Leaving makes everything more meaningful. When you’re leaving you even cherish the annoying things. Everything is special because it won’t be there tomorrow. I can see how that might be disturbing for some people, but I love how it deepens the experience. Increases awareness. Living in a way that I am frequently leaving, everything has that shine to it. Pay attention to every detail, take nothing for granted.
In every town that we go to, people say they have the worst allergens in the country.
Hays, why are you so far away? We left at the ripe hour of 9:30pm last night. This morning I am ready to burn through Kansas. We had a hell of a time finding a motel in Eureka last night - all were full but two. One motel's front desk person's hairy leg could be seen pointing out of a bed, along with very loud, enthusiastic snoring. We rang the bell several times and David even shouted. The other motel had a buzzer and a little lady who complained about us buzzing her...we said we'd shop around and then left. Grumpster in the dumpster. We wound up waking the sleeping man, who charged us $50 and let us check out at 1pm. Win.
We slept on the front porch and it was cool and breezy. I woke up next to a pile of broken glass beneath gigantic sunny trees swaying peacefully. I sat up in my sleeping bag and a business man waved at me. It was 11am in Kansas City.
We're in upstate NY, camping. A gorgeous place to look at but good lawd, the highway screams all night. Yesterday I was still in the shape of the van seat long after the drive was over. I went for a run and now I am me-shaped again.
He sat at a table with his total bombshell of a girlfriend. Neither of them said much of anything- to each other or anyone else. She brought out the sex in everything. Even the slimy bricks of the green room wall looked more attractive with her sitting beneath them. I formed an opinion about her and I was wrong - which is great.
We’ve been working on so many new songs in the van. Banjo in the back seat, mandolin in the front.. It makes everything more magic.
Afterwards we stay at the table talking with Alex about Austin, touring, 9 to 5ers. The bar tender finished wiping down the tables and unplugged the machines. Alex drew a map on the table with his finger, directions to the Rat House from Pancos Mexican Restraunt, the only other place that we have been in Kansas City.
No wifi here, a blessing in the midst of the work we 'have' to do 'right now'. David and I slept on the front porch of a beautiful KC house. We laid down as the sun was coming up and life began to stir into a commotion. Now we're at the Broadway Cafe and there's a tattoed man outside with a Chihuahua under his arm. I couldn't make this stuff up.
Waking up dog barking In David's face Confused I'm on a couch Shut up morgan Can we wake up Kevin now? Wisking Waffle batter So close to the station Toys or trucks There are always sirens going by
We'll leave Denver a day early so the drive isn't as long. Meet up Wednesday afternoon, glue a bunch of CDs and cook dinner. Today there is no rushing. We'll park the cars at the Warehouse, then swing by my apartment (I forgot my passport), hit Steiner's on the way out and grab the microphone. I-70 for 600 miles. Find a motel when you get tired.
He was playing Ski-Jump. Pre-digital. Less of an angle. The ball floated almost weightless, catapulting off of the crumbling pop bumbers. The points climbed up like the gallons on an old gas pump, shifting the wooden box on it's skinny metal legs. I was at Cyborg, newer and flashy. Replay at 3,900,000 - keep hitting that left ramp. The game has a glitch, thinks it's multi-ball, 20 second window to hit the jackpot. You have the extra ball lit, ya see that? Toggle the the side with the flippers. It felt like Mickey in my corner, pep talking and sizing up the machine. I only had 760,000 after the second ball but on the last one I kept looping the ramp, each a b-line up the robotic spiral, lights kicking on everywhere. The madness couldn't have lasted more than a minute, I looked at the display. End of ball. Magnet bonus: 300,00. Cyborg Loop x10: 100,000. Dual gate open: 750,00. Total. 9,700,00. I heard that thick metallic click. He looked up from his game on the older machine and gave a barely noticable nod of approval.
She's sitting on the steps after our gig and I race across the street with my snifter of Chardonnay, breaking the rules. She's crying and we have a Real Moment Together - thank goodness, for I was getting thirsty. I want to tell her that she's all-powerful, and she's most of the reason I like this place so much, and it's going to be ok. That if she's not happy she can move, she's never stuck, she can always change and leave and grow and learn and this is only the beginning. But I sit and listen with one hand on her shoulder, one around the base of my glass, and I can't help but like this moment.
