THE WILDERS ON TOUR

"In My Girlish Days"

2011-02-02T20:12:00.000-06:00

Hey y'all,
Happy new year. We are back on tour in the UK. Here's a great special moment with Betse singing a great old Memphis Minnie tune. This is the first time in 15+ years that we've had a a clarinet onstage with us. enjoy...

Has Anybody Seen My Gal?.m4v

2010-09-04T15:53:00.002-05:00

This is what happens when you are two weeks into a tour,
bored out of your mind, and arrive so early that screwing
around is actually encouraged by everyone. It was a classic
moment that I was glad to catch.

"Big John"

2010-08-17T17:23:00.001-05:00

We started doing this old tune from the 1960's several years
ago. Never a regular in our sets, its a tune that sort of makes
itself known when it needs to be played. This night, we were
playing a private show in Scotland. It was a good crowd-
really close to us, but we were burned out after two solid
weeks on the road. I can't say its the best we've ever played it,
but it has a certain feeling that I think translates something
beyond what Jimmy Dean originally got across in his version...

Honky Tonk Blues

2010-06-09T14:47:00.002-05:00

A very loose and lusty take on Hank Williams' classic
"Honky Tonk Blues" at Ystradgynlais Welfare Hall in
Ystradgynlais, Wales UK on May 13th, 2010.

Buck Creek Girls

2010-06-09T13:24:00.001-05:00

Betse and I perform "Buck Creek Girls'" at Ystradgynlais Welfare Hall
in Ystradgynlais, Wales UK on May 13th, 2010. "Buck Creek Girls'"
is public domain, but we got it from The New Lost City Ramblers.

New on YouTube "Hey Little Darlin'"

2010-06-09T11:27:00.002-05:00

Here's the first video from the UK tour.
Here we perform "Hey Little Darlin'" at Ystradgynlais Welfare Hall
in Ystradgynlais, Wales UK on May 13th, 2010. More to come...

The Latest...

2010-05-18T05:52:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting in the bow of a Stenaline ferry to Dublin, Ireland watching with detached interest the activities of the excited and noisy Irish schoolchildren that surround me. Its Monday- a travel day, and we've just finished the Wales portion of our May tour in the United Kingdom. So far, its been quite a ride for a band that hasn't seen much action thus far this year. With the exception of a few midwestern dates in January, and the Seattle, Washington Wintergrass Festival in February, we've basically been off for the entire first quarter.

Each Wilder has his or her own way of marking the time between tours. There are now two parents in the band, and time off with our families has been precious to all of us. There's also the matter of money, which without Wilders gigs, necessitates other creative solutions to making ends meet. Now that we are back on the road (or in today's case, back on the water), I find that despite the lengthy break, we fallen back to chugging away like we've always done.

But this is shaping up to be a very strange year for the band. Just before Christmas, we began basic tracking for a new album which will be released early in 2011. Why so long? Well there are several reasons: In the past, we've always been in such a rush to record. Although our sessions with Dirk Powell at his studio in Louisiana resulted in two of our finest recordings (2006's "Throw Down" and "2008's "Someone's Got to Pay"), recording with Dirk necessitated that we either live with the recordings we got while we were there ("Throw Down"), or bring the basic tracks to KC to finish them ("Someones's Got to Pay"). Both options had inherent problems. There were compromises made on "Throw Down" that were totally avoidable if we had just had a couple more days to finish. And we also ran into problems when we took the basic recordings for "Somenone's Got to Pay" and tried to add on additional tracks in a new studio with different sonic characteristics, different microphones, etc. So this time, we decided to eliminate these limitations by recording at home in KC, without a time deadline, in a familiar studio with our old friend and great engineer, Chad Meise. As of May 1st, we've completed about 90% of the recording and will return from this UK tour to finish it up. If all goes as planned, our new cd will be released on February 15, 2011.

But without a new recording, it is basically pointless to tour in the US. So, this year we've only chosen to do a few large American festivals and will be spending the rest of our time out of the country. And as I sit here typing with the clatter of tiny voices swirling around me, I know that we are already deeply into it. Before we flew across for this tour for example, we knocked the rust off our live performance with two days of shows at Merlefest in Wilkesboro, NC. Our current tour takes us to Wales, Northern Ireland, The Irish Republic and England, and will eat up the entire month of May. Then, in July we'll do a quick Canadian fly-in for our first visit to The Winnipeg Folk Festival. We'll return to The Grey Fox Festival the following weekend in upstate NY, then its back across the pond for another 3 weeks in Scotland. September brings us back home to Winfield, then its another flight across the Atlantic- this time for our first visit to Denmark followed by two more weeks in Germany. By the end of October, we will have been across the Atlantic for a combined total of just over two-and-a-half months. We will most likely take the rest of the year off, conserving our energy until the new record comes out.

For those Americans who are missing our presence, we've videotaped all of our shows in the UK. Look for a whole slew of new video from the tour to appear on youTube in a few weeks as soon as I've dug through all the footage. I'm pretty sure I can post video links to the blog, so stay tuned! You'll get a chance to hear us working out much of the material that will be on the new cd. Cheers from the Irish Sea!

New Wilders 7" CLICK HERE NOW!

2009-12-18T16:32:00.007-06:00

Hey everybody! Just wanted to let you know that we have a limited edition 7" vinyl 45 rpm single now available on our web site. The vinyl comes in pink/red or gold/yellow swirls and, like our 10" EP, will have a free mp3 download form included with each copy purchased. On the A side is a great original fiddle tune by Betse called, "Bull Shoals". On the B side is another original song, written by Ike called "God Made Me (a Little Crazy)". Free Dirt has only manufactured 300 copies, so get your's soon ok? Just click on the title of this post to go directly to our website.

Happy holidays all y'all...

Remembering Mike Seeger...

2009-08-17T12:15:00.002-05:00

It has now been a week since I learned of the death of one of my all-time musical heroes, Mike Seeger. Mr. Seeger succumbed to cancer in his home in Lexington, Virginia on August 7th, 2009. I needn't bother with a biography of the man. Others, who knew him well, have done a much better job of eulogizing him than I ever could.

But still, I'm compelled to add a few words in observance of his passing. I first saw Mike play back in 1995, in Winfield, KS at the Walnut Valley Festival. It was my second year at the festival, and being, at the time, a complete lunatic of enthusiasm for all things bluegrass and old time, I took in every workshop I could get my hands on. I attended Mike's "Odd Instrument" workshop accompanied by a young Winfield first-timer named Betse Ellis. I remember thinking, even then, that Mike was something special. Of course, the Seeger name was legendary. But Mike was more than his famous name suggested. He had a quietness, and a regality in his demeanor that spoke volumes about him. I remember how funny he was. While Kansas fiddler/guitarist Kelly Werts demonstrated how to play the spoons, Mike, who sat next to him offered his elbows for Kelly to clack upon. This was the nature of Mike Seeger, I think. He was always willing to do what needed to be done, in order to further the music. I can't remember if Betse and I went over to meet Mike after the workshop or not. At the time, it wouldn't have been out of character whatsoever for Betse to gush all over Mike. But one thing I do know, I walked away from that workshop a huge fan, and I vowed to find out as much as I could about this interesting little man with such a huge presence.

Over the next few years, I listened to a lot of Mike's recordings- both solo, and with his old time band, The New Lost City Ramblers. I learned how to play my own instruments with no little help from Mike's instructional materials for banjo, mandolin and guitar. And I fell in love with Mike's field recordings- made available to me via a two-cd Folkways collection, "Close to Home". The more I learned about Mike Seeger, the more I wanted to meet him.

I finally got my chance in May of 2008 when Mike Seeger AND The Wilders were scheduled to appear on the "Song of the Mountain" television show in Marion, Virginia. We arrived early in the afternoon, and as we were loading in, I saw Mike carrying an armload of instruments from his car parked in a solitary bit of shade outside the theater. Out of respect, (and out of being a little bit star-struck), I avoided talking to him backstage. There were a lot of other bands on the bill, and there was a rigorous schedule in effect. So I bided my time, and hoped a more casual opportunity to talk to him would present itself. Mike appeared first on the program, and I sat transfixed in the balcony while he quietly performed his set with a calm, self confident air. He demonstrated banjo styles, sang unaccompanied, and played a tune on the quills (a type of pan pipes traditional in some areas of the African-American south). Unfortunately, I had to leave the balcony before Mike was finished in order to put on my stupid suit- our own set was now just a few minutes away... Upstairs in the dressing room, as I finished tying my tie, I saw Mike coming up the stairs carrying a gourd banjo, an old parlor guitar and a small suitcase under his arm. I opened the door for him and ask if I might help. "No," he said with a grin, "I've got it...Boy there sure are a LOT of stairs." He lugged his load into the small room that served as his dressing room, and began putting the instruments away in their cases. I thought to myself, "this is your chance", but then chickened out- rationalizing that the man should be left in peace to stow his gear.

Soon after, we were onstage making our usual racket, and I caught Mike in the corner of my eye, watching from the stage left wings. I don't know how long he was there, but I remember being a little freaked out- worried that he might not like what we were doing to "his" music.

