I'm in his new house on a hill in an LA suburb. He bought the house last fall. He only lived in it a short time before going on the road. He's back for a few months before he leaves again. The past owners have left traces, like the puffy balloon shade on the window and the painted vine twining around the kitchen counter. But the current owner's personality is starting to emerge, despite he calls his decoy furniture.

There isn't much of it. A few wooden tables, some chairs, a couple lamps. The rooms, like the ever-changing southern California landscape, have a mixed, moody vibe. Spanish mediterranean meets contemporary gothic meets rock star minimalism. What more do you need in your living room anyway, other than a velvet couch, a piano, red light bulbs, and a killer stereo system?

An enormous fireplace doesn't hurt. The day I'm there, it's being stripped. We peek in at the workmen and watch as they chip away at the white paint, revealing four robed, enigmatic figures underneath. Who are they? He doesn't know.

We share remnants of his birthday dinner for lunch. Carrots, grape leaves, figs, and Perrier, along with a salad he stopped to buy me on the way home this morning. He's in a rock tee shirt and sweats and seems so content in his kitchen. The picture doesn't fit with the flashy photographs of him I have in my computer. I pet his dog and stare at the real vines climbing the steep hill outside his kitchen window.

We're here to work and after lunch, we go to his office upstairs. The walls of the bathroom off the office are covered with fantastic blue snakes and dragons, the only wallpaper he plans to keep. In another bathroom, I spy a turquoise guitar pick on the edge of the sink. I long to put it in my pocket but I don't.

The next time we go downstairs, the workmen have left. The dining room table is covered with CDs. I catch a glimpse of "Bringing It All Back Home" and notice a Bob Dylan photo on the wall, as I make my way to the couch to listen to rough cuts of his yet-to-be released CD.

I've been chasing his music for a while, downloading snippets of defunct bands whose music still haunts cyberspace, and straining my ears to hear his voice and guitar on the CDs he's made with other people. I really haven't heard him until now. Not pure and unadulterated.

I love this music. It's edgy and romantic at the same time. It's a new sound that changes like the light and fog over the mountain outside his music room window, streaky dark then sparkly bright. I hear echoes of David Bowie and the Beatles. I hear swirling guitars and intriguing lyrics.

I wonder which lines are truths and which are smokescreens. I wonder who he really is.