We just made dinner by a lake in an Indiana state park. The highways of (my) youth. It's been a truly great day. Woke up on a beautiful farm and fell into a song hole right after breakfast. Every song we played was alive and we gobbled them up one after another, relishing the tastes and textures inside. It's easy to get in the zone right now and stay there. Hard to remember to stretch and eat and go outside.
Now, moving on down the road, I am so coated with music that I can't hear anything but melody - by the marsh, in bed before sleep, in the moments of quiet on the in-betweens. Listen to what they're saying. It's not about you or me. Listen and write down what I hear if I have a pen handy. We are always pen-less in times of need.
...And then we had breakfast in WaKeeney. Mediocre but satisfying.
A beautiful place with majestic mountains and that squeaky clean Utah vibe. I'm sitting at the bar of Penny's Two Bit Cafe and Antique Shop, waiting for my huevos rancheros. I'm by myself and it is awesome. From my perch I spy: a portrait of William Shakespeare, a billboard for 'Polygamy Porter' (Why Have Just One?), a giant 3-foot fork hanging in the window, an autographed Andy Gibb record, a girl in a martini glass with a lit match, and myself in a giant mirror directly across. Dark wood bar top. Couple with baby. Waitress who's worked here forever. I like this place. Ancient cash register. Giant beer stein. Bowl of old ketchup in the cupboard. One of those bicycles with a big front wheel and tiny little back one. Cool.
Day 2 - Boise, ID
We had a little time, so I asked the hostess what we should go see in Boise. “Well,” she said, “the Basket District is right over there on 8th!” “The what district?” “The Basket District!” It was noisy. It really sounded like she said ‘Basket District’. I didn’t know anything about Boise, so anything was possible. Immediately I had visions of a street full of basket shops, basket makers, wicker furniture, innovative basket sculptures, a basket parade, and on and on. It seemed weird, but I accepted it as true and we set out for 8th street. We saw a busy looking street. Lots of shops. No baskets. Kevin said “This must be Basket Street!”. Then I thought that it was a district named after Basket Street. I thought that until we saw that the street we were on was not called ‘Basket Street’. As we were walking back, we passed a building called ‘The Basque Cultural Center’.
Days blur together
He was nameless, in good shape, good looking, and totally obliterated at 3 in the afternoon. When he first came up, it was well before the gig. We were just picking some tunes on the porch when he tumbled out of a moving car. He wobbled up to the porch and asked- “Are you Chimney Choir? Where’s that hot chick that plays the banjo?!” Later on he ate fries off of Kris’ plate.
Archetypes and airplanes, lush green farmlands and endless rolling hills. Fog rolled in in the middle of the night. The bar was too much and I had to get out, called Joelle and danced on tiptoes around the loud party inside. Some guys light up a joint right in front of me on the sidewalk. Dig Seattle. Pink moon tonight and we've just had a fantastic show - Carl is with us, we kidnapped him today with glee! He makes us better - our show, our morale, our playfulness. Our DRUMS!! Cycles and patterns underneath - circling round and round - chaos and order and back again. A sort of light we can hand back and forth when the timing's right. It's a trap door that lets me fly up over that big pink moon, outside this imaginary place, outside myself. I'm hooked.
What’s the difference between a sheep and a ram?
What’s the difference between jelly and jam?
A sweet potato and a yam?
I guess I think therefore I am.
We check into our place, move out after just a taste. Wind back and forth for hours and days. I've never been where I'm going, thank god for that! This band, this van, and how we spin towards the center. I-5, long drive, we cannot leave the way we entered. The endless days all curl into a spiral shape. You hand me back an apple with peanut butter on it and I know that I'm not alone. There are wildflowers along the highway. It's too much - If I could write all the beauty my pen and my heart would explode simultaneously.
Monday after Easter. A cool cloudy day in Eugene. Aside from not making quite enough money, this is really fun! We played Sam Bond’s Garage last night and loved it. That place has some magic. We were put up by a magic fairy leprechaun of a lady named April Kay. We all slept on her floor. As usual, I was the last to sleep but the first up. The room was stuffy and the others just kept sleeping and sleeping. So I got up and wandered to a coffee shop. Sweet Life Bakery. Probably should head back soon.
