectful. He knew how to connect with people without losing himself. Watching him taught me that every environment has its own language—not just words, but body language, tone, timing, and the ability to understand people.
Then there was Big Jack Amick, a silent financial partner in the Lower Level.
Big Jack was the blackjack dealer, and because there was only one blackjack table, everyone knew him. He was larger than life.
He carried a thick roll of cash folded in half and held together with a rubber band, typically 3 to 5 thousand dollars. Almost every weekend, he would pull it out, peel off a hundred or two hundred dollars, and hand it to me with a grin.
"Stick that in your pocket and don't spend it on licorice sticks."
That was Big Jack: funny, generous, and always putting on a show. He fit right in.
Sisco and Ed were part of that same world.
Sisco dealt poker and always greeted me with, "What's happening, Big Shot Daddy Rabbit!" Ed was quieter, but he had his own unforgettable personality: he was always grinning with his upper and lower teeth showing and clamped together.
Around that same time, all three of them bought a new 1973 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray. Jack's was black. Ed's was orange. Sisco's was white.
One morning after closing, Ed took me for a ride in his Corvette. Asheville Highway had a long, straight stretch of road, and Ed decided to see what the car could do. The speedometer climbed and climbed. I looked down and saw the needle approaching 160 miles per hour. I was terrified. Ed was grinning.
Reflecting, it sounds like something from a movie. But that was simply life around the Lower Level. The cars people drove, the jokes they told, the way they dressed, and the way they carried themselves were all part of their identity.
They weren't just people passing through a nightclub. They were the personalities that gave the Lower Level its character.
The World Beyond The Stage:
The Lower Level had another side that existed beyond the music.
Up front, people came to hear the band, dance, and enjoy the night. But out of sight behind the scenes ran a criminal empire of high-stakes gambling, whispered plots, dirty money, and dangerous men hiding in plain sight.
I was not part of that world. I was a young musician. I was there because I loved playing drums. But being there meant I witnessed things most people my age never saw.
The card rooms were part of the rhythm of the night. While the music continued on the front stage, poker and blackjack games continued in the back. I watched from the perspective of an observer—not as a participant, but as someone taking in everything happening around me.
I watched people celebrate victories and deal with losses. I watched confidence turn into disappointment and excitement turn into frustration.
Those moments taught me lessons that had nothing to do with gambling. They taught me about choices. They taught me about consequences. They taught me about human nature.
The Lower Level was a place where different worlds crossed paths. People from completely different backgrounds could share the same room, each bringing their own experiences, personalities, and stories with them.
I was not trying to understand the bigger picture. I was learning songs, playing drums, singing, and trying to become better at my craft.
But the longer I was there, the more I discovered there was an education happening around me. I was learning how to read people. I was learning how to listen. I was learning that appearances could be deceiving and that reputation did not always reveal the full picture.
As time went on, it became quite clear to me that life was rarely as simple as it first appeared. People couldn't always be understood by reputation alone, and the stories behind them were often far more interesting than first impressions.
That wisdom comes from the real world, not a textbook.
And they have stayed with me long after the music stopped in that place.
Lights, Cameras, and a Sheriff's Raid:
Years later, I realize the Lower Level existed during a complicated time. There were connections, relationships, and activities happening around the club that I did not fully understand as a teenager. I was there to play music, but being in that environment meant seeing a side of life that was far beyond my own experience.
Over time, I learned that the world is not always as simple as it appears. People carry reputations. People carry influence. People make choices. And sometimes the stories told about someone are only part of the picture.
A part of the "pay-to-play" deal was a semi-annual staged raid. So one night before the club opened, Jimbo called a quick meeting with the staff and the band. He told us that he and a deputy had coordinated a fake raid that was going to happen at 11:00 p.m. that night, one hour before the band started playing, systematically conveying how the entire event would transpire. To the effect of law enforcement appearing to be arresting he and Robert, the bartender, handcuffs and all.
Next they were to be put in the back of a patrol car, and they would ride with the deputy to the county jail and be taken inside. That particular complete act was to ensure if news reporters or others were to follow them, they were covered by going to the jail. Then after the news crews had clearly left, Big Jack would call the jail to give them the "all clear" to return. The deputy would bring them back to the club, and it was business as usual. So yeah, the entire thing was planned, and that is part of how the pay-to-play scheme worked. What followed was one of the strangest things I ever witnessed at the Lower Level, and it is something I have never forgotten.
After a bogus tip given to the local television news by one of Jimbo's buddies, news crews arrived expecting to capture an actual law enforcement action underway. But standing there watching everything unfold, it felt less like a news event and more like watching a scene being created for a movie.