After the show, both Mike and I were busy with our respective cd tables, and by the time I had finished packing everything up, and had changed back into my street clothes, Mike was gone. Betse called my cell phone, and asked if I wanted to grab something to eat. Since I was starving, I agreed. As we walked up the street, I saw Mike heading into a pizza restaurant with two members of a bluegrass band that had also appeared on the TV show that night. There really wasn't much else open at that hour, and the possibility that I might actually get to pay my respects to Mr. Seeger was too tempting, so we followed him inside, and selected a booth just behind where Mike and the bluegrass guys were sitting. Then Ike and Nate called, wondering where we had gone to. Betse gave them directions. The walls of the booth were quite high, and with Ike and Nate now adding to the volume, I wasn't able to hear what was being said in the booth behind. I imagined the pearls of wisdom that Mike was bestowing to his captive audience in the booth- the history, the music, the stories... Ok, I'll admit it, I was jealous. I wanted to switch booths so badly, but ultimately, I was too cowardly to make a move.

Food was served, and eaten, and we were informed that soon, the restaurant would be closing. I could hear Mike and the bluegrass guys settling their bill with the waitress, and hurried to pay ours as well. This was to be my only chance, and I didn't want to miss it. Betse and I followed Mike outside the restaurant, and I made my decisive move. "Mr. Seeger," I said as he walked down the stairs. He turned and gave me a friendly grin. Then it began, "I just wanted to tell you how much your music has always meant to me, " I blurted out. "I don't think I would be playing this music if it hadn't been for you." The embarrassing gush continued, "I just wanted you to know how much it meant to me for us to share the stage tonight." By the way Mike looked at me, you would have thought that I had just spoken to him in Swahili. His eyes darted away. He turned toward Betse and he said, "I like some of them fiddle tunes you played tonight!" Betse was taken aback. "What was the name of that one...something about a mule jumping?" And just as soon as it started, it was over. Mike was no more interested in my praise than he would have been in a tin of moldering tobacco. It was all about the music to him. And I felt bad about it too- immediately. There was so much more I could have said. I wanted to ask him about "Buck Creek Girls"- an old tune his band had recorded back in the mid 60's. I wanted to ask him about Sara and Mother Maybelle Carter. I wanted to know what it was like to hear Roscoe Holcomb singing in the same room as him. These were things I had wanted to ask him for years. I would not get another chance. As we stood on that sidewalk watching Mike walk back to his hotel, Betse tried to console me, "That was nice what you said." But it was too late. I had blown it and I knew it.

But now that Mike Seeger is gone, I don't feel quite so stupid for gushing. In my own silly way, I was able to tell him that his music was important to me, regardless of whether he really felt like listening at the time. I take consolation that I at least I took the initiative to say what I said, and that I meant it too- with all my heart.

So cheers to the life of Mike Seeger. In a time where words like "Maverick" are hurled about by politicians like so much loose change, I contend that he was a mountain of a man. His impact on me remains, and I will miss him greatly.

The Wilders SELL OUT!

2009-07-12T04:20:00.005-05:00

Wilders UK Summer Tour:

I'm propped up against the wall in the hotel room in Stirling, Scotland. I have just a few minutes to write before I head out for tonight's gig. I realize it has been a very long time since I last posted, but a lot has happened this year, and my blog writing has unfortunately been shelved to the back of the pantry.

Thus far, 2009 has been the year of the overseas tour. We did two weeks in the UK at the end of January, followed by another three-and-a-half-weeker in Germany, Austria and Switzerland. Just a few weeks after we returned to the states, Betse came back across the Atlantic for a week-long teaching stint in Belgium, and two more weeks in the UK-touring with multiple artists from the US and Scotland, for her brainchild "Going Across the Sea" project. Now we find ourselves on another month-long overseas odyssey, starting with a week of dates in Ireland (our first time in the Republic), followed by a return to our beloved Scotland (where we now reside). This week, our tour is focused on the middle belt, between Glasgow and Edinburgh. But next week we will be heading north for a festival in Stornaway (a three hour ferry ride to this purportedly breathtaking island). Then we are looking at several punishing days in the van, with 8-9 hour drives each day, taking us south for three dates in England, and our final three dates to Wales. Although this is our 4th tour to the British isles, this time we are covering some very new territory, and thus far, our reception has been very positive.

Our first week in the Republic of Ireland was dizzying. On the 26th of June, at 6:55 in the morning, our faithful Scottish driver, Gerald, met us at the Dublin airport and escorted our poor, jet-lagged arses to his motel room to get a few hours of rest before loading us back up for a promotional appearance on RTE Radio One that afternoon. Our gig at the Seamus Ennis Cultural Center that evening was our first in the Republic of Ireland, and our first sellout show of the tour. It was a great way to start. The next day we piled into the van, driving to the south coast for a gig at the Cork Midsummer Festival. The venue was inside a vintage Spiegeltent, similar to the one we've played at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe for the past three summers. The familiar surroundings made us quite comfortable, and we gave a spirited performance to another near sellout crowd of festival revelers.

Then it was out of the van, and into a small uncovered motor boat (which barely contained us and our belongings) for a cross-water trip from the mainland town of Baltimore, to Sherkin Island. The quick boat ride was somewhat sullied by the fact that it had started to rain, and so by the time we arrived at the landing, we were all soaked to the skin. But our Sherkin hosts made us welcome and soon enough we were dried out and rocking the small but enthusiastic crowd at the Sherkin Shindig. The next morning, I took the time to explore the ruins of an old friary near the boat landing, before we had to load our gear back into the boat for the trip back to the van. Luckily, the weather was much better, and Betse was even given the wheel for much of our return voyage.

The next two days, we got a real taste of the Irish pub scene, playing a showcase in Milltown Malby, County Clare, followed by a show at the well-known traditional pub in Galway, The Crane Bar. Both of these shows were followed by sessions of traditional Irish music that stretched late into the night. It was an eye opening experience to be sure- and the Guinness on tap in the pubs made it all the tastier.

We left Galway the next morning, and headed north for two days of concerts in Wexford, and Manorhamilton, County Leitrim. Both these shows were sellouts. The small twisty roads on the west coast of Ireland left their mark on me particularly, as I encountered my first car sickness in years. But the roads straightened as we got closer to Belfast in Northern Ireland. We played to a near-sellout crowd at a rock club in Belfast, and then headed back down to Letterkenny, County Donegal for our final performance in Ireland (on the 4th of July!), at the Earagail Arts Festival. A trend was now clearly established, as this show, in a very nice performing arts center, was also sold out. Apparently, the combination of us playing our butts off in the past, as well as some pretty deft promotional work by our agent, Loudon Temple, has begun to pay off.

On July 5th, we hopped back into the van to bid goodbye to the emerald isle and catch the ferry to Scotland. Gerald estimated that it would take about 2 hours to get to the departure terminal. But unfortunately our satellite navigation unit had other ideas. The route it chose for us was a scenic drive through some of the most beautiful rolling hills I've ever seen. The only problem was that the tiny winding roads were very slow and, by the time Gerald realized that we had been put on the wrong road, it was too late to turn back. So, for the next three hours, our van literally flew up and down the tiny roller coaster roads while I grew greener and greener in the back. Several times, I had to close my eyes and hold on to my seat to put down the urge to hurl my breakfast all over Ike's backpack (which was sitting at my feet). Not soon enough, we finally flattened out and joined the line at the ferry terminal with a few minutes to spare. Gerald breathed a sigh of relief once we were safely parked onboard. I think we were all quite happy to step away from the van for the relaxing three-hour ride across the Irish Sea. As I looked at the green shores of Scotland growing closer through the window of the ship, I felt that I was coming home.

So as to not belabor this post, I will condense our continuing tour dates in Scotland as thus:

Sunday July 5th- Harbour Arts Centre, Irvine SOLD OUT!
Tuesday July 7th- Carnegie Hall, Dunfermline SOLD OUT!
Wednesday July 8th- The Byre Theater, St. Andrews SOLD OUT!
Thursday July 9th- Eastgate Theatre, Peebles SOLD OUT!
Friday July 10th- Howden Park Centre, Livingston SOLD OUT!

That's pretty much the start of the tour in a nutshell. I will make an effort to give another report soon. But please stay tuned as there is a possibility that we may have a guest blog coming soon. Right now I've got to get to our sound check for tonight's gig at The Tollbooth Gallery in Stirling. I wasn't surprised to hear from Gerald that tonight's show is sold out too.

Cheers from the UK y'all!

Smoke break at the Wall...

2009-05-14T06:22:00.013-05:00

Berlin, Germany- February 2009.

It had been a hectic day already, and Ike and I needed a break- a smoke break that is. We're not proud of it, but we both seem to have a weakness for cigarettes whenever we are in Germany. The band was in town to play a showcase at the Berlin Country Music Messe and both of us needed a break from the completely weird scene. The Messe (Festival), is unlike anything you can imagine. Don't get me wrong, Germans LOVE their country music! And, for the most part, they've got their image right too- with gigantic Stetson hats, expensive (previously) cold-blooded reptile boots, and huge rodeo belt buckles in spades.

But something gets a little warped in the translation. Its like Americana in overdrive and tipped just slightly off center. Along with the sea of cowboys, there are mothers and teenage girls wearing matching Little House on the Prairie dresses. There are the omnipresent rock-a-billy cats in full leathers.

Then there are the mountain men in buckskins, and, strangest of all, the indians. Maybe I'm just oversensitive, but seeing white people dressed up in loin clothes and war paint speaking German totally freaks me out. Anyway, we'd both had enough of it, and pushed outside into the chilly Berlin air to roll up a couple of fine tobacco cigarettes.

