Matthew Ebel Laid-back groove rock with a Pacific Northwest flavor. If coffee rock were a genre, this'd be it.

There isn't a whole lot I can tell you between the "accident" and the Non-Disclosure Agreement, but I'll give you what I can still remember and legally divulge. First of all, I was not born on this planet. They let me tell you this because, frankly, there's really nobody who would believe you if you told anyone. Unfortunately, I don't know where exactly I grew up, but weeks of painful and experimental therapy have uncovered enough to let me know that I can't go home.

The first clear memory is of the Pacific Northwest (here on this planet, fyi). I was adopted by a rich software mogul who, for what it's worth, was NOT Bill Gates. I can't tell you what planet Bill's from, that was part of the aforementioned NDA. Anyhoo, my new "dad" spent his days locked in a cubicle of his own making and spent his nights on the streets of Seattle fighting crime. He never really picked a cool name for himself, which probably hurt his publicity chances, and his alternative career was cut short by a purse-snatcher with a magnum. He wasn't shot, the thief knocked him on the head with it and he got pneumonia from spending the night unconscious in the rain. His funeral was epic, complete with 21-gun salute and political figures dressed in black. The last things I remember about the good ole PNW were two men- one of them bald and pale, the other sporting a large metal plate over most of his head. They both kept rubbing their hands together and grinning at the coffin until they turned their attention to me.

I got out of that corner of the country, it seems, and have been "under the radar" for quite some time. I picked up the name "Matthew Ebel" from a drifter I found behind a rest stop in South Dakota. To this day I don't know how I ended up covered in his blood, but I'm thankful his driver's license photo looked a lot like me. Special Agent Mark Cullinan of the FBI tailed me all the way from Wall Drug to Winnipeg, eventually finding me at a cheap motel outside a truck stop. As we were far outside of his jurisdiction, we had a nice long chat at the greasy-spoon diner operated by the friendly Canadians. He believed me when I told him I had merely found the drifter and agreed to let the matter drop. His mission, it seemed, was to uncover the vast and shadowy organization that had brought me to this big, round rock in the first place.

Over the next few years I met Mr. Cullinan at random points throughout North America. I hopped trains from Canada to Mississippi where I found him working a case involving a local church and mysterious cattle disappearances. He couldn't divulge a whole lot to me, but I understood. We were both under the same oath to different organizations. After a standoff and a brief shootout, Mark joined me on a road trip to Nashville where I decided to stay. He even played bass for me at a couple of gigs and became quite the songwriter. Now he lives somewhere in middle Nebraska; I haven't heard from him in over a year, but I'm sure we'll cross paths again.

Last week I heard that the guy with the metal head got nabbed by an anonymous vigilante in Deer Park, WA. I was at the hospital when my "dad" took his last breath, so I can only assume it was someone else taking up his cause. I still light a candle of hope, however, that perhaps he faked his own demise to throw them off his trail. If I can earn enough money playing gigs here in the Music City, maybe I'll go back to the Puget Sound and see if my "dad" is still alive. Perhaps we may even work as a duo.

Stranger things have happened.