To all my fellow singers out there, has anyone experienced the following:

You’re on stage, giving it all you got, enjoying a nice draft beer in between tunes. The warm Texas sun is kissing you in front of at least 50-60 wonderful people enjoying dinner on a wonderful Thursday…

… when all of a sudden, you feel a burp coming.

You continue singing.

Suddenly, there’s a possibility it may take a turn for the worst with no certainty of the final outcome.

It’s the singer’s ultimate nightmare: letting a burp slip and end up puking on the mic and the guitar in front of a rather large audience.

The more you sing to try and block out the possibilities, the worse the anxiety gets. Which compounds the problem.

No? That hasn’t happened to you? Well, it happened tonight.

I was freaking out.

Midway through Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Dreams’, I had to stop before my fate was sealed. Forever.

Not sure if I got too hot, or the beer got hot, or if, maybe, the keg of Dos Equis went bad. More than likely, a combination of all factors.

The bartender looked suddenly alarmed as I asked her to turn on the stereo because I wasn’t feeling right.

I go in the bathroom to regroup. The AC was on full blast, which felt amazing. My sweat turned into ice water on my skin and I began to calm down.

But now… it’s time to face the embarrassment, tuck the tail between your legs, and get back out there.

After all… I’m no punk bitch. And I’m no quitter.

I get back out there and explain the situation to the audience.

’Sorry for the delay, folks,’ I said. ‘Ever feel like you’re a baby and you just need to be burped?

’Singers need the same thing. Only difference is it could go wrong for us and babies have no problem puking everywhere.’

I actually got a laugh.

I see a couple taking pictures of me, or video, perhaps. I’m certain they were looking to grab the video of the bald dude puking on stage and letting it go viral on YouTube.

Turns out, they asked for my business card because they want me to play for their child’s 9th birthday party.


So… needless to say… I make it through the gig, sans puke. Got paid with a check, along with a gift card to the establishment, and the bartender even mentioned a few people said they loved the music tonight.

Surprising relief.

I’m loading out my gear and, wouldn’t you know it - the one thing I needed in the first set - comes out in full force!


God, I hate anxiety.


I overheard a conversation the other night between two guys boasting about the best pranks they’ve ever committed, which brought back to mind the best pranks I’ve ever pulled…

… but yet, those pale in comparison to some of the most heinous, diabolical pranks…

… ever pulled on me.

Let’s talk about those.

Two come to mind, in fact:

1) One my older brother Trey pulled on me when we were kids.

2) One that a high school football teammate pulled on me… in front of a ‘specific’ crowd.

I’ll get to that. But first…

My older brother Trey thinks he is a funny guy. He actually is, but that’s beside the point…

I was nine, approaching 10. He was 13, approaching 14. It was summer of 1989. We’re at our Mom’s in Mooringsport, Louisiana, bored out of our minds, and ‘The Price is Right’ and ‘Supermarket Sweep’ just weren’t cutting it anymore.

‘The Young and the Restless’ wasn’t even an option. Wish there was a guitar around those days.

I was dying for WWF Monday Night Prime Time on the USA Network to get the latest update on Hulk Hogan and The Ultimate Warrior joining forces. Trey was hoping that ESPN might… just might… talk a bit about the New Orleans Saints’ minuscule chances of reaching the Super Bowl in 1990, led by the vaunted ‘Dome Patrol’ and the damaging rushing attack, led by Dalton Hilliard and Craig ‘Iron Head’ Heyward.

Didn’t even pop into our heads at that point that Joe Montana and the San Francisco 49ers went on to become, arguably, the best team in NFL history, next to the 1972 Miami Dolphins. I digress.

I’m thirsty, so I make some chocolate milk. But suddenly, I have to pee, so I go.

I come back to my self-earned pre-lunch treat, and notice there’s some red and brown ‘sprinkles’ in this chocolate milk.

How did they get there?

I didn’t do this. Not to mention, chocolate milk doesn’t ever have red and brown sprinkles in it.

I think nothing of it. I take a giant gulp of this deliciousness…

… only for it to have an awfully salty, spicy kick.

I spit it out, in disgust!

“Crap,” I yell… followed by the most egregious, sinister laugh I’ve ever heard, coming from the living room.

My asshole older brother sprinkled Tony Chachere’s in my chocolate milk.

You’d think he was the greatest comedian and prankster that had ever pulled the greatest comedy and prank of all time.

He still hasn’t apologized for that.


The undisputed heavyweight champion of pranks ever pulled on Yours Truly occurred on a sweltering, summer Louisiana day in August, 1996.

