A Bittersweet Symphony
His quiet confidence and hint of dangerousness make him immediately intriguing. Tall, dark, and handsome, he has that charm New England boys all seem to possess. He is rough and rugged, confident, with a strong pride in where he came from—he is a product of Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. He is the rebel in a family of over-achievers. The succession of two brothers graduating with honors from Princeton and Penn State, and the older brother to a sister, a seventeen-year-old lacrosse star. Trading his education for a shot at fame, he quit college at eighteen to move to New York City and play guitar, but that was just the beginning. Now, after a series of downward spirals, twenty-two-year old Brian Alexander (more commonly known by his stage name Nodd Morris) has ended up here again to give Penn State— and a sober life— one last shot. A rolling stone, it’s still anyone’s guess how long he will stay this time.
A rebellious character with good intentions, Nodd’s nervous habits and tired eyes prove immediately that he isn’t an average college student. Almost immediately after meeting Nodd, you are struck by a sense of familiarity. As you process what he says, his expressions, his look, it hits you— he is a modern day James Dean. With his disheveled, dark hair and strong bone structure, you’re instantly struck by his attractiveness, especially when he is on stage. He has the ability to engage every girl in the room with one chord progression. His wardrobe is predictable— a combination of thermal shirts and worn-out jeans. He plays only in Wolverine work boots or a well-worn pair of loafers.
Aside from his good looks and charm, Nodd has other characteristics similar to Dean. He speaks openly and profoundly about death. Many times he mentions the possibility of dying from his addictions, living life in the fast lane, and burning out before his time. “I believe that music is a form of self-medication for me. Without it, all of my ideas and feelings would well up in my chest until I died of a heart attack. Music is his only salvation.”
His story is the sordid tale of the addiction and struggle of State College’s “guitar boy”—the boy who claims to always have symphonies of music playing in his head; “Because I always have music in my head, I came up with the stage name Nodd. I am always nodding my head to the music playing inside of it. When you search for Brian Alexander on Google, thousands of hits pop up. How many people do you know named “Nodd?” It’s a good name for a performer.”
Nodd is best known in State College for his gigs at Café 210 West, where he plays guitar every Tuesday night. Café 210 is an intimate spot on a week night; Nodd’s audience usually only includes a few people, mostly employees, serving the few Tuesday nighters half-price pitchers and drafts. The room is dark and smoky; it smells of cigarettes and beer. It strikes you as the last place a recovering addict should be. Nodd interacts with the audience often making jokes about himself and his addictions, telling stories, and taking unusual requests. He is a favorite among the Tuesday night crowd because he is not afraid of embarrassing himself on stage. Nodd, at least in this atmosphere, is an open book. He is in his element. While most are intoxicated by their pitchers of beer, Nodd is punch-drunk on his own lyrics. He expresses that being on stage is the only high he still receives.
Nodd is talented— more so than many of the amateur musicians seen strumming away at coffee and frat houses at Penn State. He is talented enough that he's currently signed with A&R Select, the premier indie A&R label in Hollywood, which produced his first album appropriately titled Burning Bridges. His producer, Jimmy Parr, recently produced Carly Simon’s new album, Into White.
Nodd describes his style as “indie pop rock.” He identifies Paul McCartney as his biggest influence, always referring to him as “Paul,” as if the two have been friends for years. As well as writing his own music, Nodd covers a wide range of genres at his shows at Café 210. His extensive cover list includes Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby, One More Time” and the select stylings of G. Love and the Special Sauce. He plays classic rock like The Beatles and The Doors frequently. Led Zeppelin and CCR are also among his favorites. On a good night, you can catch him playing his “special medley”— an intriguing mix of melodies spanning all genres.
There is one song, however, that Nodd will not play. He does not “do Freebird,” as he puts it, and, by the inflection in his voice, you can tell he is serious. As a few unlucky patrons have learned, if you ask for Freebird, Nodd will embarrass you. One night, a very intoxicated man screamed “Freebirddddddddd” during a song change. Nodd quickly responded, “Dude, for a second there you almost seemed cool. You never scream out ‘Freebird,’ dude, never.”
Sitting in his one room apartment on East Beaver Avenue, it was immediately apparent that I had picked a bad day to talk to a Boston sports fan— it was the Celtics pre-season opener. With plenty of time to browse his surroundings, I found that Nodd fit the quintessential “starving artist” stereotype. His apartment is smaller than the average dorm room. No light shines through the small window above his bed. With cracked walls and little lighting, his apartment looks like a luxury prison cell. Amongst the piles of clothes and clutter there is only a bed and small set of kitchen appliances, a guitar in the corner. The room is unlivable, even by most college student’s standards. He jokes, however, that after being in jail, his apartment is “quite spacious.” As you get to know Nodd better, you wouldn’t expect his apartment to look any other way.
“Fuck! That was a sick shot! Did you just see that?” Nodd yells, staring intently at the game on TV. Sitting on a chair next to his bed, it’s impossible to get more than a word from him before his voice trails off and he starts rambling obscenities at the muted television screen; flecks of potato chip and turkey sandwich catapulting from his mouth. Nodd Morris has a lovely mouth. During a break in the game, he looks over intently and asks the same question that he asked a dozen times over that last half hour, “Sorry what did you say?” even when nothing has been said. Finally, half way through the game, he begins to tell his story.