I could use a peek into your brain. And mine, come to think of it. Ripples of anxiety sometimes kick up across the surface of a deep well of goodness. I woke up wrong and couldn't find a laugh for your jokes. Just give me half an hour. I didn't mean to sleep this long and if I did, I'd have wanted it to be deeply restful and satisfying. There's a key in your pocket that I need. Where are you? Are you back? Should I call you? Before I fall asleep again there will be so many waves, colors, thoughts, sounds, and we will whirl our show around a room again. Day 6.
Walking through the colorful aisles throwing produce into a small red basket. Today we have a kitchen to cook in. A kind new friend who put us up for the night, left in the morning, said lock the door behind you. We ate bacon, spinach, peppers, eggs in the front lawn, picnic style with dandelions all around. Moving slowly this morning. Lately they all feel like Sundays, playing to the bar tender and a few locals on the off nights, said we should come back on the weekend, gets crazy in here. Outside after the show we went to an empty bowling alley and George told us about the mural on the wall, a beautiful Indian woman who grew up in the area. She starred in a Buster Keaton movie film then moved to Europe, claimed she was Anastasia, died in a mental institution somewhere in France. George smoked and laughed from his big belly and his Mexican girlfriend would speak Spanglish under her breath, directed at no one in particular. Chiquapin, Morena, she said she liked to have a few drinks and dance, dance, dance.
So, we pulled up to a post office in Springfield, OR. There was a pudgy nondescript man in a white shirt and a kilt playing a whiney little bagpipe. He wore a big sign on his chest that said- “Stop the White Genocide!” I asked him for a pamphlet, and he gave one to me. My oh my it was typically psycho paranoid illogical racist propaganda! I decided to make a mad lib of it.
We have this moment in the doorway of her apartment- we just stand there in each other’s arms and breathe. Just feeling the energy of us together. I see all of the moments in the past 7 years where we stood together like this. And it’s like a mirror reflecting a mirror- a snakelike chain of endless moments- each moment is a snapshot of us standing together. But then it was time to go. It's always time to go. I walked down the stairs and said “thanks for the pie!” and that was it.
We played at ___________ last night. I guess it was fun, but there was something depressing about it. The energy of the crowd was draining. The first time I was there it seemed so young and free and magic. This time it seemed busted up and sad. Who changed? It or me?
It’s a coffee shop on Half Moon Bay. Espresso steaming. Sunny, but a cold wind blowing. There’s the Specific Ocean out the window, doing that thing that it does so well. It’s kind of a one trick pony, but it’s less about what it does than the way it does it. You can’t get mad at Bob Marley for just playing reggae all the time. We applied for a grant last night and it nearly killed us. Tonight is the 11th show in a row. That’s a solid run! I can’t even remember what it’s like to have a day off!
On a tilted cliffside
The stirring Pacific
Shot bits of whitecap
Up under the yellowed street posts
Like Instant bats
That disappear
After catching glimpse of their flight
I stood there and let the harsh wind
Pummel my face
For as long as I could stand it
Until cold tears blurred my sight
And i could barely hear the waves
Throwing themselves against the rocks
I couldn’t figure out
How to tell you what I saw
The midnight epiphany
(Maybe now is the time)
Walking back through the arbor
The waves sounded further away
Lapping inside conch shells
On the bathroom mantle
When I woke up
I could still taste the salt
Above my lips
The vocal could be a colorfully dissonant chord that’s chanted. Heavy drums. The bass line walks down to Dm and then a jaw bone hit on 1, 2, 3. Lyrics go with it. Hold Dm for 8 measures until going to C. Perhaps a quick G, then back to the riff. This song could very well be called, ‘Radar Enforced”.
I’m on a sidewalk patio called ‘Rose’s Café’ in San Francisco. I’m getting a fairly expensive wine buzz to enhance my wanderings. I split from the group and it’s awesome. I remember what it’s like to just hang out on my own. We went on last at Ano Domini. We had an awkward set up, and the percussion stand crashed into the crowd three times, but everything was just right. We got a standing ovation!
I wish I had my hat. I lost my flute too. I’m a flake but I don’t care.
That’s the thing lately. I can just draw up the plans. That’s the first step. Don’t just say, “How will I pull it off?” and then not try. Everything starts with a clear vision. All you need is a notebook. Sketch it out, then worry about how to pull it off. The dream-world should remain boundless.