I was 17.

Somewhere stashed in the outer rim of my mind, I was sold on the idea I still had a chance of being the starting quarterback of Bossier City’s Airline High School Vikings.

I was the incumbent. ‘Next guy in line,’ rather. A junior. In great shape.

A ‘buck forty-five,’ sadly. But in great shape.

I made it a point to work as hard as I possibly could that summer - weights, cardio, diet - long before the idea of dedication of this magnitude would become a necessity to live. #ThisIs40

My teammates are nestled along one of the diesel-soaked sidelines on the practice field. My back is turned to them.

I ventured out early, warming up with ten-yard tosses to WR Erik Adams.

My mind is focused on wildly ambitious dreams of multiple Super Bowl trophies with the Saints. But I’m abruptly interrupted by the sight of the two hottest girls in school, jogging around the track that encompasses the practice field.

Now, I know it’s not proper PC etiquette to objectify girls as ‘hot’ in this day in age…

… but, Dude?

These girls were hot. Smoking hot! Even by current standards.

By the way… one of these two girls jogging the track went on to become a ‘Golden Girl’ at LSU, as well as a ‘Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader.’

True story.

Those ‘Super Bowl’ dreams became even more vivid, with those girls at my side, hugging and kissing each other at the podium while I hoisted the Lombardi Trophy in victory, as someone pulled my football pants to my ankles…

… what?

I quickly come back to reality.

I noticed a ‘draft’ towards my ‘nether region.’ And, for some reason, which I’ll never understand…

I kept throwing the ball.

Never threw better in my life than in those ten seconds. Never felt more free. Literally.

It wasn’t until Adams was doubled over in laughter that I noticed…

… my pants were down. All the way down.

And the two hottest girls in my world saw everything I, um… ‘had to offer.’

I slowly pull my pants back up in embarrassing fashion, only to see eventual starting RG Shawn David rolling on the ground in laughter, along with the rest of the team.

‘Pookie,’ I exclaimed! ‘You’re dead.’

I chased him around the field for a few seconds before tattooing the cross of that Rawlings PRO-5 pigskin square on his ass bone.

He missed a couple of practices for that, if I recall correctly.

I fumed for months. I also lost the starting quarterback job that season to a newcomer.

Plus, I assumed that I would never have a chance in Hell to go out with either of the two most beautiful girls I had ever seen at that point in my life.

I never did.

But at the Homecoming dance later that year…

… both girls, at separate moments, asked to dance with me.

‘Everyone Has Their ‘Number’’

Direct from the ‘Dreams You Actually Remember’ files…

To preface: things are really good. ‘Texas Country OnScene’ is gaining major interest without a show even airing.

Venues are interested in booking me to play more and more every day.

Granted, switching from beer to vodka because of gout issues has been difficult to gauge (another story for another day), but all in all…

… life is about to get really good. Which is where this dream comes in.

So… it’s my theory, among many theories, that every human has a number. That can be your jersey number, your Powerball/Mega Millions ball, or… the monetary figure that, in your opinion, will put you ‘over the top’ in everything.

For the record, and I’m not afraid to share it:

$5 million. FIVE. MILLION. DOLLARS. There it is. So…

(PRECURSOR: This is a dream I had. Just a dream. This did not happen in real life.)

I’m in said dream where I’m walking down this walkway - could be NYC, could be the LSU campus - who knows?

The lone person I encounter on this journey is none other than POST MALONE.

Posty approaches me and says, ‘Say, Bro… what is ‘that?’

The ‘that’ he points to is what I recall as some kind of a gargoyle-like, concrete structure on a concrete column on this particular building along this particular sidewalk, with the top-half of the gargoyle painted in red.

Just the top half.

’Man, I have no idea,’ I reply. ‘By the way, I wasn’t really a fan of your music, but I just wanna say…’

’Yo, yo, yo…’ he interrupts.

’Look here… if you jump over this embankment (which seemed endless) and cling to that thing…

’I’ll write you a check for $5 million… right now!’


’I know you can’t do it,’ Posty boasts. ‘Hell, you’re probably scared. Here I am, calling you out… how bad you want this?’

It was too familiar.

Too ambitious - like going after your hopes and dreams - balls out.

Too treacherous - like gambling said hopes and dreams, risking failure and possible death.

… yet too lucrative to not give it a go.

Being a musician, with someone exposed to this ‘potential fantasy’ all the time (especially around people with exorbitant amounts of money)… is ALL about this notorious situation:

‘Here it is, Fool. You in… or you out?

… so I look at the empty space between me and $5 million.

