Joshua Cook is an American troubadour.

The Key of Now is the creative force unleashed.

People often ask me where I came from and how I got here. So I will tell you:


I was bored in a Little Apple on a fifth of St. Mark’s, somewhere between Checkpoint Charlie’s and the little house on the priory. Mama had long postponed her starving art so Daddy could hung up his drumsticks and enlist it in the U.S.A. after he lost his hari om and went bald, but her time was gonna come. When I arrived on the heathrow I held my breath till we got out of dodge. The German infiltration of my lexicon was completely ascertained by looking the other way, an unextended consequence of pulling back the curtain considerately, with francophilia the indispensable victoria. Mardi Gras and Comanche rites notwithholding, I sat out the first few rounds till I caught a foot in the eye, which taught me how to read. From that point on words I couldn’t stop talking. She tried to quote me down with happy meals, but the toy stories practically wrote themselves out of the picture. A black box accepted my imitation, and there I would’ve gladly understudied indefinitimetable. As fate would habit, a backscratching convention reduced our menu to amplified ramen and frozen pizzas, and my syndicated teleplays went into instant reruns from exile on blackwater sidestreets. Daddy finished into a cave of his own anathema, while I vowed never to be like Anakin (or Mike for that matter, whoever he was). Meanwhile Mama sequestered the paper mill and fled me upstate or way down yonder on the Chattahoochee, where darkness fell and we fell low on candles. The lake of eminent domain was defective in the light, so I ferried back and forth between outposts until I could drive, and one day he sent me home with a guitar out of spite. Just to prove no hard feelings, she asked for the drums, too. Suddenly a sliver of light peeked through a crack in the door! Battered and bruised by southern culture on the skids, I investitured my days and nights of war eagle lovejoy riding granny glasses in denim and pausing long enough to make bands. Finally Mr. Jones & me concocted a California scheme that drove me west, but on the way back I took a left at Albuquerque and ended up in France instead, where the liberation of Paris repatriated the scandalous three-month weekend in Osaka that we don't talk about. I would come home a better person for it, at least temporarily, but I was stubbornly. Secondary sources a bust, and der Reeperbahn under reconstruction, I turned to myself for professional guidance. All my grans went away, then Daddy followed suite, and finally Mama had the last laugh. I bounced from orphanage to orphanage until realising a car would be cheaper. After many moons chasing the sun, the road broke down meandering through a fertile crescent. Finding a new hope, I decided to stay put and build back better. While my guitar gently weeps, here I stand head in hand, not necessarily stoned but beautiful, goo goo g’joob.


Can you dig it?