The cameras were positioned. The sheriff’s deputy was directed where to stand. The details were carefully arranged. I did not fully understand what I was witnessing. I only knew it was unusual. The sole reason the sheriff wanted the news crews there was to provide a county-wide television reach of visible law enforcement efforts to curb illegal activities in the county. Not only did that make him look good to the voters, served to please to several strict law-abiding politicians and the mayor.
I didn't know any better back then. To me, all those nightclubs were the same—just standard spots, some with a little gambling on the side, as I mention in the song. Several of my friends played music at those places anyway. There were quite a few illegal gambling clubs around the region, and every single one of them operated on a 'pay-to-play' basis. I’ll leave it at that.
Years later, I came to understand that moment represented another lesson from the Lower Level: the world is often more complicated than it first appears.
The Lesson Behind Those Encounters:
The strange thing about life is that you often do not recognize important moments while they are happening. Only later do you understand what those moments meant.
The Lower Level taught me that people are rarely just one thing. Someone can be funny and complicated. Someone can be generous and flawed. Someone can have a reputation that extends far beyond the person you personally know.
That was one of the greatest lessons I took from those years. Pay attention. Listen. Observe. Understand.
Insights that stayed with me long after the music stopped. And decades later, they became part of the narrative I am telling now.
Old Jim: The Lesson Behind The Laughter:
Not every important person from the Lower Level carried a reputation beyond those walls. Some people mattered because of the simple moments they shared. Old Jim was one of those people.
Old Jim cleaned up the Lower Level every night it was open. He was part of the daily rhythm of the club—the person who came in after the music stopped, after the crowd left, and after the long nights finally came to an end. But to me, he was much more than someone who worked there. He was a happy-go-lucky, fun-loving man who, in many ways, became fatherly towards me.
One of my favorite memories was sitting with him and playing cards. The game was called Tonk, or Tunk, a fast-paced matching card game where players tried to get rid of their cards, create matched sets, or finish with the lowest point total.
There was no gambling involved. It was simply two people enjoying a game and passing time. I used to beat him almost every time, and he would get “seemingly” mad. He was probably just letting me win.
Those memories are important because they show another side of the Lower Level. Not every moment was about reputations, gambling, or the unusual characters who walked through the door.
There was also friendship. There was laughter. There were ordinary moments between people who cared about each other. That was what made the Lower Level so complicated.
The same room could hold so many different experiences—sometimes within the same night.
The Different Sides Of People:
Old Jim also taught me another lesson. The person you know in one setting may not always be the same person you see in another.
Inside the Lower Level, Old Jim was the man I knew. He was funny, easygoing, and someone who looked out for me. But outside those walls, alcohol could change things.
Having grown up around someone who struggled with alcohol, I understood that there was often more happening beneath the surface than what people saw. I knew that addiction could affect not only the person struggling with it, but also the people around them.
It was difficult to watch someone who brought so much laughter and kindness into a room also struggle when alcohol took control.
As I got older, I came to understand that people can carry different sides of themselves. Good memories and difficult realities can exist at the same time. Old Jim was not defined by one moment or one circumstance.
He was the man who cleaned up the Lower Level every night. He was the man who sat with me and played cards. He was the man who treated me with kindness.
And he was also a reminder that every person has struggles that may not be visible to others.
The Morning Everything Changed:
Some of the strongest memories from the Lower Level came after the music stopped. After the last song. After the crowd left. After the lights came up. The parking lot outside the club was where the night finally ended.
One morning after closing, I walked outside expecting nothing more than another long drive home. My Pontiac Grand Ville was parked outside, ready for me to leave. But I couldn't.
My car was blocked in by Sonny's Chevy coupe. Sonny was someone people knew. He had a reputation around the county, and I understood enough to keep my distance.
Old Jim was outside with Sonny as well. But this morning was different. Old Jim was staggering around the gravel lot, babbling and moving unpredictably. Something about the situation did not feel right.
Manager Jimbo stepped outside and calmly asked Sonny if he would move his car so I could leave. It seemed like a simple request. A normal thing. But everything changed in an instant.
Sonny pulled out a .38 pistol. Old Jim pulled out a .22 pistol. In an instant Jimbo had pistols pointed at either side of his head.
Suddenly, the quiet of the morning was broken by gunfire. I dropped down beneath the dashboard of my Pontiac Grand Ville.
For a moment, I had no idea what was happening. Now I was crouched beneath my dashboard, trying to understand whether Jimbo was alive or not.
Sonny sped away. The parking lot slowly became quiet again. But I was not the same person who had walked into that club the night before.
I remember the fear. I remember the confusion. I remember realizing how quickly things could have ended differently. Most of all, I remember being thankful that Jimbo and I survived that morning.
That moment taught me something no song, no schoolbook, and no conversation could have taught me.
Life can change in a second.
Why This Story Matters:
For decades, those memories remained tucked away—the names, the faces, the sounds, the conversations, and the moments that seemed ordinary at the time but became more meaningful as the years passed.