There were still a lot of people milling around outside, so I said, "Hey, let's go over and have a smoke by the Wall." I pointed to a stretch of the Berlin Wall still standing as a monument to the cold war 100 yards from the entrance to the Messe. Ike said, "Why the hell not? Yeah let's go." We strolled out the gate over to the remains of the wall.

Looking at it up close, we were both surprised to see how thin it was...

Craaaack! - The Sequel...

2009-03-10T08:44:00.014-05:00

January 26th, 2009
Maverick Night at The Zebra Bar- Maidstone, Kent England...

I had just finished singing a solo tune on the banjo, and was waiting for Ike and Nate to come back to the stage. Betse came up the stairs and sheepishly said, "Uh, I guess I'm going to do a solo now..."

I looked over at Ike, who was now peering at me from the backstage door behind the bar . "Hey dude, we need you back here- and bring that roll of gaff tape". Then he whispered loudly, "I broke my guitar...again." I quickly fished into my banjo case for the tape and hurried backstage to find Ike, Nate and Gerald (our UK driver/roadie extraordinaire) hovering over Ike's guitar like field medics hovering over a soldier who has fallen on the battlefield. Turns out that Ike had inadvertently run into the corner of the bar while he rushed offstage to change a broken string. Unfortunately, his guitar had been between him and the bar at the moment of impact. Now, I know what everybody will immediatly think, "what was he drinking and how much?", but I swear to you folks, this particular bar charged us for water, so alcohol absolutely did not play a part in the breakage. And we weren't screwing around this time either (see "Hark the Herald Angels Craaaack! September, 2006) Link

This time, the guitar was broke and you had to chalk it up to simple dumb luck.

I looked over the situation. The bottom side of his guitar was split from just below where the neck joins the body, almost all they way around to the strap button. At the point of impact, there were shards of wood missing- which Ike had pulled from the guitar, and was now carefully placing inside a small Ziploc bag. I grabbed the gaff tape (the very-expensive theatrical equivalent of duct tape, but with a much less-damaging adhesive side), and started pulling off strips. It was slow and calculating work, as I tried to tape the guitar so that the seams met as cleanly as possible. Gerald, who had our, now-stalled show, and Betse's soon-to-be-finished solo foremost on his mind, grabbed the tape out of my hand, and went to work at 3 times my speed. We heard the applause for Betse, and knew it was time to get back. Gerald finished. It wasn't pretty, but we all agreed that it was officially "fixed", and Ike gave it a strum...the old boy was still perfectly in tune- although it was a little quieter, due mostly to the dampening effect of the tape. We moved back on stage and made it through the rest of the show without a hitch. In fact, we toured almost another three weeks before I heard anything about his guitar again.

Fast forward to The Haus Der Kultur in Waldkraiburg, Germany. I was changing my mandolin strings in one of the empty audience chairs before our sound check. I heard Ike call to me from the stage, "Hey dude, do you have any more of that gaff tape? I broke my guitar...again." This time he explained that he had caught the toe of his boot on a stair while climbing to the stage. As he fell, the guitar, which he had been carrying by the neck, caught his full body weight right on the strap button as he stumbled up the stairs. The previous UK crack now continued around the rest of the waist of his guitar. I believe that if it weren't for the tape and the neck joint, we could have actually lifted the top of the guitar off to have a look inside. The only problem was that the remainder of my gaff was now in short supply. We only had about a yard or so left to fix the whole top side of the guitar. We were in serious trouble. Ike held the seams together, while I carefully ran a single strip along the crack to complete a temporary suture. We finished off the roll of tape by applying some additional structural reinforcements, and then Ike picked it up and gave it a strum... It was about half again as quiet, but still almost perfectly in tune.

A lot of people ask why we care so much about this damned old fragile guitar from Sears and Roebuck. I guess its just that our whole sound was founded on this particular "snare drum with strings". But we are starting to think that maybe, (once the old boy is glued back together that is), it might be time to have a little retirement party. Anybody out there have an archtop with no low-end tone? Does it have absolutely no sustain whatsoever? Want to sell it? We're interested! We can't guarantee that we will always give it much in the way of tender loving care, but it WILL get played... Fast and Loud and Hard, man. And we'd gladly pay as much as $80.00 if its the right one...

Tarmac Photos are the Best.

2009-03-08T11:02:00.004-05:00

Nothing is cooler to me than seeing a photo taken from the tarmac of an airport. I remember watching newsreel footage of The Beatles touching back down in London after their triumphant first US tour. There were throngs of fans waving at John, Paul, George and Ringo. They all look a little freaked out by the commotion, but wave to the crowd before they are whisked away in their waiting limosine.

Here Ike is stepping off the plane into the cold German night. There's precious little in the way of a single fan, much less a throng. I guess the guy standing next to the plane counts for something...

Random Photo from Germany

2009-03-05T13:23:00.005-06:00

Ike in Illerberg, Germany.

Style is difficult to achieve on the road. Most of the time, you look like warmed-over dog shit. If you want to look good, you need accessories. The moth-eaten orange and black scarf was later seriously fouled at Nate's birthday party in Switzerland, then it went missing for about a week, and then returned via German Post at the end of our tour in a tidy ziplock bag. Sadly, the stylish white glasses broke a few minutes after this photo was taken. But at least Ike will always have this photo to remind himself how cool they were.

Fleeting Friends of the Road: A Tribute to Walker Wilder

2009-03-02T18:17:00.004-06:00

Sometimes the miles we travel bore us into silliness of epic proportions. We were somewhere in the Scottish highlands, sleepy but restless, when I looked at the pile of blankets, kindly loaned to us by our booking agent, Loudon's wife. To make space in the overloaded van, Ike had hung the blankets from a headrest facing us. In our haze, the pile sort of looked like a friendly frog staring back at us. I took Ike's hat and set it atop the blankets. Ike took off his sunglasses and then the stage was set. We worked for a few more minutes, Ike adding a stray guitar string for a mouth, me wrapping Ike's jacket around his backpack for the body, then Ike's gloves became his hands. Then, as a final detail, a pack of Walkers potato crisps gave our new friend his namesake, "Walker", good old Walker Wilder.

Oh Walker, how we miss you. You were our quiet friend for a few days. We grew to love you, then you were gone. Your crisps were eaten right from your hand, your body was removed due to pressing need for the warmth and clean clothes they contained. God speed you dear Walker, in your celestial travels...

Back in the USA!

2009-02-26T13:48:00.001-06:00

So...we are back (finally!) from our long tour overseas. We flew to Glasgow, Scotland on January 15th, and flew back from Stuttgart, Germany on February 22nd. Over that time, we played something like 31 shows in 33 days. The trip was quite successful. We sold a lot of cd's and made a lot of new fans. And a lot of stuff happened. There are a lot of stories. But right now, I'm just too damn tired to write about any of it. I know you are hungry for more after such a long break. Thankfully, I took some pictures and shot a little video too. In the meantime, here is my footage of the last song of the night, performed with the crowd's help at The Tin Hut, in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. It seems as if everyone in the UK knows this song...

There's much more to show and tell. Look for many new posts in the next few weeks. Thanks, as always for your continuing interest in our endeavors...

ps: Hope you like the new look. I was sick of the old one. I VOTED FOR CHANGE!
brotherphil

The List...

2008-12-26T23:03:00.000-06:00

Does this ever happen to you? You're driving in you car, listening to the radio, your iPod, a mixtape- whatever, and you hear a song from an album that you absolutely love. I mean LOVE. An album that you can THINK your way through the entire running order, start-to-finish. An album that's as warm to you as a pair of faded jeans straight out of the dryer. An album that, for some ridiculous reason, if you ended up stranded on a desert island, you would want to have with you. An album you would NEED to have with you if you were going to survive. Whenever this happens to me, I always unconsciously blurt out to whoever is riding alongside, "THIS album... is on THE LIST".

Now, I don't want to get too heavy into the logistics of why the desert island scenario is flawed from the get go. If you just consider it for a moment, with the lack of electricity, the limited life of batteries, the destructive effects of salt water on electronics, or, for that matter, the reality of any audio player actually working for more than a few years anyway, the idea is doomed. But I guess if you are like me, and you watched a lot of Gilligan's Island reruns as a kid, you can at least muster up the possibility that perpetual music, albeit limited to a carefully chosen list of 10 albums, might be possible. So, if you were lucky enough to be stranded on a desert island with a smart professor, who could design and build a bamboo bicycle that could generate electricity, AND you had a bomb-proof playback device for cd's, vinyl, whatever, you would want to be prepared wouldn't you?
Thus, the list.