In the length of the Celtics halftime, Nodd describes almost a decade of addiction and struggle. From growing up with hopes of becoming a basketball star, to selling those dreams to drugs and alcohol, Nodd spins an incredible tale. He dropped out of Penn State at eighteen, entered in rehab in Minnesota at twenty, and relapsed a few weeks after finishing the program. He fondly recalls being the group leader at the Hazleton Rehabilitation Center. When asked about his experience there he explains, “It was awesome— I ran the fucking place.” The stint in rehab had little effect on Nodd’s sobriety. “I wasn’t going to the rehab center to get clean. I was facing up to twelve years in prison for selling drugs. All I wanted to do was stay the fuck out of jail.” Proving that Nodd’s power of persuasion, he once even convinced a friend to help him buy an RV decorated with Penn State paraphernalia, in which they sold marijuana to make money, and played music to pass the time.
After rehab, he spent six months in Centre County Prison, and then moved back to Martha’s Vineyard to be an electrician. After a few months of working, he realized that he needed a change. Nodd decided it was time to try to graduate from college one last time. His first semester back, he made Dean’s List, an impressive feat after he had been temporarily expelled after earning a 1.44 GPA in his first attempt at Penn State. Nodd is currently a sophomore studying business. He hopes that with his degree he will some day be able to produce artists like himself.
His road to recovery, however, has already had its bumps. Nodd recently suffered a minor heart attack from his drugs and alcohol addiction. He’ll tell you proudly that for the first time in years he is not “on something.” He has stopped smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Every time you see him, he has a water bottle in hand to fight the temptation to drink. If you smoke around him, he will crack jokes about how unhealthy it is, but when you look into his dark eyes, you can see how desperately he is trying to keep from asking to bum a cigarette.
“I’m a masochist.” He takes a long sip of water. “A masochist as well as an addict— I like the pain of getting tattoos. It’s an addiction just like everything else in my life.” It’s a commercial break during the Celtics game and Nodd pulls up his shirt sleeve to display the Alcoholics Creed tattooed on his left shoulder. In the shape of a cross it displays the Creed’s motto: “serenity, courage, wisdom.” He then shows the treble and bass clef that he has tattooed on his ribs. “This one hurt like a bitch,” he explains as he pulls up his shirt. “When I first told my dad I was getting a tattoo he said, ‘No, absolutely not,’ but when he started thinking of all the other shit I’ve done— well let’s just say the tattoo wasn’t such a big deal anymore.” He pauses and reflects. “He’s real conservative. He wants me to be what I’m not. I don’t know, I guess that’s why I get along with my mom. She’s a little more liberal. She tries to understand what I do.”
He is most proud of grandfather’s World War II dog tags, which he wears around his neck. “These keep me sober,” he says. “I’m not really sure why I drink. I have an addictive personality, I guess. My grandfather did too. He helps me stay clean.” As he tucks the tags back under his thermal shirt, he explains that his thermal is unique. He is right. When you look at the tag on the back, it reads: “Property of Centre County Prison.”
At a month sober, Nodd is sitting in my apartment. Some time over the last few weeks, Nodd and I have become friends. He is excited about his recovery. He looks over at me and says, “Being sober now, it’s amazing. You name it I’ve done it, Speed, Coke, all of it. I decided to give up everything. All I wanted was to do drugs and be a rock star, but I had to stop. How many twenty-two-year olds do you know that have had a heart attack?” He gets quiet, contemplative. He relaxes again and taps his water bottle on the table, presumably to the music playing in his head. He still gets panic attacks. He still has urges to drink. He’s still a long way from clean and sober.
His addiction has turned from drugs and alcohol to music. He is facing his demons. Nodd Morris is ready to stay clean, but Brian Alexander may be a different story. Nodd sits at the bar every Tuesday night with his water, looking out at everyone with a beer in their hand and a cigarette pursed between their lips, yet the temptation doesn’t break him, or at least it hasn’t yet. I look up at him playing, sweetly singing Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold,” I am reminded of something Nodd said the first time we met. “I’m not saying it’s not hard. It’s hard. It’s fucking hard, but I’m doing it, I have to.” He paused, concentrated hard on his words, and then finished his thought: “I like thinking the way that I do now— musically, I mean. It’s the only thing that’s going to keep me alive.”
***
We sit down six months later over coffee. As he walks over to the table, water bottle still in hand, I’m surprised by how happy I am to see him. We catch up for a while; about his new girlfriend, his music projects, his academics. Having just finished recording his second album, Love Wall, Nodd says he is “worn out, but happy.” He smiles and takes off his aviator sunglasses.
He explains that his life now is a house of cards. Everything is beautiful, but he is waiting for it to all come crashing down. When asked about his sobriety, he explains that he is still sober, but it’s a daily struggle. “My sobriety is like doggy paddling; I feel like I could do it forever, but I’m always afraid of getting too far from shore.”
Musically, however, Nodd is at his best. “I’m trying to gear Love Wall towards a more intellectual crowd. I’m getting tired of the bar scene.” He explains that there has been “a lot of growth” since Burning Bridges (an album he says was inspired by jail, drugs, and his addiction.) He believes that Love Wall captures his essence as an artist. Nodd is finally discovering his identity as a musician. “I want people to listen to the new album and know that my favorite color is red. If I can figure out my sound, who I really am, well then I guess everything else will come.”