Eventually, those memories found their way into my songwriting. This story connects directly to one of the songs I wrote for From There To Here. The lyrics are about real people, real places, real events, and real experiences I lived as a young drummer.
They come from the music. They come from the characters. They come from the lessons learned while watching the world around me. The song is about more than a nightclub. It is about growing up. It is about the people we meet along the way. It is about how moments from our past can wait decades before revealing their true meaning.
The Lower Level was one chapter in a much larger story. I thought I was just playing another gig. But only much later, I realize I was collecting pieces of a story I would one day tell.
Full Circle:
That brings me back to the photographs.
Standing beside Tony Soprano’s white Cadillac Escalade, wearing a Sopranos shirt, holding a cigar, and having a little fun with the moment was exactly what it was meant to be—a smile, a little theater, and a reminder of how unpredictable life can be.
But the reason that moment meant something more to me was not the car itself. It was the connection.
Decades earlier, I was sitting behind a drum kit at the Lower Level in Knoxville. I was surrounded by music, colorful personalities, late nights, and people whose stories I would not fully understand until much later.
Years later, I found myself standing beside a piece of television history from one of television's most iconic portrayals of organized crime. A fictional crime family on television. An actual chapter of Southern history from my own life involving meetings with key mafia figures from the southeastern United States involved in the organization and operation of establishments such as the Lower Level.
Two completely different worlds separated by decades, yet connected by an unexpected thread running through my life. That is part of what From There To Here represents.
The places we go. The people we meet. The experiences that shape us. I thought I was just playing another gig. I did not know I was collecting stories. I did not know those nights would eventually become songs. I did not know that decades later, a Cadillac from The Sopranos would somehow become part of the story I was telling.
But that is the strange way life works. Sometimes the moments we experience along the way do not reveal their meaning until much later. The Lower Level was one chapter. The music was another. The people were another.
And now in retrospect, I can see how those pieces connected. That is the path from there to here.
Before I Could Write The Song, I Had To Live The Story:
The people, the places, the laughter, the uncertainty, the late nights, and the lessons were all genuine. They became the foundation for the lyrics—not because I set out to write about them, but because they had quietly become part of who I was.
For me, songwriting has always been about more than finding words that rhyme. It is about capturing moments that mattered, remembering the people who left an impression, and giving lived experiences a voice through music.
The inspiration behind this song was not created from imagination. It came from life. It came from the people I met, the places I went, and the moments I carried with me long after the music stopped.
Sometimes the stories we live become the songs we never knew we were writing.
Your Time Reading Is Appreciated:
Your Time Reading Is Appreciated
If you have stayed with me all the way to the end of Part 9, thank you. I know your time is valuable, and I truly appreciate you spending some of it with me.
My hope is that these memories gave you more than a glimpse into my past. I hope they reminded you of the people, places, and moments that helped shape your own journey as well.
This song carries pieces of a time and place that left a lasting impression on me. The people, the memories, and the moments behind it have been waiting decades to be shared. I can’t wait for you to hear it in a few months.
Thank you for being part of mine.
Part 10 of the "From There To Here" album project... Sometimes a seed is planted long before you understand what it is going to grow into.
As part of my From There To Here article series about the ongoing progress of my new album project, I’ve been sharing the people, places, memories, experiences, and creative processes—from songwriting to production—that are shaping not only my music but also the making of this album. These are my stories, told from my perspective as the artist, songwriter, and producer, as I continue making my way from there to here—and because this journey is still unfolding, the story is being written as it happens.
When I wrote the first installment about my co-producer, Edd Miller, I was introducing you to the man, his musical background, and how he became part of my journey. At the time, I didn't necessarily know that another story about Edd would eventually be told.
Perhaps this story is simply the result of some serious musing on my part—something that seems to happen more and more as this album continues to take shape. As From There To Here progresses toward to becoming a recorded album, I have a much clearer understanding of one of the most important roles Edd can play in this project.
I call him The Sonic Guardian.
That's not a title I give lightly.
Edd is a veteran recording engineer first. He has spent years understanding how sound is captured, how instruments translate through microphones and recording equipment, and how the choices made in the live room, where the music is recorded, can ultimately determine what the listener hears.
In the grand scheme of the professional audio world, I believe Edd belongs to a relatively small and elite group of recording engineers whose abilities go beyond technical knowledge. They possess something that technical training alone cannot provide: the natural gift of hearing music—the ability to hear the individual character of an instrument, recognize when it sounds exactly as it should or when something isn't quite right—and understand what needs to be done to capture it authentically.
The technical aspects of recording can be learned. The ability to truly hear music in this way is something else. That kind of hearing is a gift.
Edd has it.