I've been working on my list since early adolescence. I vividly remember my first 8-track tape. It was "Elvis's Golden Records" and I bought it with my own allowance money at K-Mart. I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 years old, but I completely remember rushing home, ripping it out of it's big over-sized box, then gently pushing it into the stereo 8-track deck. Over the next few weeks I literally memorized that music. Coincidentally, I have only one Elvis cd in my collection now, and it's "Elvis's Golden Records"... As the years passed, other 8-tracks entered and retreated from my life, followed by piles of vinyl records, 45's and 33's, mountains of cassette tapes, and then, much later, compact discs. When I was just a kid, my dad used to take me to swap meets at the long-ago-demolished Twin Drive-INN in Riverside, MO . I developed a behavior pattern then, which has remained in me to this very day. Whenever I see an old box of records, cassettes, cd's, or whatever lying underneath a table at a flea market or a garage sale, I MUST go through the entire box. Its an obsession that has yielded me some real treasures over the years. One of them was an 8-track of The Beatles "White Album". Actually, it was only the first half of the 2-album set, and the running order was different, due to the time constraints of the 8-track format. But I memorized it nonetheless- track breaks and all. It took me years to get used the new order when I finally bought it on vinyl. But the music contained on that 8-track destroyed me, and it still destroys me today (although in a completely different way). That's why "The White Album" is on the list. I assure you that I'll need a copy if I end up on that lonely desert island... I WILL.

My 10-album list is constant, yet ever-changing. There are albums on my list that have been on it for most of my life, and albums that are are much more recent additions. After 30 or so some-odd years of collecting, I've grown pretty skeptical. For this reason, I am, by nature, suspicious when I hear something that really knocks me out. New albums that hit me this way generally get put on a probationary sub-list and remain there for quite some time. Then, if they truly have staying power, I will move them up to the actual list. Of course, when this happens, another worthy list occupant must be demoted. I'm not sure why the list must be limited to 10 albums, but it has always has been this way, and I don't dare shake up the rules at this point.

The following is my current list (in no particular order) with supporting evidence:

1. "The White Album" - The Beatles - As a huge Beatles fan, its really hard to choose which album goes on my list. Generally, as one becomes my favorite, it will replace another. With only 10 songs, I can't really afford to have more than one Beatles album on there. But my love for this one dates way back to that original 8-track. I just love the raggedness of the whole thing. Individually, the four Beatles were never more creative. But at the same time, they were in the process of destroying each other. Its a big, overwrought, fleshy thing full of attitude and ego-mania.

2. "Ram" - Paul McCartney - Sir Paul's 2nd post-Beatle solo record has been on the list since my childhood. I used to sit for hours looking at the gatefold cover on the floor of my sister's room. It was her copy and she wouldn't loan it to me. If I wanted to hear it, I had to come into her room. The music was both friendly and, at the same time, sort of edgy. I had no idea that the lyrics were nonsensical and that Linda McCartney's voice was horrifyingly bad. Upon repeated listens as an adult, I cannot divorce these childhood experiences from the music. It has always been on the list and it always will be. I just absolutely love it and can't musically justify why. To paraphrase Descartes, "Its on the list, therefore the list is.

3. "#1 Record/Radio City" - Big Star - I can't believe that I spent nearly 35 years of my life before hearing Big Star. Although I had always "heard about" Alex Chilton's seminal Memphis, TN attempt to pitch some good old USA into the british invasion, I had never had the inclination, or determination to actually seek out a record by them. Ike Sheldon brought this amazing, near perfect, rock and roll nugget into my life several years ago. I can't remember what it bumped off when it crashed onto the list, but whatever it was, good riddance...

4. "King of the Delta Blues Singers" - Robert Johnson - When I was 13 and just starting to play the guitar, I checked this out from our local library. I had read interviews with Keith Richards and Eric Clapton and they talked about what a huge influence Robert Johnson had been on their playing. I got it home and put the record on my turntable and thought it must be on the wrong speed. The guitar was sort of harsh and metallic. and the Johnson's voice sounded like he was singing through a tin can. Needless to say, I was way too young to appreciate the unbelievably haunting songs, the amazing guitar rhythm and his vocal control. These 16 songs would later have a profound influence on me as a musician. It will always be a reference point for how good you can get if you just keep at it.

5. "The Basement Tapes" - Bob Dylan and The Band- Just like The Beatles, picking a single Dylan record is nearly impossible. I choose this one because I just love how loose it is. The boys were just screwing around in the basement. Sometimes, it is amazing what you can create when you don't think anyone is listening. Dylan sneers and croons his way through a thicket of material here. And you get the more bang-for-your-buck with the additional tunes The Band were working up by themselves. I personally think The Band never recorded anything in the studio even close to as good as the stuff in the basement of Big Pink.

6. "Jazz Impressions of New York" - Dave Brubeck Quartet - I discovered this record my sophomore year in college at the University of Missouri. I used to be what they called a "suitcaser"- meaning, I packed my dirty laundry and books into my car and headed home to the comfort of mom and dad's house every weekend. This album made that lonesome 2-hour drive from Columbia bearable weekend after weekend. Many a jazz purist will discount the Brubeck Quartet as a product of the pure commercial saccharin-jazz rampant in the naive 1950's . But I defy anyone to listen to Paul Desmond's aching saxophone on "Autumn on Washington Square" and not feel a cold chill of melancholy settling into their bones.

7. "In an Aeroplane Over the Sea" - Neutral Milk Hotel - This was one that came to me in the 90's while I was still working at the Kansas City Art Institute. Oftentimes my student workers would come into my office, heralding the latest "coolest band EVER" to me. Most of what they played me is now forgotten, but I heard this record and loved it from the first listen. Regardless of my skepticism, it only remained on my sub-list for a short time. I moved it up to full residency on the permanent list before Y2K and never looked back... By the way, I LOVE the sound of a 7th grade brass band playing Sousa marches they've only rehearsed a few times. I guess its just the chaos of it all.

8. "Odyssey and Oracle" - The Zombies - This is one that could drop off the list at any time in favor of a more worthy record. Yet, for the last 3 years or so, every time I hear it, I mutter to myself, "this is still, really...on the list". Its a crazy melange of a record- the Zombies last, that speaks so much to what could have happened if they could have just got past their petty differences and made more beautiful music together...I love the drama of "Butchers Tale (Western Front 1914) and the sweet loneliness of "A Rose for Emily". I don't see it on very many other top 10 lists. So I'll hang on to it for now, in hopes that others may discover it's beauty.

9. "Tattoo You" - The Rolling Stones - Ok, I'm sure I'm going to get a lot of negative response to this one. But here's the deal: I got "Tattoo You" as a Christmas present from my high school buddy, Mark McNally, after we played touch football with about 22 other half drunk dudes in the December Missouri mud, on some Christmas vacation Saturday afternoon. We went to my Chevy Vega during half time, to sample a room temperature 12 pack of Old Milwaukee Light, when he just busted it out from behind his back. He told me, "dude, I know you don't really like The Stones, but just listen to side two. It's the sexiest album side EVER." I went home and listened. Its been on the list ever since.

10. "Final Fade" - Howard Iceberg - The newest addition to the list, but maybe the most worthy ever. I've been a fan of Howard's since the early 90's. He's a Kansas City institution. Hell, I even played slide guitar on his "Hindu Equations" cd. But I'll never forget when Howard gave me a copy of "Final Fade" at one of our local KC shows. He handed it to me and had a funny look on his face. I read the liner notes, and realized that this might be the last Howard Iceberg record. It appeared that he was intending to retire from the music game once and for all. I took it home and realized immediately, the loss this retirement would bring. Luckily, Howard has decided to forgo his retirement a little longer. That's a bonus for everyone who can get their hands on one of his records, or, better yet. see him perform his amazing songs live.

So that's my top 10 desert island disks as of 12/26/08. As is the nature of the list, it might change somewhat tomorrow, or next week. Its my list and I make no bones about it. What I choose is a deeply personal list based on my own particular criteria. You might think I'm crazy, but I'm the one who has to live with my choices on that lonely island right?

So what are your choices? I'd like to see the lists of some others out there. Who knows...Maybe one of your top 10's will eventually creep onto my own? Of course, as a musician, I think that I know EVERYTHING about music. But there's always the possibility of something interesting creeping on to my list at any time. I'll be waiting for your own lists in the comments section of this blog entry. Feel free to expand upon your reasoning, or just provide your basic top 10. I think we will all benefit from the experience...

Happy New Year!

Random Photo Moment 8...

2008-12-25T21:13:00.000-06:00

"Strength does not come from winning.
Your struggles develop your strengths.
When you go through hardships and decide not to surrender,
that is strength."

Arnold Schwarzenegger

Random Photo Moment 7...

2008-12-24T18:05:00.001-06:00

"I know that you believe you understand what you think I said,
but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant."

Robert McCloskey

Random Photo Moment 6...

2008-12-22T15:02:00.001-06:00

"A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words."

unknown

Random Photo Moment 5...

2008-12-21T23:32:00.001-06:00

"I never drink water. I'm afraid it might become habit forming..."

W.C. Fields

Random Photo Moment 4...

2008-12-19T17:01:00.001-06:00

"Sometimes its more important to be human,
than to have good taste."

Brecht

Random Photo Moment 3...

2008-12-18T17:37:00.000-06:00

"Do not take life too seriously,
you'll never get out of it alive."

Elbert Hubbard

Random Photo Moment 2...

2008-12-16T19:24:00.001-06:00

"A fight is not won by one punch or kick.
Either learn to endure or hire a bodyguard."

Bruce Lee

Random Photo Moment

2008-12-11T02:16:00.000-06:00

"Now there is one outstandingly important fact regarding Spaceship Earth, and that is that no instruction book came with it."

