A Postcard From Robert Francis

EDITOR’S NOTE: No Depression’s “Postcard From” series features dispatches from artists' daily lives on the road, in the studio, or anywhere in between. Our next installment comes from Robert Francis, whose new album Phantasmagoria was written in the wake of the Palisades, Eaton, and Hurst Fires ravaged Southern California in 2025.

Nineteen years on the mend; reading Ask The Dust in the back of an Econoline, parked on the south shore of Crescent City. A grey wolf with yellow eyes walks the black sand beaches, a marriage at Voodoo Doughnut, rain pooling on the sidewalk. Memories in a standing stream. High school behind me and the world in front. A tenth grade education for a suitcase full of stories. Before Yellowstone there was Montana. Before a realtor runs through it there was Flathead Lake. My first show ever at The Pin & Cue Bowling Alley in Whitefish, Montana. One part Evan Williams, two parts lemon-lime made a fine Lynchburg lemonade. A pack of Lucky Strikes and Karen Dalton's In My Own Time became the daily ritual. One year later; double pneumonia, morphine drip, vancomycin. "What'll be your final meal?" asked the nurse. "Thanksgiving dinner from Boston Market," I replied. Discharged a few days later, I played The El Rey, made the pilgrimage to Big Pink and then back to the West Coast to look for Denis Johnson. Put the whole world on a pedestal. Been to states that'd never heard of an avocado. No such thing as IPA — just a curious pale ale called Sierra Nevada. I caught the tail end of this country, stage IV.