Heatwave

Song story & origins

Introduction

Heatwave is as close to a journal entry as I get. I wrote it in the summer of 2018 during a real heat wave in Spearfish Canyon—one of those stretches where the air sits heavy until evening and then a cool breeze runs up the canyon and everything exhales. We were on our deck: Sheryl in the hammock with Oscar curled beside her and Abby and Ellie flopped nearby; I had a guitar in my lap. Sheryl—lifelong John Denver fan—was softly singing “Eagle and the Hawk” because the sky above the canyon was full of soaring birds. We’d been married a little over thirty years, and I found myself looking backward and forward at once: how hard stretches do come, how they pass like weather, and how the most ordinary right-now moments are the ones I want to keep.

It’s on Gravitate (2018) and again—stripped down—on Live in the Black Hills, Vol. 2 (2019). The live take actually predates the studio cut; I captured it as a single-pass performance right after writing it, then later built the fuller arrangement.

Where the song came from

That deck afternoon became the metaphor. In the canyon we don’t have air conditioning; when the storm cells start to rumble, we throw the windows open, smell the rain hit hot rock, and let the house cool. That’s the emotional picture too: hard seasons do burn; then the storm breaks and you can breathe again. The chorus turns that into a relational truth: we can’t get to love until we burn out the fight. Part of that is the inside-fight—the grind you push through together, back-to-back against whatever’s coming at you. Part of it is the inevitable disagreements between two people over years; those don’t have to threaten the relationship—in the end they can strengthen it.

The second verse is pure family memory. Early in our Spearfish years we bought a red Jeep; some of our best days were taking the top off and driving the dirt roads to high places. Our girls turned the unfinished basement into a stage and put on shows, singing and dancing till they fell asleep. Then came middle school—tough years for both of them. As an educator, I’ve worked with schools on climate and anti-bullying; it hits different when it’s your kid. That line “hearts burst when they get so full” holds both the joy and the ache of parenting—your heart outside your body.

The last verse is the everyday I needed to name: sure, we dream about some future island stretch, but right now I mostly want to tell Sheryl I missed her from a distant hotel bed, and I want to hear about the crazy thing her co-worker said. I travel a lot for work; she has her own world and stories; we come back together and compare notes. That’s the life the song blesses.

Music and arrangement

Nothing says summer to me like acoustic guitar and harmonica, so those lead. I tucked in strings—I’ve been writing more string parts in recent years—and let them give the track a gentle ’70s glow. (Those John Denver records taught me that string arrangements can sit naturally with a folk/rock song.) The mix builds and then eases back to the quiet of that open-window night.

On Live in the Black Hills, Vol. 2 you hear the bare bones: voice, guitar, harp. That performance likely came within a day of the writing, before I layered anything in the studio for Gravitate.

What the song is saying

Weather is the frame—heat, thunder, and rain—but the claim is about time and love: hard stretches are real and recurring, and they pass; the work is to stay, open your windows, and let the cool return. Then notice the small, present-tense gifts—dogs asleep, a half-sung John Denver line, and the breeze that finally finds you.

Why it stays with me

Because it remembers the ordinary moment that holds the whole thing: the two of us, the dogs, the breeze, the rumble up and down the canyon, and the promise that we’re okay—we’ve come through worse, and we’ll cool off again.

Source: New Music Memoir (1).docx