Buckminster Fuller

The Ritual of Airports

2008-10-02T23:02:00.000-05:00

The Brown Clown pulls up to the curb outside the Kansas City International Airport terminal and everybody scrambles. Suitcases, instrument cases, cowboy hats, carry-ons, neck pillows, and other Wilder necessities spill out onto the sidewalk as we take shifts, carrying everything inside to the check-in kiosk. Once everything is safe, I head back out and drive the van to the economy parking lot. I look for an open spot near to one of the glassed-in waiting areas. I make a mental note of the location using some stupid mnemonic- "I can't wait to retune my steel guitar to C6 tuning", or "If I run into a robot, I hope it is C3-pio". I know that no matter how creative the mental picture, I'll still forget where I parked.

I turn off the engine, put the sun-visor in the window and quickly look around to make sure nobody forgot anything. Then I lock up and go to wait for the shuttle by the glassed-in waiting area. If we have arrived in plenty of time for our flight, the parking lot is literally teeming with shuttles, and one comes to pick me up almost immediately. However, if we are running late (which we often are), its more like downtown Tombstone out there. There are no other cars coming in to park, no other people waiting, and no shuttles- no shuttles anywhere. I begin to make frantic phone calls to Betse, telling her that I'm stranded, that I'm screwed, that I'm going to have to walk to the terminal...that I just got hit by a tumbleweed. She speaks to me in a calm reassuring voice- she's incredulous because she's heard it all before. I hang up when a shuttle finally comes. I arrive at the airport and find Betse and Nate waiting next to my pile of luggage. Betse hands me my boarding pass and then they both scatter.

I grab my stuff, hit the restroom and gulp down some water at the fountain before heading into the security line. Unlike most larger airports, Kansas City International has a separate security line for each gate. Our airport was built in the early 70's, prior to today's daily terrorist threat. Although they have been retrofitting some of the busier gates with new bathrooms, once you are past security, there isn't any guarantee that there will be any services whatsoever (unless, I guess you want to call chairs a service). Regardless of this minor inconvenience, I love our sweet little airport. There never seems to be very many people flying, the lines are mercifully short, and the security staff are, for the most part friendly and free of the burnout level you see at busier airports.

I smile at the first security guard as I hand her my boarding pass and passport. She waves a weird blue flashlight over my picture, compares the info, then returns my smile along with my stuff. I move past her and pull off my boots, unbuckle and unthread my belt, take off my coat and hat, and dump the lot into a plastic bin, Then I unzip my carry-on suitcase and remove my 1 quart plastic bag containing all my important gels and liquids. I remove my laptop from the suitcase too, and put it and the gels into their own plastic tub, Finally, I pull off the tennis bag off my back (which contains my mandolin case) and lay it on the belt behind the plastic tubs. I've just organized my entire life into little train of plastic tubs. I double-check my pockets for any change, scrap metal, razor blades, or anything else that is going to get me busted, then wait for the x-ray attendant to look at me. He motions me forward. Just before I pass through the machine, I grab a quick breath and hold it... I don't hear an alarm. I'm clean- thank God. I exhale, then wait for my train of tubs to come out of the x-ray machine. I quickly put back on my belt and boots, coat and hat, and then unzip my carry-on to return my laptop and important gels and liquids. Then I go grab a seat near the gate. Even though I just went to the bathroom, I now have the urge to pee. But, of course there is no bathroom inside this gate.

I look around and see Betse sitting 10 yards across from me in another row of seats checking email on her laptop. Nate is sitting about 20 yards behind me reading the sports page. Today Ike is meeting us in Newark, and is flying out of Allentown, Pennsylvania, so who knows what he is doing? But even if he was here, he wouldn't willingly sit with any of us. For whatever reason, we don't hang out together in airports. Given the opportunity, we will change our seat assignments in order to NOT sit near each other. Of course, we DO spend a lot of time together on the road. But another part of this avoidance behavior is due to the fact that each of us has our own preference as to where we like to sit. I am claustrophobic by nature and require not only an aisle seat, but, if possible, an aisle seat at the very front of the plane. This preference allows me to get the hell off the plane as soon as possible. Ike likes the front too, but because he is sensitive to the engine noise and prefers the quieter ride up front. But, unlike me, he has no problem sitting on a plane, and will sometimes dawdle just to be the last one off. Both Betse and Nate like window seats- not because of the view, but because they have developed a technique where by they can actually go to sleep by cramming their heads up against the closed window shade NOTE: This technique requires the use of a neck pillow. Misuse of this technique can result in spinal injury).

A voice comes over the intercom telling us that they are now going to begin pre-boarding for our flight. A line quickly develops at the gate. Betse gets up and joins the line too. She will need to board as soon as possible so that she can find a safe space for her double fiddle case before all the overhead bins are full. Thus, she has a very good reason to get in line, but I look at the other people jockeying for position, and I wonder what it is they are in such a damned hurry for. I remain seated. Due to my claustrophobia, I would never willingly hurry to get ON an airplane. And besides, once you are past the gate attendant, you only get to walk a few steps before you hit a secondary line on the jetway, where everyone who got up before you is now stuck waiting. Inside the aircraft, all the people who first jumped into line are now cramming their oversize carry-ons into all of the available overhead spaces. They will have to wait, though, until the rest of us stragglers come aboard.

I wait until there most of the people are on the plane, then move toward the gate. I don't want to be the last one on the plane because I usually have slightly more luggage than is really "allowed". When my carry-on bag is fully packed, containing all of my clothes, at least two western suits, my 1 quart bag of liquids and gels, my computer and whatever else was needed depending on the tour, it is about an inch or so over the maximum size allowed on an aircraft. Technically, you are allowed to carry-on this bag as well as one nebulous "personal item". This is where it gets sticky. My personal item is the tennis bag containing my mandolin case. I need it because it has backpack straps that allow me to carry all three of my instruments at once. If I only had the mandolin case inside, it wouldn't be a problem. However, lately I've been pushing the envelope by cramming in my cowboy boots, some magazines, snacks, a neck pillow, and so on and so on... Today, my "personal item" is actually LARGER than my carry-on bag! As I move up to the gate attendant, I keep my carry-on suitcase on the opposite side of my body in an attempt to block it from her view- and I sort of stand sideways,. hoping she won't look too closely at the monstrosity hanging on my back. I'm lucky, and she doesn't even look up at me when I hand her my boarding pass. I move quickly down the jet way and run into the tail end of the line waiting to get on the plane.

After a few minutes I finally reach the door and I see the flight attendant staring at my luggage and shaking her head. I'm busted. She tells me the overheads are all full and I'll need to gate check my bags along with the strollers and wheelchairs. Defeated, I quickly open my suitcase and remove my computer, grab some gum, a magazine, re-zip everything, then say a silent prayer for the continued good health of my luggage before handing both bags off to the disinterested, overworked and underpaid baggage handler standing in the door of the jetway. Powerlessly, I watch him drop my carry-on bag from the stairway landing to the truck bed, located 4 feet below. I cringe, quickly turn away, and then move through the door of the suffocatingly small aircraft. I smile at the flight attendant and take my aisle seat in the first row. I was the last one on, and with any luck, I'll be one of the first off. Thank God.

Random Stop...

2008-08-29T01:14:00.000-05:00

Thursday, 8/28/08 @ 9:13pm
Interstate 70, East of Hays, Kansas:

I was jolted awake when Ike hit the brakes-HARD. The van lurched to the right, crossing the rumble strip, and stopped roughly on the shoulder. Semi-trucks, lugging their heavy loads roared by as I sat up with a "hrumph." I had drifted off into sleep long enough for the sun to have gone down without my awareness. I had no idea where we were.

Ike was already out of the van by the time I raised the blinds. I looked out the window and spotted him-up to his chest in grass, climbing up a small hill toward a ridge of trees. Towering above him, about 100 feet beyond, was a solitary wind turbine turning fast in the Kansas wind.

Betse yelled out, "oh no, I bet there are chiggers."
"You can brush them off!" he yelled back as he disappeared through the tree line.

Nate turned around from the seat in front of me, laughing, and said, "Hey Phil, did you think we would be stopping for THIS?". I grumbled a non-answer, and looked back outside at the turbine, scanning the trees for Ike.

"Wow, you can hear it," Betse said, "LISTEN..." I slid my window open, but for several moments, all I could hear was the traffic whooshing past. Then I heard it, the steady, "whump, whump, whump" of the turbine.

Spurred on by this new auditory impulse, Betse too was now off into the grass, She moved with greater care than Ike- perhaps hoping to limit her parasite exposure. Nate turned to me again and said, "He was just talking about wanting to climb something." Chuckling, he added, "He's going to be on top of that thing in a few minutes."

I collapsed back into my seat with a grumble-feigning disinterest. The part of me that knew this was going to make us late, had taken momentary control of my vocal chords. But there was another part of me that secretly wanted to see Ike's shadowy silhouette moving up the side of the tower- no matter how late it made us.

I sat back up and said, "Do they even HAVE chiggers in central Kansas?"
"I don't know," Nate replied as he stepped outside to water the roadside flowers, "but I'm not feeling adventurous enough tonight to find out." Then he said, "Hey, they're coming back, there must have been a fence"

Ike an Betse returned to their respective front seats, obsessively brushing and rubbing their wrists and ankles. They spoke to each other emphatically-not about wind turbines, but about feeding habits and human defense strategies against Trombiculidae, the common chigger. It was obvious that they now imagined their bodies teeming with microscopic mites. Innumerable chiggers were slipping into a sock here, a waistband there, or worse yet, crawling under a warm, moist fold of skin where there would be protection from the incessant brushing and rubbing- the sort of place a chigger can relax, a safe place where he can linger long enough to begin to feed...