We set up on a big stage, did a sound check and played. The crowd was a young couple and a dude with a mustache. It was one of those shows where the audience is embarrassingly small but attentive, so you feel kind of ridiculous. I think is was a 3 hour gig, and they stayed most of the time. No one bought a CD. The sound guy loved it though, and told us several times. So there you go.
Our time in the enchanted forest heals us. There were barely any words, just breath and soft crunch-crunch of our footsteps. Occasional observation. The smell of the ocean. It's our first day off after 11 gigs straight, 4 states, every show with its own distinct personality. I can remember each one so clearly even as they blur together. The songs we sing bind us together like vibrational glue. I can be half asleep before the show and afterward I'm floating, electric, social, amplified, high on it. A polar shift.
Ice caps melting. Life's renewal. It's all right here in us, in these woods. Tacos at night around the table. And red wine. The conversation went from Vampires to Manzanita, Physics to Cats Pajamas. Laying awake in my sleeping bag I kept trying to conjure up your face and voice. The same scene kept flashing. It is always quiet, you are walking away, never once looking over your shoulder.
In traffic headed easy on the Bay Bridge - we just dropped Carl off at the greyhound station - a bittersweet moment since it has been such a great time playing music with him. We walked to the Moss Lighthouse and crossed the stream to a secluded beach under the bluff. Sunset on the Pacific. We sang a song.
Day 15 - David's Birthday
Two days in the barren desert just East of Black Rock City. David's birthday - what a divine human bean! Breakfast tacos and coffee and a long walk. At the beginning we are light and singing and I'm getting more lifted every moment. The walk up the hill begins some kind of unexpected swirling internal darkness and I'm falling into an open yawning churning gap. I do not want to keep walking up this hill, nor do I want to sit or go back down. I don't want to be alone, but I don't want other people around either. Uneasiness permeates. I am amazed by my surroundings but also frightened. I see and imagine David being struck by lightning and have a terrible sinking sensation. I chase him, not really wanting to catch up, not knowing what to say. The searching I remember from that shaky morning in Mississippi. Endless hunger. Skin too thin. Does the dark always lie waiting underneath? By the end of the walk I am relieved and not sure how to be with the others. I want to celebrate but I am so heavy and far away. I keep wishing I was better birthday company. I do not sleep well.
It’s morning in the Santa Rosa Peak Wilderness. There’s just a little bit of chill in the air, so I have a small fire going. First cup of coffee is brewed. The sun is up and getting warmer. The only sounds are birds and a stream. Kevin’s up now, getting his coffee ready. We have a French press that makes one cup. Kevin’s mug declares- ‘I’m 50 and proud of it!’. We accidentally stole it from Sylvia’s house in Montara. We have set up camp by the side of a dirt road in northern Nevada, 50 miles north east of Winnemucca, a cute/sad little off-the-radar casino town. A billboard welcomed us to town, boasting ‘5 casinos and 1,131 hotel rooms’ among other things. It’s Wednesday now, April 18th. Birthday. 31 years ago, I opened up my little eyes and thought- “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!?!”. And it’s been a crazy rollercoaster ride ever since.
Day 19 - Home
At home, in my backyard, my neighbors play Scrabble and cards every evening. It's a nice scene to stumble into, homey at home, reminiscent of games on the road. Our upcoming tour is looming, a 6-week beast that promises even more highs and lows than the last few months. I'm soaking in the light - the Colorado sunshine and the people here who remind me of the best version of myself.
A word about the moment I come home and am alone in my apartment for the first time. I'm buzzing. Like it might take awhile to find the ground. I've lost sight of the ocean. What is there to do but sit still and be quiet?
Good morning. Jesus Christ, good morning. We left Colorado dead with winter. We got to Texas and were greeted with flowering dogwoods, lush green grass, leafy budding trees, crickets at night and warm breezy rain.
When did this one start? 12 days ago in the smokey lounge of the 806 in Amarillo. The first folks we met were a band form Boulder, STATUE OF LIBERTY and they stomped on a kitchen table with no legs and sang wonderful songs. The stolen hour of sleep that disappears each March was last seen on the dim red clock face in room 128. I slept soundly in the cheap Dallas hotel, the lights of Walmart still buzzing in my head from our 1am foray to the food aisle. It rained for 30 hours, but not like the mean red patches shown on the weather channel, we must have been on the periphery, it pittered and pattered and was easily thrown aside by the windshield wipers on our way to Fort Worth.