It’s maybe ten feet.

There’s plenty of safety if I don’t exactly hit the red target. I can grab something.

I’ll survive…

… If I make it.

’Alright, Dude,’ I proclaim. ‘Let’s do this!’

He gets fired up, rubbing his hands like he’s summoning the power that Mr. Miyagi healed Daniel LaRusso in the All-Valley Tournament.

’Go, Dawg!’ he yells.

With a breath… eyes closed… praying to God…

I jump.

As I sail… over the endless embankment…with my life flashing before me…

… I noticed I jumped too much…

… too high, I think.

Gravity (moreso, my excessive weight at the moment) led me to the ‘money spot.’

Directly to it.

I tackled the red of the gargoyle, and I latched onto it.

Just where Posty wanted me to go.

In victory.

I made it.

Post Malone is about to write me a check for FIVE… MILLION… DOLLARS.

Posty is… pissed.

’This is bullshit,’ he said. ‘No way you could do that.’

’I’ve seen this happen tons of times! Mother…’

In my victory (somehow, once again, it’s a dream…) I get back to the other side.

‘Write the check, Bruh,’ I say, proudly.

’I ain’t writing shit,’ he says. ‘There’s no way you did that. You screwed me!’

’How?!’ I say. ‘I did what you asked me to.’

… then I woke up.


Here’s what I was about to offer while he was writing on, um, ‘Post-It’ notes, telling me, ‘this will work at the bank.’ Ha

‘Dude… if you take a selfie with me right now, post the pic on YOUR Twitter account, and tell your fans to check out my music,..

’… we’re even. Either way, we both win.’

Great compromise, am I wrong? For him, at least. Ha!

But look at it…

If I press, I more than likely never see him again.

But if he accepts… it may not be worth ‘technically’ $5 million, but DAMN - do my spins on Spotify, iTunes, etc. go through the roof?!

But I woke up.

That ‘dream deal’ never took place.


Not sure if you believe in fate… or subconscious thoughts… or the ‘Law of Attraction’…

… something’s happening here. It was all too familiar… all too close for comfort… all too close…

… for, um, .’..something…’ REALLY, really big on the horizon.

Am I wrong?

  • EF

A Little About Me

• Favorite Resturant - L’Italiano (Bossier City, Louisiana)

• Last Cry - … been a while.

• Favorite Pizza - Pepperoni/Extra Cheese

• Favorite Flowers - Honeysuckle?

• Favorite Dog Breed - … the chill kind.

• Favorite Footwear - Nike’s

• Favorite Ice cream - Chocolate

• Pet peeve - Chatty Cathy’s and open-mouth smacking food.

• Shorts or Jeans - Shorts

• What I am listening to right now - Matchbox 20 - ‘3 AM’

• Color of Your Eyes - Brown

• Favorite Holiday - Christmas

• Favorite Day of the Week - Saturday

• Nicknames - Red, Lil T, Scruff, E-Fay, E-40, ‘Damn It’, CoonAss

• Favorite Type of Music - Broad scope of favorites. Best right now? John Mayer.

• Tattoos - zero

• Do you like cooking? Of course

• Beer or Wine - Yes

• Can you drive a manual shift? - Yes

• Do you wear cologne? ‘Y’ by Yves Saint Laurent

• Favorite Color - Green

• Do you like vegetables? Yes!

• Do you work out? No

• Do you wear glasses? Yes

• Favorite Season - Spring

• Ever broken a bone? Nope

• # of Children - 0

• Favorite Place in the World- Florida Gulf Coast

‘The Music Life’... much like ‘Life, Itself’

This music thing, much like anything in life, is like attempting to get on a super highway:

As a ‘rookie’, you’re so eager to accelerate on the on-ramp and get your ass into ‘life in the fast lane.’ 100 MPH to freedom!

But it’s that damn slow lane, that’s always filled bumper-to-bumper with many others:

They’re either stuck in their anxious ways and can’t handle the speed... stuck in a rut and can’t decide on the next move... or, sadly, have officially had enough and looking for the next exit...

… and it’s always ‘rush hour.’

All you want is a window, and you’ll do whatever it takes to get in... then get a shot at the next move... and depending on what kind of super highway you choose to enter... one more lane... ‘the fast lane.’

If you’re too eager, or too aggressive, you ‘crash and burn.’ If you take your sweet time, or become too timid and indecisive, it messes up the eager guys behind you, leading to another possible ‘crash and burn.’

It’s all about patience and opportunity - waiting your turn - then striking when the window opens.

And never looking back.