For those who don't believe in the existence of the much-reviled midwestern chigger, please visit:

http://mdc.mo.gov/nathis/arthopo/chiggers/

Or, for you adventurous disbelievers, I invite you to visit any picturesque backyard, pasture, or meadow of Missouri grass between June and August. Go ahead, have a seat, relax and see for yourself if chiggers are real.

By the way, you can't see them, they are invisible...

Sideshow!

2008-08-09T09:13:00.000-05:00

Saturday August 9th 12:10am
Location: The Marquis De Sideshow Tent- Spiegel Gardens

"This is sideshow, not magic," the shirtless tattooed performer explained as he pushed a galvanized 10 penny nail through each of his nipple piercings. "Real people doing real things..." He reached behind a curtain, and roughly pulled out an automotive battery wrapped in heavy steel chains, then dropped it violently to the floor in front of the anxious crowd. He bent forward at the waist, unraveled one of the chains, and slipped the end link over one of the nails- locking it snugly around his right nipple. "This is sideshow, it is not meant to trick," he said as he attached the other chain in like fashion. "It is meant to shock, and AMAZE..." He then arched his back, pulling the chains taught against the nails with his arms straightened behind him like an olympic swimmer ready for the race. He paused briefly for some of the audience to take pictures of his now downward-stretching nipples. The battery was still firmly planted to the floor.

"Now I'm going to see if I can lift this battery off the ground using only my chest- but first, we're going to make it more interesting!" Again, he reached behind the curtain, now producing a set of heavy automotive jumper cables. Nervous laughter filtered throughout the audience. "How many of you understand the laws of electricity?" he asked. "Well, I will tell you that there is enough electricity contained within this battery, that if I were to attach these jumper cables to these chains, there would be enough sustained amps to kill me..." He clipped the negative cable to the negative terminal, and then, likewise, clipped the positive end to the positive terminal. Grasping up the opposite ends of the cables in each hand, he quickly touched the two ends together, producing a shower of sparks. The audience gasped.

"Now for me to be able to lift this battery, there needs to be an exchange of energy..." Again, he touched the cable ends together, producing a secondary shower of sparks. "If I rub the ends of these cables against the chains, it will still produce an electrical current, but only about 5 to 6 amps, which will NOT be enough to kill me." He went on, "So I'll be getting energy from the battery, but I also need energy from you, the audience." The tension in room was palpable- everyone focused completely on the performer. "When I begin rubbing these chains, they are going to get very hot- especially here and here," he motioned to each nail. "On the count of three, I need for you, the audience, to scream as loudly and as wildly as you can. If I can pick the battery up just a few inches, I've done my job, and I've done it well..."

"Are you ready?" he yelled. The crowd, united in their response, screamed, "YEAAAAHHH! He scraped the cables against the chains. Sparks fell down his chest as he winced in pain, "AAAAAHHHHHHHGGGGG!" There was a small cloud of smoke wafting into the front row. "Can you SMELL IT?" he asked. "That's the smell of burning flesh!" The woman seated closest to him waved a hand in front of her face. "Remember, this is sideshow, NOT magic," he repeated. "It is meant to shock...and AMAZE." He paused to let his words settle in for dramatic effect. "Remember, you must scream as loudly as you can! NOW, on the count of three...ONE......TWO.............THREE!

The performer began rubbing the chains up and down against the battery cables. Sparks flew. Smoke filled the air. The crowd screamed loudly, forcefully, wildly. The performer screamed too, but they were screams of anguish. He arched his back against the weight of the battery. From my vantage point, I could not see the battery rise off the floor, but from the change in the crowd's screams, I knew that it had. The performer screamed- and we screamed louder, as he quickly rocked his body from side to side, making the battery swing like a pendulum. Then, he relaxed, and the battery tumbled back to wooden floor with a heavy thud.

He slumped forward, clearly exhausted and dazed from the effort. The crowd cheered. He detached the chains, straightened himself, and took a deep bow.

"SIDESHOW!" he exclaimed, "Real people doing REAL THINGS!"

Ike Rips and Tall Ships-Scotland: Part Two

2008-08-07T11:10:00.000-05:00

I've just returned to the peace and quiet of our flat. We spent the morning hucking ourselves on a local Edinburgh radio program. At this point, everything we can do to get some "butts in seats" (as we so elegantly say in Missouri), the better. I had hoped that our previous attendance problems would be strictly a United States phenomena. However, with half our Spiegeltent performances nearly finished, we have yet to draw more than half a house. This is frustrating because out of the 5 shows we did during last year's run, we sold out two, then had a nearly full house on two more. It was only on the final day of the festival (a Monday no less), that we finally had a low show attendance. Like the US, the economy in the UK is sluggish, gas prices are sky high, and people are getting depressed. And like the US, many people are apparently opting to stay home and save their hard-earned money.

Regardless, it feels really good to be back in Scotland. We played our first show in a beautifully refurbished old theater in Perth. The audience attendance for our show at the "Southern Fried Festival" was quite good. I think this might have been to due, at least in part, to Ike's participation in a multi-artist Hank Williams tribute concert up the street earlier in the evening. Betse and I walked into the back of the completely new, state-of-the-art theater to check it out, just as Ike was finishing the first verse to Hank Williams' heart-wrenching "Someday You'll Call My Name (and I Won't Answer)". The stage was beautifully lit. The house band was spread across the center and stage left side behind Ike. And on stage right, there were several small round tables. Seated at the tables were the other tribute performers and their friends. I smiled when I looked and saw Nate, Carrie and Gerald sitting up there onstage watching the show. This brilliant theatrical choice allowed the audience in the theater to watch an audience on the stage while they both watched the show. But it was clear to me that everyone's eyes were squarely on Ike at center stage when he sang Hank's words. He wore the close-fitting, dark plum western suit I bought for him a few years ago on eBay. He had on his black felt cowboy hat, a pair of black shoes (with white socks of course), and sunglasses. He looked like a cross between Marty Robbins and Hank Williams Jr, and when he sang into the mic, he looked like a damned star- and he sounded like one too. Now, it may seem that I am waxing poetic, but I rarely get to see our singer from the audience's vantage point- especially in such a perfect setting. In short, he blew me (and everybody else) away.

A few hours later, our own show was an energetic, albeit chaotic triumph. We hadn't played together in nearly two weeks, and it took a little effort to keep all four wheels on the ground. But the audience loved it, and the 90 minute set seemed to go by in a blink. The next morning, I was startled awake by Gerald at the early hour of 11:30am. My watch alarm had been set to go off at 9. But I quickly realized that I had set it for pm instead of am. Gerald said, in his infinite patience and sing-songy accent, "no wearies Phillip, tek yor tyme...havacuppatea". He grabbed up my instrument cases and shuffled up the hallway, stopping briefly to wake up Betse (who had forgotten to set her alarm), and Nate (who didn't even have an alarm). A half hour later, we were headed toward Glasgow. This van was much more spacious than Gerald's airport shuttle loaner. There was a locked storage area in the back where we securely stowed all our gear. And in the center, there were three bucket seats facing forward, and three bucket seats facing backward. On all sides, thick black drapes hung which served to divide us from Gerald, as well as obscuring any light or view that might be coming into the windows. Stepping inside felt like stepping inside a gothic stagecoach.

Soon we arrived in Glasgow, and Gerald mercifully dropped us off at our hotel to allow us plenty of time to rest up and eat something before our show that evening. Our gig location was "The Tall Ship", docked in the Glasgow harbor. Gerald picked us up from the hotel and it was just a short drive until we could see the three-story masts peeking over some harbor buildings. This 19th-century fully masted steel-hulled cargo ship apparently spent years carrying loads of bat guano from South America to the western United States, the UK and other places where the potent fertilizer was in demand. For many years, The ship was operated by a Scottish company, but was sold to the Spanish navy after WWII. She then fell into serious disrepair, before a contingency of Scottish seafaring enthusiasts got together, raised enough money to buy her back and spent countless more hours and money to make her seaworthy again. They then had her towed back to Glasgow, where she now resides as a tourist attraction, permanently chained to the dock. We parked and loaded our gear up the ramp and then down into the hold. As I walked around, I realized that this would be one of the most unusual places we would ever play. Gerald had been setting up the sound gear while we were at the hotel, so we had only to open our cases, tune up, make a few microphone adjustments, and were ready to play. We had about an hour to kill, so Nate went with Gerald to go pick up some pizzas, while Betse, Carrie, Ike and I all played a sailor's ring toss game outside on the dock.

For the second night of our tour, the crowd attendance was really good. In fact, they began lining up (or queuing, as the they say here), before our sound check, and by the time we returned to change into our suits, nearly every seat was full. Our UK booking agent, Loudon Temple introduced us and we were off to the races. The crowd gave us a lot of encouragement as we played a tight, well-paced two sets of Wilders goodies. After the show, Loudon took us down another flight of stairs into the vast cargo hold of the ship. Looking up from the very bottom into the enormous space, I could imagine myself as a turn-of-the-century sailor, sent down to inspect the integrity of the hold when suddenly I'm buried alive by 1000 tons of bat shit.

stay tuned...