We played at Fred’s Texas Café last night. It had been raining all day, which was great. But this was a patio gig. There was a loosely connected tent of tarps over a row of picnic tables. Heat lamps on all the tables. Kris had a screaming headache and had to lie down in the van. The whole place was cold and dripping. We played in the one dry spot. The funny thing was that people were actually sitting out there and eating dinner. And we had a fabulous sound guy named Jerry. Jerry Christ. He had a big straw hat above a huge smile. He kept sneaking in jokes and happy spiritual revelations as he plugged in cables and hoisted speakers. I think the sound on that patio was as good as the Walnut Room.
After we played ‘All in your mind’, there was a collective holler from outside. Suddenly a gander of pudgy happy Texans burst on to the scene. They danced, laughed, drank, bought cds and left in under 15 minutes.One table of ladies stayed the whole time. We ended up going back to their residency suite at the Marriot. They were young and gorgeous and drinking and smoking and married with children. I didn’t know that people like that were possible. We hung out with them all night and it was great. The Wild Texas Wives.
Driving to Austin in the dark listening to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. Once we made it to the capitol there was no stopping. RAGBIRDS wailing away with fiddles and West African drums, SAL on the corner singing the St. Louis Blues, we met him in Brooklyn last summer and he’d been busking in NOLA since. Frenzied gypsy accordions, clarinets and guitars by the INHERITANCE. JAY-Z was on TV, only a mile away. We caught word from ANNIE ST about a secret show and drove out to Zilker, scrambled up an old crumbling staircase and into the forest, down across the creek and back over again, plastic candles lighting the way. The stage was a dry sand bed below a 20 foot cliff, the crowd piled onto the hillside, sat among the bushes, didn’t say a word. NICK JANA strummed, LAURA GIBSON sang serenely, the cops kicked everyone out during SPIRITS OF THE RED CITY’s set, a peaceful exodus, the magic was over. We woke up to the roosters speaking spanish: Cick- a - dee - kee.
AYO AWOSIKA stunned the crowd in the church and played a song she wrote 48 hours before. We missed OK SWEETHEARTs set in all the madness. We sang songs with PAUL on the porch then walked down to the chaos of 6th. Taking the river walk below Stubb’s we were chased out by 4 cops on horseback, they roused the sleeping bums under the bridge, shined the lights and yelled "park closes at 10pm!". Back up on the street there bass blasted from every building. Plastic bucket drummers, horns, WOLFMAN on the fiddle, lasers danced above the crowd, could have been Bourbon, could have been Beale. We walked back to the East, didn’t even stop inside a club the whole night. Thursday WOODEN FINGER stopped by from Jackson, STATUE OF LIBERTY came too. CARL was somewhere in the radius. The magic was at CHARLIE’S HOUSE SHOW, thanks to CLOUDS AND MOUNTAINS. The nebula of bands settled there in the front lawn. DEVIL WHALE, NORTH AMERICA. Our set turned into a dance party. HE IS MY BROTHER, SHE IS MY SISTER blew everyones mind, some still haven’t recovered. A TOM COLLINS was possessed, DRY RIVER YACHT CLUB layered strings and reed and horns into the corner of a Thai Restaurant, SOME SAY LELAND drew everyone in to the most delicate air. The last act we saw was an incredible metal band, perched on a hilltop outside of an old hangar. “This is our last song! Anyone standing around is a pussy! Put down your girlfriend’s hand, jump in the pit and get yourself a scar!” It’s so good to be back in Mississippi in Jane Rule Burdine’s cabin. I could easily write a book about all these Taylor people. Yesterday evening, first evening of spring, we sat on a porch beamed up with Nicky while JIMBO MATHUS rehearsed his band inside. It was laid back, loose, swampy and southern. It was one of those moments when everything is just right. We’ve been so inspired by EDWARD SHARPE AND THE MAGNETIC ZEROS. Especially Black Water. I fell into that song the second I heard it and I haven’t been able to get out. I don’t want to leave though. I’m happy here, spinning endlessly around inside of that song. All of that magical mysterious sparkling wonderment fizzles into a pathetic flop that echoes faintly- “You can call if you want, but you don’t have to….”
