Welcome to the latest edition of the Fog Chaser newsletter—sharing a new original instrumental song & photos every month. (previous issue: weathering)
I’m not big on acknowledging my birthday, but it feels weird not to tell you that, yeah, today’s my birthday.
Okay, moving on.
Finishing another lap around the sun has me feeling reflective, and, honestly, very grateful.
November has always been my favorite month in the desert. The heat finally breaks and the hot, dry air gives way to a fresh crispness that reminds you of something you can’t quite put your finger on—another time, another place, a dream? It’s the time of year when the scent of woodsmoke carries on the air, when the shorter days settle a darkened hush over the landscape.
I grew up in the lower foothills of the Catalina Mountains in Tucson, Arizona. We were perched at a slight elevation, atop a hill—the sparkling town below, the bulky mountains behind. We were just high up enough to catch infrequent drifts of snow in the winter—very rare occasions, though I do remember one magical white Christmas morning, circa 1988—and high enough to wake up to a layer of frost on the ground most mornings, starting in November.
Even as a kid, I was very aware of the slowing of things around me. I relished that time of year and that feeling. I still do, though, frustratingly, the slowing seems harder to come by as an adult.
My brothers and I would roam the valley behind our house until dusk. We explored the open spaces around our house, ambling down hillsides, wandering through dry creek beds, marveling at the novelty of being able to see our breath. It felt like a storybook, but instead of the deep dark woods and foxes, we had towering cactus and javelinas.
We would return home to a warm meal and a crackling fire.
This was a sanctuary.
My dad passed away six years ago, but he’s everywhere in these memories. He never got to meet my son, or know me as a father myself, or hear the songs I would write. And that’s a heavy loss, for sure. But today I’m just grateful for the world my parents built for us—they gave us the feeling that our life was the world; that the world was our life. Does that make sense?
In the end, the scent of woodsmoke doesn’t stay long. You catch it on the air for a moment, and then it’s gone. But every November, when the cold comes back, so do the memories.
So yeah. Today I feel grateful for a lot of things and a lot of people. Like you, for example. I’m so happy that you’ve chosen to be here, and honored that you make space for these songs.
This month’s song is a thank you.
🎵 This month’s piece is in B major.1
A return to the piano this month. Sometimes I find a little motif that I just want to play over and over, which is what happened here, with a few variations.2 If you’ve been listening for a while, you’ll know how much I love this dang flute sound. I’ve used it so many times at this point, I think I might need to back away one of these days. But for now, here’s some more. I hope you enjoy.
For more piano songs from this volume, check out shadow of a cloud.
📷 This month’s photos were taken in the Sonoran Desert.3
Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold
by William Shakespeare
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
I invite you to sit with this month’s song, photos, and poem and make them a small part of your day, whether that’s your morning ritual, afternoon break, or your evening wind-down.
As always, if you feel like it, let me know what you think in the comments. I’d love to hear from you. Any other November birthdays here? Any other birthdays today?
🎂 To mark another lap around the sun, I’m launching monthly curated playlists for FC+ members—on the first Friday of every month, paid subscribers will get a 30-60 minute playlist of seamless listening, carefully sequenced from my complete catalog of 50+ songs—including unreleased tracks you won’t find anywhere else.
For current FC+ members: Your first playlist arrives Friday, December 5.
Want in? $30 for your first year (reg. $45) — ends Sunday, November 23.
🎵 Downstream and Light Through The Valley are available now on all platforms.
Thank you for being here,
Matt
Fog Chaser is entirely reader-supported. Become a paid subscriber for monthly playlists and exclusive content, or buy me a coffee to show one-time support.
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woodsmoke / Written, performed, and produced by Fog Chaser
As a reminder: while some of my songs are eventually released on streaming platforms, others are not. Regardless, all of my songs are shared here with you first.
Theory notes: The bulk of the song stays in its key, B major, which has five sharps (F#, C#, G#, D#, and A#). But I wanted something a little different to happen that would hint at the idea of impermanence. So, at two spots in the song, I deviate just a little — the phrase at about 1:11 introduces a “flat VI” (which is a G natural instead of sharp). That chord then goes to a minor IV (an E minor chord instead of the key’s diatonic E major, which uses the G natural as well), before resolving back to a B major chord (B, D#, F#), helping slide us back into the key. You’ll hear it again at around the 2:20 mark. These deviations are enough to give us as listeners a little pause, a little uncertainty about where we are and where we’re going. Questions? Comments? Corrections? Let me know in the comments.
The mighty saguaro and the ocotillo, shot on film / Saguaro National Park (East) in the Sonoran Desert / Arizona, USA
