Hey baby let's keep in touch
But I want more than a touch I want you to reach me
And show me all the things no one else can see
— Blues Traveler

. . . if we wrote literally, all the songs would be, "I'm in a hotel room and I'm all alone and feeling sad."
— Isaac Hanson, guitar.com

After checking out Hanson's most recent video glimpse into their lives via a hanson.net video, something suddenly seemed significant to me. Every single image of Hanson finds them in a different location (except when they make repeat appearances on television shows, which is make-believe so they don't really count). From Tulsa to Tokyo to SXSW to Spago Hollywood . . . they're like Forest Gump—different background, same great guys. Check out Jessica, Jennifer or Jason's page to see Hanson in Milwaukee, Montreal or God-help-us Miami. Like Forest or Waldo or even Carmen . . . the guys wander the world with reckless abandon. Pausing at times, they seem to take quick glances over their shoulders to see if we're keeping pace.

In the middle of the frenzy, there's a weird feeling that the only place where Hanson truly exists in pseudo-permanent space is with each of us. I mean, odds are we each listen to Hanson from the same stereo or one of about two or three stereos. Also, when Hanson have visited places nearby, we somehow feel as though those places have been marked forever by the band. I'll confess, whenever I pass by the World Theatre in Tinley Park, like graffiti, I think . . . "Hanson was here."

And actually during those rare appearances when Hanson is nearby, you feel a part of the family.This sounds cliché and trite, but how do you explain the following sensation? I was at a non-Hanson concert recently and it felt a lot like being at someone else's house for Thanksgiving. You can sense the festivity and can witness community, but somehow things don't quite click for you. It's not that the mashed potatoes aren't the real thing or that the green bean casserole isn't the french cut—it's something you can't positively identify. At the same time, a concert hall is different than a real home.

So we peer through the fisheye lenses Hanson offers us from time to time. We understand that their permanence is not ours to share. The place where their dog has a bed and where they go to thaw after sledding is not our home . . . not our Thanksgiving. Nevertheless from one grand piano to the next from one funky couch to another, in the spaces we do share with Hanson, they spread the welcome mat large. But don't make yourselves too comfortable because Hanson are about to run out the door to their next destination.

In this sense, Hanson are everywhere and they are truly nowhere—full circle. Are we defined partly by our surroundings? If so, the band translates that into their work. As a result, Hanson invite us to occupy those distant spaces with them as well through the resulting music. So, the next time you want to know, "Where's Hanson," don't get thrown by all the other red and white striped shirts. You know where to find them. ::grin::

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