The day began early, with the sun rise. It was mid- winter in Mississippi and Kevin awoke in the small hut he was living in. He looked out upon the gently cotton fields through his pane-less window. He sat down to play his harmonica. It was a typical Sunday- but not for long. At nine O’clock there was a knock on the door. It was a turtle wearing a top hat and a bow tie. He croaked in an ancient language that Kevin somehow understood. He told Kevin that he must set out on a great journey- first to the darkest jungles of South America where he must find a secret witch-doctor, then to the treacherous Rocky Mountains of Colorado where he must find a hidden chapel wherein lies the Grail. The turtle’s name was Joe Turse.
Kevin had just made coffee and he told the turtle that he was quite happy staying in his cabin with his wood stove and harmonica. But the turtle told him that this journey was very important, and that the fate of humanity depended on it. He knew that the turtle was right and he must leave what was familiar to him and set off on this great adventure. He packed a handkerchief tied to a muddy stick with his most essential possessions and climbed on the shell of the turtle. They rode south, and Kevin bid a fond farewell to Mississippi.
It was 11am when they entered the darkest jungle of South America. They hacked their way through the brush and leaves. They got lost. They were attacked by head-hunting giant wasp people. They were just about to give up hope when the turtle heard a wild song in the distance. They went towards it and saw the witch-doctor! She was dressed up in a gown of moon and stars, wearing the sun as her crown, and had a cape of swirling medicinal jungle leaves. She saw them and said “My name is Kris! I have been waiting for you! Hurry- we must go to the Rocky Mountains. There is no time to lose. We must find the Grail by 4pm today!” They both climbed on the turtle shell and rode north. It was 1pm when they saw the great Rocky Mountains rise up out of the endless plains. They knew they were almost to the chapel.
But first they had to pass through the great Junkland which is a very treacherous and desolate wasteland full of all the dreams that humankind abandoned when they became adults. They had to face the guardian of Junkland. For a while they saw and heard nothing except for piles of trash. Then they started to hear rhythms in the junk. Kris said ‘That’s the Junk Master! He’s casting spells…” The beats were so cyclical and poly-rhythmic that the group just stood there, transfixed. Joe called out “Show yourself, Junkmaster!” and soon he emerged from a pile of scrap metal. “My name is Carl!“, The Junkmaster said. He had 10 arms, each holding some article of junk. He spoke in rhythms that were so sick and insane that the group almost dissolved into anti-matter- until Kris started singing some gorgeous earthy syllables spun out in tape delay. She asked him to join the adventure, and he was happy to. Thus, they rode on.
They approached Denver. Now the turtle stopped and said- “We must now go into the Warehouse, where there is an enchanted soul trapped in a forgotten statue… we must bring him to life!” Inside it was dark and the shadows were long and creepy. They saw the statue. It was just a silhouette between two blazing chandeliers. They approached it and the Junkmaster started casting his rhythmic spells. Kris Drickey started summoning up all kinds of pagan dieties through her voice, and Kevin started swirling in frenetic harmonica wails. In just a minute or two, the statue came to life. He said his name was David, and he didn’t really know that he had been a statue for the last 6 millenea. He thought he had simply fallen asleep whilst composing a gypsy symphony with no beginning or end.
With David now awake, the party was complete and they set off to find the chapel. This was the hardest thing to do because it was hidden in the depths of the blandest suburbia of Broomfield. It was 2pm when they finally found it. They stood in the ancient temple and marveled at its marvels. At about 3pm, other enchanted and wandering souls filled the room. They all began casting their spells together- everyone in the room. All of the music and energy they created formed a ladder. When they climbed it, they saw that the Grail was actually a moment in time, something that they could all make together. So they made it and drank from it and it was so sweet. We’ve saved a little sip here in this CD. Hope you enjoy!
5 minutes before the first song I was frantically searching for the harmonica holder. Must be in the gear closet. Nope. Hmmm... food table? No luck. Oh wait! I had it in the kitchen when Greg and Steve came in. Yes! It’s there on the microwave. Time to start the show. The chapel is full of good friends, family, Joe and the fam, our gracious hosts. The rest is a blur.