And that expertise is why I believe his role as The Sonic Guardian is perhaps the most vital contribution he can make to From There To Here.
My vision is for me, Sparky, Bart, and Randy to play together live, in the moment, allowing the music to develop naturally between us. I've chosen these musicians because they don't simply play their instruments—they live what they play. They are deeply creative musicians, and I believe the best thing Edd and I can do is give them the freedom to be themselves.
That same philosophy applies to the sound of the record itself.
Edd has been sharing some of his previous work with me, allowing me to listen and see whether there are sounds or recording approaches from his past projects that might provide a template for something I would like him to try. I appreciate that immensely, because it gives me another window into his experience and the sounds he has captured over the years. But the truth is, I had already listened to a substantial body of Edd's work before we ever had our first conversation about this project, and what I heard gave me all the confidence I needed in his ability to hear and capture instruments in the studio. In fact, if I didn't have that level of confidence in his abilities, neither this article nor the first article in this series would have been written.
But looking backward is not really what From There To Here is about.
Yes, there are elements of the past that matter to this project—particularly the analog recording techniques and approaches we plan to incorporate. But beyond that, I don't want us trying to recreate something that has already been done. I want the tonality of the instruments, the vibe, and the sonic energy of this record to come from an in-the-moment capture of us musicians playing together.
I think keeping the recording process as simple as possible—using little to no outboard signal processing on the instruments and vocals as they are being recorded, so the natural tones coming from the microphones and direct signal paths remain intact—is key to the final outcome. Because once signal processing such as compression, echo, reverb, or similar effects is committed to the recording, it becomes part of what was captured and cannot simply be removed later if it isn't serving the music. I would rather preserve the natural sound at the source and make those processing decisions later, when we can hear the entire performance in the context of the finished recording.
I want you, the listener, to be able to step inside that moment when you hear the finished recording—to feel that something fresh is happening, something that wasn't simply pulled from a template or borrowed from another record.
In other words, Edd and I aren't looking backward for the sound of From There To Here.
We're going to let it happen.
We're going to land on a new musical planet, tonally and sonically, and discover what it sounds like together.
In that environment, the music may very well produce itself. That means the less either Edd or I have to impose on the music, the better. Our job is to create the conditions for authentic magic to happen and then recognize it when it does. I don't want these recordings to simply sound good. I want them to sound right.
There is a difference.
Every instrument has its own character. Every musician brings something unique to a performance. The sound coming through the speakers should faithfully represent what was actually played in that room. If the character of an instrument is altered when it reaches the control room, we have already lost something that can't easily be put back later, if at all.
Professional recording is expensive. Every hour in a studio represents an investment of money, time, musicianship, and preparation. The last thing I want is to spend that investment recording a song, walk into the control room for the first listen, and discover that the instruments don't sound remotely like the instruments we intended to record.
I don't want to fix that afterward. I want to get it right at the source.
A recording engineer can be highly skilled and still have a particular sonic perspective. Different styles of music require different approaches, and what works beautifully for one style may not serve another. From There To Here has its own musical language.
That's why I want Edd beside the engineer—not to diminish the engineer's expertise and not to tell someone how to do their job.
I want another set of highly trained ears in the room—ears belonging to someone who understands what I am trying to accomplish musically and can help make sure that vision survives the recording process.
That's what I mean by The Sonic Guardian.
Edd's vital role is to help guard the sound before it becomes a recording.
Because once the performance is captured, there are countless things we can do with it. We can mix it. We can shape it. We can master it. We can make creative decisions about how it ultimately reaches the listener.
But there is one thing we can't do very well: We can't recreate authenticity that was never captured in the first place.
For From There To Here, I don't want to recreate something later. I want to capture it honestly from the beginning.
That's the seed that was planted back in Part 1 when I first introduced you to Edd Miller.
Now, as this album moves from the stories of my past into the present, with a few unrelated side roads explored along the way, and toward the reality of making the record, that seed has grown into something much clearer. I have a much deeper appreciation for why Edd is part of this project and for the ways his production experience, ideas, and creative perspective could contribute to the process. But of all the things Edd brings to From There To Here, I believe his ability to hear, understand, capture, and protect the authenticity and integrity of the sound may ultimately be his most vital contribution.
And when the first notes of From There To Here finally come through the studio monitors, I want to know that what we're hearing is the honest result of what happened in that room—the musicians, the instruments, the energy, and the moment itself.
Not something manufactured afterward. Not something recreated from a template. Something that happened once, in that room, and was captured honestly. Because that's what From There To Here is ultimately about.
Taking everything I've lived, everything these musicians bring with them, and everything that happens when we finally come together—and allowing it to become something that could only have been created there, at that moment, by those people.
And if we get that right, then perhaps the listener won't just hear the record.
They'll feel like they were there.
- Stevie Hawkins