As most of you already know…

… I’m a die-hard lover of the New Orleans Saints.

Today, like most members of the Who Dat Nation, I am in mourning.

Not because I feel like we were robbed (oh, don’t worry - that’s coming.) Not because Roger Goodell secretly still has it out for us. Not because winning would have ultimately given us a berth in a second Super Bowl.

This loss feels worse than enduring the ‘Minnesota Miracle’ last season, where I was catatonic for a solid seven minutes. Before my sister won Miss Louisiana in 1990, she got first runner-up twice. Yep - feels a lot like that. Shocking. Painful. Sad.


Despite all that, what I am about to say may come as a shock to you, and it’s given me anxiety pains since the playoffs began, so let’s hurry up, spit this out and get on with our lives:

I didn’t think we were the better team.


Since watching the Saints on Thanksgiving earlier this year, we haven’t been the same team we were during the ten-game winning streak. The offensive output slowed. Instead of winning games handily, it seems we escaped.

Call it injuries. Call it being exposed. It just… didn’t feel the same the last quarter of the season.

That being said… this team ‘over-achieved.’ Very proud of these guys.


I agree there were several non-calls in that game on both sides. They ‘let the boys play’ as they say, which I guess is fine. But you cannot deny - CANNOT deny - that pass interference should have been called on that particular play.

You also cannot deny that if the flag is thrown, we run out the clock, hit the chip-shot field goal, and punch our tickets to the Super Bowl.

You can’t deny that. THAT non-call. On THAT play. At THAT moment in the game.

Okay - maybe the Rams were a better team. I can live with that. But come on! We win the game if that penalty is called. You know it.

But… it wasn’t. We lost. It’s the way of things.

Proud of the Saints. They had an amazing season. Bless you Boys!

So, what happens now? Is this the end? Or does Payton and Brees give it one more go? Surely you can’t walk away after being hosed like that. Surely it can’t get any worse…

… wait, I’m gonna take that back. I don’t want to find out something worse than that.

Alright - off my soap box. Can someone cheer me up? Feed me tacos, tell me you have a crush on me, grab my butt? Or maybe go buy some Erick Fayard merch:


Love you, Guys. Talk soon!



An exact year ago, I wrote a post to tell all of you that I would be starting a blog, detailing what I imagined would be a very busy year with the releases of my two debut singles, ‘Rain’ and ‘Only One.’


It turns out that 2018 was so busy that there was no time to fit in a blog post anywhere. Which sucks, because this year was FILLED with amazing experiences - road trips, a flight out west, excessive amounts of Yuengling consumption on beaches, and… above all else… gigs all over America. Literally.

Damn - that’s an awesome thing to say.

This year was, without a doubt, my greatest year career-wise, and there are a ton of you to thank:


To JONATHAN CAMACHO - my Master Jedi - thank you so much for fitting me into your extremely busy schedule to hammer out the tunes, and continuing to be a pivotal, um, ‘force’ in my journey.

You’re an amazing producer and musician - but more importantly - you’re an amazing person. I look forward to learning more and more from you in the years to come. Thank you!


To GARTH LaGRONE - my Partner-in-Crime - thank you for letting me tag along with you during two tours, the ‘Christmas Hangover’ tour and the ‘Honky Tonks and Cheap Motels’ tour.

Ten dates in seven states, and traveled across other states, as well. Without a doubt - it was the No. 1 highlight of the year. Thanks, Brother!


To THOMAS WRIGHT - my Texas Connection - you’ve put me in front of more Texas Music fans than I’ve ever been in front of. Pflugerville, Cottonwood Shores, Kingwood, Midland, Corsicana, Gail, and many, many other points in between.

Got to see some of the most beautiful landscapes of this wonderful state along the way, and it’s all because of your hard work. Thanks so much, Man! (Just remembered - Tulsa! Not Texas, but you know what I mean. Ha!)


To LINDA WILSON - ‘Madam President’ - I’ve only known you for a short time, but you’ve already opened up a ton of doors for me this year, and I absolutely cannot wait for 2019. Gonna be a blast! Many thanks to you and Richard for everything.


There’s a ton more that I could list here - I swear, this would take all year - and next year - this is my place to tell you, ‘Thank you so much!’

A great year awaits!

Thank you!

  • E


Hey Everybody!

Adding a new wrinkle to the website - a blog!

I'll be sharing stories from the past, the focus of the present, and hopes for the future. I think it'll be a nice addition to the site. 

And also... I just love to write.

So yeah - be on the lookout for future posts. Gonna start small, maybe one a week.

See you soon!

- E

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