Welcome to Febby.
Sunday we pulled into Crestone. The experience has been just as unpredictable as we expected. A month ago we booked a gig at The Laughing Buddha, and planned to rent a cabin from the manager. That's all that was planned. We figured we'd call when we got to town. Electrum Amor. Of course, we didn't have her number- but no big deal. We saw it on a banner as soon as we pulled into town. We called, left a message, waited. It was getting cold, there was no one around, and we had no where to go. We asked an old man with a box of doughnuts if he knew Electrum. He said he did! He said that she's in Hawaii and won't be back for a week. But- Shirley tends bar at the Laughing Buddha, so she might know what to do. She also works for Century 21, he said, and if we wanted her number we can go walk around and look for her real estate signs. Then he told us that there is a yard full of yurts that Electrum rents out, and we should just go knock on doors until we find one that's not occupied, then move in. Then he told us that his name is Grandfather Peter Coyote and the doughnuts he was carrying were made by God. We ate some.
We went into the yard with the yurts. Knocked on one door- opened it- saw an unmade bed. Knocked on another door. It was answered by a tough lady. I told her about our predicament. She asked ‘were you sent to me?’ I told her I was sent by intuition because I was just knocking on doors at random. Then she told me that if I was sent to her, it's because she's in charge of enforcing the noise ordinance. She was the guardian of the Decibel Level. She went on to say that the decibel level before 10pm can be up to 65, but after 10pm it can't be louder than 55. There have been 4 complaints, she said, and now there will have to be a court date. Furthermore, she said, there should be one yurt open that we could move into without any reservation or communication with anyone! We thanked her for her time and her odd message about decibel levels and we moved into the yurt.
Later... In the hostel in Santa Fe. This guy keeps talking about outer space. “Just send 50 people to the moon. I’m telling ya, we only need 50. Tell each and every kid in school that there are 50 people living on the moon. See what that does! we could explore the frontier together! Bet you didn’t know we have to rely on the Russians to get to the space station. How fucked up is that?”
Back to the simple challenges of life on the road. Grumpy is my least favorite dwarf. Last night we pulled into town without a clue where to go. We were met with the news that our hostess is in Hawaii. Grandpa Peter Coyote gave us donuts. The lady yelled at us about decibels. We moved into a yurt without asking. Bought whiskey from a closed-off lady. Then 3 things happened at once: David made a big move in our ritual Rummy game, our fish and chips arrived, and we were given our palace. We had to work for it, but it came eventually.
We've been holding up in the San Luis Valley for 5 days now! It's so expansive that I forget that I even exist. It apparently used to be the edge of an inland sea. We've been swimming around in our Beige minivan- who is named either Beige-ing, or Beige-a-vu, or Beige-against-the-machine.
The inland sea is a dry desert now and has been filled with people for quite sometime. Back in ‘30’s Steve’s grandfather would go to Chicago to bring bands into the valley. One time he told Lawrence Welk that they weren’t worth the money they were asking for. He would drop thousands of fliers from a crop duster - over Alamosa, Monte Vista, Del Norte. One flier was printed on both sides, whoever found it got into the show for free.
Gillian Welch- "Down Along the Dixie Line". Patrick Lee- “The Pound.” . Flook- "Flatfish". Mount Kimbie- "Carbonated". James Blake; "Klavierwerk". Sam Cooke- "Mean Old World". Robert Plant and Allison Krauss- "Your Long Journey". Red Stick Ramblers “Made in the Shade” Science Partner - "Rocky Mountain News" The new Clouds and Mountains EP.
We played at the Salida Cafe on Friday. It's always inspiring to see Clark. Saturday we played at Wildwood Sounds in Del Norte- a concert series run by Steve and Konnie- http://www.wildwoodsounds.com/. Catmosphere!
It doesn’t have to be a struggle. It can be effortless. It’s like, over and over again learning the same lessons.
Meanwhile I am waiting and watching and planning. This town = weathered faces + vibrant eyes. Settle down long enough to find the part of you that’s been running. Follow the Grandpa Coyote call to the bottom of a canyon where you can find hot springs and the winged serpent basking on the rock. We lock eyes only so that infinity will show herself. I wish I knew how to get into the closed-off places.
