By Courtney Harrell
By Kyra Scrimgeour
By Jena Ardell
By Mary Willson
By Bree Davies
By Tom Murphy
By Tom Murphy
By A.H. Goldstein
The image is stark and simple: a vintage truck painted a deep indigo, a battered brick wall behind, and the words "Better Days" spelled out in simple fonts above. For Chris Daniels, the cover art for his latest solo release is open to interpretation.
"That's my old truck. I got that when I was seventeen," notes Daniels, frontman of Chris Daniels and the Kings. "For some, I think that image means that better days were in the past. For others, because the truck is fixed up and looks brand-new, better days are in the future.... That's what the theme is. You get to identify where your better days are."
Daniels's own spin on the cover art for his first solo effort in three decades, a work he calls an album of "hope and redemption," has a lot to do with the diagnosis he received in 2010. After feeling heart flutters on a drive back from Evergreen, Daniels reported to the hospital, only to learn that he had an aggressive form of leukemia, news that left him feeling as if he were "falling through a hole in the sky."
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Months of intensive chemotherapy in Houston followed, as did a risky bone-marrow transplant. During treatment, Daniels was in isolation at MD Anderson Cancer Center, where friends, families and musical peers from back home, like Rob Drabkin, paid visits. He was on morphine after an outbreak of mycosis and fell into vivid and frightening "chemo dreams," nighttime visions sharpened and intensified by his treatment. But he was able to teach his University of Colorado Denver music business and administration classes via Skype from the hospital. The risky medical procedures ultimately paid off, and Daniels came back to Colorado in remission. Now, sitting down for a meal at the Breakfast King on Santa Fe a week before he's slated to return to Houston for follow-up tests, he offers his own take on the cover art for Better Days.
"It's today," he declares. "My doc is really great. He said, 'You get this kind of thing, you become a Buddhist.' For me, it's really about today. I get tricked into going, 'Okay, next year, I'm going to do this.' I have to bring it right back to, 'This is a really good breakfast.' This moment is the one that counts."
That perspective, leavened with a good amount of sardonic humor and unused gems from his decades-long career, colors every track on the new record. The most direct reference to his fight against cancer is "Sister Delores," a meditative ballad that recalls a caretaker who offered prayers during his treatment. Daniels's vocals feel more earnest and his playing sounds more stark as he pays tribute to a woman who refused to shy away from her faith.
"At one point, I was pretty low," he recalls, "and she put a hand on my shoulder and said, 'Can I pray for you?' I said, 'Sure.' I'm not a very religious person, but it was a remarkable experience. I don't know if it changed me. She said, 'I'm standing in the gap. I can see what you believe, and I know what I learned, I know what I know. I'm going to stand in that gap between what you believe and what I know. I'm going to bridge the gap for you.' It was an amazing experience, and I suppose it made me a believer in my own way."
Apart from "Sister Delores," the references on Better Days to Daniels's battle with illness are oblique. "Good Ol' Beast" details the restoration of a hand-me-down truck, "Wildcat" revels in a live-for-the-moment zeal, with exhortations to "jump up in the pickup truck" and, with a little luck, "find an open sky." Though Daniels has been a teetotaler for decades, "Medical Marijuana" pokes fun at the rising industry in Colorado; he penned the tune in a Texas hospital while a shocked corps of nurses looked on from the halls.
"I had this thing called mycosis, where you lose your skin," he explains. "I was on morphine, because it's really painful. I got off of it, and I was reading about back here, how everybody was talking about medical marijuana. I've been clean and sober for 28 years. I have no interest in going out and smoking pot, but all of a sudden, I was laughing and realizing that I can smoke pot legally. I thought, 'I don't want to, I'm not going to, but I'm going to write a song about it.'"
Depending on how you look at it, the inspiration struck either in the most likely or the most unlikely of places. Daniels picked up his acoustic guitar in his hospital room and started putting together a jaunty tune that was equal parts ragtime pomp and bluegrass satire. "I'm sitting there on the bed, singing this song — 'Medical Marijuana!'" Daniels relates, singing the tune's chorus between chuckles, "and the nurses are going, 'What are you doing?' I said, 'In Colorado, it's legal now.' They said, 'That's probably not going to be good for us.' I said, 'Don't worry, I'm not doing it. It's just hilarious.'"