Scotland: Part One

2008-08-05T07:46:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting in our dressing room behind the Infamous Spiegeltent in Edinburgh, Scotland listening to the soothing sounds of someone playing an accordion nearby. It is noon here, and the Spiegeltent staff are just now coming to work after a long and late opening night. I am taking advantage of a free wifi connection on sight, while my band mates catch up on some sleep back at our flat.

We are now 5 days into our third tour of Scotland. So much has happened already. Ike, accompanied by his wife, Carrie, flew over to Edinburgh over a week ago to take a vacation in the northern highlands. Betse, Nate and I flew to Newark, NJ on Thursday morning, then prepared ourselves for an 8 hour layover that quickly turned into 11 grueling hours once Continental Airlines got through with us. We boarded the cramped aircraft around 1am, then settled in for the six-hour flight to the UK.

The Wilders airport/flying experience really deserves a blog of it's own. But I will sum up this particular flight by saying that we all looked like cadavers when we spilled out into the airport. It was now after 1pm in Edinburgh, and we had been in airports or flying for over 24 hours.

For those who haven't had the pleasure of travel to the United Kingdom, I'll tell you that before you get to claim your luggage, you must first go through customs. The first couple of times we did this, it was a little nerve racking. I mean, they could easily deny us entry if they wanted to- and then what? But, we've grown used to this process by now, and the Scottish customs agent was quite friendly as she looked over our paperwork. She asked where we were playing, and then double-checked the Fringe Festival guide for our name. Our listing on the Spiegeltent schedule was more than enough to corroborate our story, and she let us pass into the UK without further delay. We grabbed up our luggage (all of which arrived with no problem), and headed out into a classic Scottish midday sun shower. Scotland reminds me a lot of Juneau, Alaska in that it seems to rain constantly, but never enough to cause you to get truly wet. And after a few days, you don't even really notice it anymore.

We were greeted by our illustrious driver/tour manager Gerald Roche. I looked back into the blog archive to see if I've ever written about Gerald and, grossly, I have not. Gerald actually deserves an entire blog entry of his own too. Maybe I'll post a full description next week once I've lived with him long enough for me to describe him with the color and detail that he so richly deserves. Anyway, Gerald helped us with our bags and cases into the parking lot and then to the car (borrowed from a friend), which he brought to fetch us from the airport. All of you folks crying about the high price of gas prices in the US should know that gas in Scotland is now averaging around 3 British pounds....PER LITER! (you do the math)... This is the reason why Gerald borrowed his friend's fuel-efficient car, instead of bringing a gas-guzzling van. The only problem came when we tried to load all our crap into the tiny vehicle. It was minivan-ish, but SMALL. We tried several configurations, finally settling on the only one that allowed all four of us to actually get inside the car. Betse and I held onto a suitcase balanced on top of the bass case, and I shaped myself into a human comma, hunching forward with the top of the banjo case filling the space where my head should have been.

Luckily it was only a 40 mile drive to Perth. With the promise of serenity and rest waiting for us at our hotel, we endured the discomfort. In fact, both Betse and I slipped into a light sleep once we were on the highway. But suddenly, during an evasive maneuver that Gerald was required to make, the suitcase that neither of us were holding any longer, shifted and hit Betse squarely on the head- trapping her for a moment until she shoved it off with a groan. The phrase "rude awakening" was never more appropriately coined. More to come...

Tour Report, July 2008

2008-07-29T15:21:00.001-05:00

crevasse
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

7/11/08
I'm sitting in a ski resort in Big Sky, Montana listening to the sound of children playing in the pool beneath my room. If it weren't for the lack of police sirens, I would guess that they are trying to strangle each other. As a result, this is a pretty weird place to sit and write, but I am seriously deficient in blogs for the year, and I've got to get some stuff down before I forget it all. Here is a big update on all Wilders developments, as well as a few thoughts I've been contemplating as of late...

Southeast US CD-Release Tour:
Our newest cd, "Someone's Got to Pay" has now been out for 3 months. We hit the road on April 15th, the day it was released, and worked dates in Iowa City, Madison, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Washington, D.C., and Charlottesville, VA before landing for our third play at Merlefest in Wilkesboro, N.C.. With the exception of Chicago, we were surprised at the lack of audience turning out for the shows- especially at some locations where we were returning after doing well in the past. But Merlefest was fantastic, and the crowds made us feel like we were doing it right. We got to play a set with Jim Lauderdale on Saturday morning, and Betse and I were thrilled to lend a hand to The Waybacks Saturday afternoon hillside set where we played the entire running order of Led Zeppelin II. Many folks picked up a copy of our new cd, and we injected a little Kansas City Rural Grit into their "midnight jam" on Saturday night. The following Monday afternoon found us in a North Wilkesboro, NC Laundromat separating our colors from our whites with none other than Martha Scanlan and Dirk Powell. It was a sight to behold for sure.

With our suitcases refreshed with clean clothes, we bid our friends goodbye and set out east for more sparsely attended shows in Knoxville and Nashville, then south for similarly dead shows in Greenville, SC and Chapel Hill. As the venerable manager of Nashville's Station Inn, Lin Barber put it, "The crowds have been skinny all over." We rationalized that gas prices were just starting their summer rise, and maybe it wasn't such a good time to tour the southeast since Merlefest had siphoned-off so many people. Regardless, it was hard to not become depressed. The tour ended on a higher note, with a wacked-out performance on "Song of the Mountain", a syndicated "Austin City Limits" style television show, and our final show at a coffee shop in Lewisburg, WV where people actually came to the show AND danced AND had a great time. Another bright note of this Southeast run, was that we got to tick off two more states on our "US States played" list. West Virginia, and South Carolina, we welcome you.

We were understandably pooped after driving home 16 hours straight from West Virginia, and were happy to take the next 2 weeks off to recuperate. The next leg of our cd release tour would be the US west coast, via Alaska.

Alaska, by land, by air, by sea:
Our first date on the western tour was in Juneau, Alaska, (not exactly good tour routing on our part). Thus, one of us needed to drive the van out to Seattle, so that the Brown Clown and trailer would be waiting for us when we flew back. I volunteered for driving duty, and was luckily co-piloted by my wife, Kim for the 2000 mile trip. Over four days, we saw some beautiful country and spent some serious money on gasoline. The cheapest gas on the way out was in Wyoming at $3.49 a gallon. But by the time we hit the east side of the Cascades in Washington, the price was over $4.00. We didn't see gas prices fall below the $4 mark until we reached Arizona four weeks later.

With the "land" portion of our travel complete, Kim accompanied me via Alaskan Airlines for her first visit to the great state of Alaska. We arrived in Juneau in the late afternoon and it was just spectacular. The weather was warm and sunny (conditions the locals refer to as "sucker weather"). The rest of the band arrived several hours after us, and we were all happy to be reunited with our Juneau posse of friends. The next day, a small contingency of us hiked up and onto the Mendenhall Glacier, then the band played a concert and a bar show to earn a little bit of money before undertaking the "sea" portion of our trip- the main event, The Pelican Boardwalk Boogie.

Pelican, Alaska is a close-knit fishing village perched in a protected inlet on the Pacific side of the Alaskan Coastal Range (about 6 hours by ferry northwest of Juneau)। There are no roads to or from, (or for that matter IN) Pelican. Everything that comes into the village either comes by seaplane or boat. As the terrain is quite steep and the tidal fluctuations great, all the homes and businesses are either built on the mountainside, or perched on pylons hammered into the bay. A mile-or-so long boardwalk stretches from one end of the town to the other. "The Boogie" as the locals refer to it, is an annual 3-day event featuring music, dance, competitive song performance, and wonderful and varied debauchery of all manner and sort. By the end of the weekend, we were sunburnt, a little hung over and very glad for the opportunity (yet again) to visit a place that we would never, ever have had a chance to visit if it were not for the magic of music. Alaska commercial fishermen are rare individuals that few lower 48 americans ever get a chance to meet. And because we play music, we were invited to come aboard their boats, sample their most recent catch, drink their beer, and hear their stories for 3 solid days and nights. It was an experience I won't soon forget.

Western US CD-Release Tour:
The saying, "all good things come to an end" definitely came true as I had to bid farewell to my wife, and our beloved Alaska friends, fly back to Seattle, then climb into the not-so-beloved Brown Clown and hit the road for our longest road tour in quite some time. Things started off ok, with gigs in Bellingham, WA and Vancouver, BC, but our third play at Seattle's Tractor Tavern, made me hopeful for the rest of the tour. The place was packed to the gills, and we gave them one of the best performances we've pulled off in a long time. But just as soon as things were looking up, we had mediocre attendance in Portland and, the next night, only a handful of people in Eugene. The bar manager took me back to the office after the show. "You guys are GREAT," he said as he forked over our skimpy pay. "I'm not sure why the crowd wasn't here, but the next time you guys come to town, we're going to book you on a Saturday night and I guarantee this place will be PACKED!"

We tried not to let it get us down as we moved from the rainy northwest coast into sunny Northern California. We played to a decent crowd in an intimate listening room in Redding, but then followed it with a poop-out show in Arcata. After the show, the promoter said to me, "The NBA finals totally killed your attendance, but the next time you guys come to town, we're going to book you on a Saturday night and this place will be..." I shook my head, "yeah, uh huh..." The tour bottomed out in Sacramento. It was a nice room, cozy with a good sound system. The only problem was that the there were only about 15 people in the whole place- and 5 of them were in the opening band. Personally, I had to put it on auto-pilot for the night, but the band still played as good as we could despite the crickets chirping in the back. If only there were six more Saturdays in a week...