Now here we sit at the Lotus Cafe. Sipping coffee. Kris forgot her computer so she is staring contemplatively. I know what she's thinking though. She's thinking about how we cooked breakfast pizzas- open faced omelettes with cheese, salsa, broccoli, spinach, avocado. She's thinking about how we ate roasted sweet potatoes with red coconut curry sauce. She's thinking about how we should blog more often. You never know who is out there with some free time, wanting to read this stuff! She's right, you know.
We just passed a UFO watchtower. I’m glad someone is watching for such things. Seems like an important job. I’d like to catch one of these waves and stay with it for a very long time.
You deserve all good things. And so it shall be! Hooray, the boys are back with coffee and garlic!
The new practice space is amazing. Tall ceilings, brick walls, no neighbors. Raven left an organ in the corner too. So many new songs to work up, write, practice, perform. The show is going to be very different. We bring the buckets, pans, lids, sticks, and strings in from the car. Set up the loop and play something, anything... a riff from a yet-unhatched song or a couple of bars of rhythm from the Garbage Man himself. And then we disappear from ourselves and dive, dive down. Snaps, claps, voices crescendo, triangle, guiro, keyboard, dissonant beer bottle whispers, harmonica chops. It repeats every eight seconds and I can’t get enough. We trance ourselves in. As soon as it feels done we erase our sound cycle from the loop and start over. I sip tea and remember the monks who let their sand mandalas wash away in the waves. I am learning to let go. I say to myself often: this is just what’s happening right now. Try not to narrate the story.
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Indian style at the coffee table. I made a mix of Sam Cooke, Aretha Franklin, Roy Orbison and Ray Charles. So far the random has favored Sam.
Just sitting in the Warehouse, waiting to work. It’s cold and rainy, so I opened the windows. I made a Vermonter Omelet. I’m thinking about songs, practice, travel. Dreaming of Europe. I haven’t been back in a couple of years. Thinking about Irish music, steam punks, jug bands. Hemingway in Paris in the twenties, writing about a gorgeous brunette woman he saw in a café on Place St. Michel, who got away, and by now she’s grown old and died. But I glimpsed her in his words and I can see why he was compelled to write about her- to pass the message along. It’s fall. It’s internal time. I think of the winter coming on and smile warmly. Little sparkling lights in the snow. Sipping a hot totty, bundled up in a sweater. Trips to the mountains, fireplaces, evergreens. Everyone is hanging out and working now. Preparing. Dreaming up fantastic spring and summer adventures. We’re buying a van. We’ll just be gypsies for a while. See what’s going on around the this country.
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It is still that same riff over and over and over. And it never gets old. Like watching a section of the creek carving out the clay. The pattern is an illusion, each note completely different but passing by as if it were all the same. One measure at a time is taken, digested. Dynamics and sustain. Say all of the words you want, it won’t even come close to describing what is actually happening. Who was it that said talking about music is like dancing about architecture? Then there are the lyrics. Yes, a new dimension is added. He sings in a foreign language but it does not matter. It is irrelevant. The images are painted with the inflections of the voice. I do not need to know the names of the colors. They fit so well as the riff plays over and over and over.
Oh shit. I’m late again, pack everything up. Quick!
Even leaving at 3:30 the traffic is worse - 15 minutes to drive one mile. I think I used to run one in 6. Too much gear to run with. Could just learn everything on the harmonica. Remember to grab the List. We still have to fill a few dates in January, start sending emails for the spring too. Sucks the Theater is already booked that far in advance. Oh yeah, and iTunes, need to get the songs up on iTunes. They want us to pick a genre. Experimental roots? Progressive acoustic? Indie folk? What does that even mean? Good God. All they have is Country. World. Blues. Words. Words. Words.
We look at each other expectantly. How to begin? We have no seed idea, no leader, and a big dumb deadline. This is the moment where we create something out of nothing. Don’t try too hard. We press our ears against stillness and wait.
Fifteen minutes later we have pulled some form out of the void and we’re rolling forward with momentum, focused enthusiasm. And it feels. So. Good. Addictive, really. This is happening right now.
Some Sundays we play cards, make dinner, and shoot the shit. Sometimes we look up from our projects and say to each other ‘Let’s get the hell out of routine as soon as possible.’ Then we go back to work.