After the show, we had to drive a couple of hours to Grass Valley, so that we could be up early for our first performance at the annual Father's Day Festival. I can't tell you how good it felt to pull into the fairgrounds and see a literal sea of RV's. "Alright," I said to myself, "we've done THIS before!"- Grass Valley's Father's Day Fest is one of those classic bluegrass festivals, the kind that draws an audience that LOVES music. the kind where you put your lawn chair in your spot and it stays there all weekend long, the kind we cut our teeth on when we were just getting started, the kind that I knew we could absolutely KILL if we were able to get in the right frame of mind. I breathed a sigh of relief as we all unpacked our gear and got ready to do our thing. 48 hours later, our cd inventory AND our spirits were much lighter.

Next up were two major California cities, San Francisco and Los Angeles on consecutive nights. Again, the attendance at the SF show was light, but everybody there seemed to know about us, and their enthusiastic response more than made up for their lack of numbers . It was one of the most fun shows on the tour for me. Unfortunately, the promoter of the show pulled a real bonehead move at the end of the night which sullied the experience. It wouldn't be professional to name names, or describe what a jerk this guy was, I will suffice to say that we will be working with another promoter when we return to the bay area.

The next morning, we got up early and headed 8 hours down the central valley to Los Angeles. Our gig at the Santa Monica rock and roll club, "The Good Hurt" (where all the bartenders and waitresses are dressed up in nurses outfits...so LA), was the least attended of the entire tour -probably less than 5, if you don't count the members of the other bands . But this was LA, a city where it is notoriously impossible to draw a crowd, EVEN ON A SATURDAY. And at least we got to see Nate's high school buddy, John's punk rock band, Lo-Fi Man. So I was happy to be there, and I think we all had a really good time enjoying LA for all its unique weirdness.

The next day we had a much-needed day off. The boys went to the beach with John, and Betse and I decided to be tourists and go to the LaBrea Tar Pits. I remember seeing the tar pits on an episode of "The Beverly Hillbillies" when I was growing up, and I've wanted to see them ever since I was little kid. I can tell you, I was not disappointed. The museum was first rate, and we had a nice walk around the grounds watching the still active pits bubbling away- It was fun to imagine that if I just took a wrong step, I might accidently fall into a pit and become entrapped, gobbled up and then fossilized with the rest of the saber-toothed tigers and mastodons.

The next morning, we picked the boys back up in Santa Monica, and then headed out on the highway straight into LA rush hour (which, of course, is ALL the freakin' time). It was a long, hot and uncomfortable drive to Phoenix, where Nate's folks had given us permission to stay at their Arizona residence. It felt so good to get out of the van and into some air conditioning after such a long day. Incidentally, at 1am, the temperature in Phoenix was 106 degrees. For whatever reason, things like this entertain me, so I sat outside in a lawn chair, drank a cold beer, and watched the sidewalks melting before I went to bed.

Our next gig wasn't until the following night in Tucson, AZ. But Ike and I had an appointment to be interviewed for NPR's "Weekend Edition" at the local Tucson NPR affiliate the next morning. So, with little sleep, we piled back into the van and made it to Tucson by 10. The NPR interview was really enjoyable. Scott Simon did his homework, asked intelligent questions and made it fun for us- and I think the resulting interview turned out very well. That night, we played for our third time at Club Congress in downtown Tucson. We got to visit with our Tucson "angels", Don and Kay Meyer (see "Desert Angels II" in the blog archive from June of 2004), had a great opening act, Canada's Rock Plaza Central, and played a super fun show to...you guessed it, another 1/4 full room. The bar manager told me after the show, "The Indigo Girls were playing across the street, so that killed your crowd. But the next time you guys come to town, we're going to book you on a Saturday..."

Our gig at Club Congress ended late, but we were up early and back into the van for another day-long drive, this time to Albuquerque. We arrived late, but were still able to make our 7pm showtime for a free concert series in the Albuquerque Bio Park- a gig we originally did our first professional summer when we toured in The Chief see "Miles and Miles and Miles" in the blog archive from June of 2004). The park was packed with lawn chair sitters and picnic dinner spreaders who really seemed to enjoy our show. Mercifully, the bio park paid for each of us to have our own hotel room that night. I'm sure we all relished in the privacy and peace and quiet for those precious few hours.

We didn't have a show the next day, and after moving to a new motel, Betse and I spent the rest of the day making flight and vehicle reservations for the rest of the year. Nate and Ike spent the rest of the day hunting for (and finding) our infamous old friend Nappy who still lives in Belin, NM (see "We Tried: Parts 2-4 in the blog archive from March of 2005). The next day, we finished the tour off with a performance and a workshop at the Albuquerque Folk Festival. After such a long tour, we opted to get up early the next morning, and head straight home in our second 16-hour driving marathon of the spring.

Ruminations:
So what conclusions, if any, can I come to three months after releasing our new cd? Well, first of all, people seem to like it. It was a gamble that I think won us more fans than we lost. Secondly, it had a larger impact nation-wide than anything we've previously released. We got some decent national press, and a lot of radio play throughout the country. Time will tell whether we've made any real headway, but that's sort of beside the point. Fundamentally, we are all proud of how it turned out.

And how about the tours? Well, that's another thing entirely. After 8 solid weeks of over-the-road touring in support of our new release, our band is now more in debt than ever. In short, the Brown Clown and motel rooms gobbled up any profit we might have made. And the lack of attendance at our shows really hurt us financially and emotionally. As a result, I find myself actually questioning whether we can continue. It's funny, I always thought that at some point, like most bands, we would just have a total meltdown, punch each other out and call it a day. I never really considered that factors like a tanking economy, gas prices and the general malaise of the american consumer could prove to be our downfall. Of course, my negativity is most likely the result of road fatigue.

But certainly, if things continue as they have been, we will need to look at a new model for touring- something closer to our two most recent trips: We flew into Salt Lake City, rented a van, and did 5 days, then flew into Newark, rented a van and did another 5. Of course airfares are going up proportionally as well, but minivans get twice the mileage of our old warhorse Ford. And this type of touring forces us to really evaluate our expenses BEFORE accepting any invitations to play. It seems like a much smarter way to do business than just piling in the van, driving halfway across the country, and hoping for the best. Just because we've been at this for 10 years doesn't mean we've got it all figured out. We're still learning...

Wilders on "Weekend Edition" this Saturday!

2008-06-26T10:01:00.001-05:00

IkeScott&Phil
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

Hey Y'all,
Wanted to let you know that our new album,"Someone's Got to Pay" is going to be featured on National Public Radio's "Weekend Edition" this Saturday, June 28th.

Ike and I were interviewed last week (via ISDN line) by "Weekend Edition" host, Scott Simon at the Tucson, AZ NPR affiliate station.

You can hear the results for yourselves this Saturday, June 28th. "Weekend Edition" airs (in Kansas City) from 7am-9am. Check npr.org for information on your local station.

"Someone's Got to Pay"- Now Available!

2008-04-14T11:41:00.001-05:00

Someone's_Got_to_Pay
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

Tomorrow is April 15th, 2008. If you haven't filed your taxes yet, you'd better get on it!
If you've filed already, and you haven't purchased a copy of our new album, "Someone's Got to Pay" yet, then you'd better get on THAT!

Those that pre-ordered a copy should be getting them in the mail today or tomorrow. But some lucky folks got to buy the first copies at our shows this past week.

One of those people is a great old friend of ours named Hamp Henning. I received an email from Hamp this morning, and he submitted the following review of the new album after his first listen...

(After reading, please re-check my post from January, entitled "Happy 2008"- lots of similarities there...bp)

This is the smartest thing the Wilders have ever done.
This is my first listen, the ‘get the feel of the thing’ review.

First, it’s an ‘album’ not a ‘recording’. This is a big, great difference.
Previous recordings (for the most part) have been you guys playing your songs/tunes. They were good. In your line of work, people come to the shows…love it…and buy a cd. They take it home, and though it’s good, it has no chance of capturing the Wilders live show. It would be impossible.

This thing is a whole new deal. This is an ALBUM. This thing is alive on its own. It’s not an attempt to send a fan home with a piece of the live show. BUT, anybody who loved the show won’t be disappointed with this album. It is all Wilders and has an energy/intensity that you get at the live show…without being a recording of the show…if that makes any sense.

This opens you guys up to all new markets. If this hasn’t been sent to XM Radio station #12…do it now!!! This album will appeal to a much larger audience than previous recordings. You just have to figure out how to get it in front of their ears! ALSO, and I feel this is very important, just as the fan who buys a copy at a show won’t be disappointed, the person who hears this thing before seeing you live will love it when they do get around to seeing a show. This is very good.

Fans of the live show will like the cd ... and fans of the cd will love the live show! What else could you ask for? It's all different, but all Wilders.

You get a little bit of everybody on this thing:

Betse’s hot fiddling and I really like her singing on this one a lot
Phil gives us his ‘Red Headed Stranger’ – awesome. And of course sweet playing and harmonies
Nate is my favorite Honky-Tonk Poet. Period. I love his songs.
Ike is so good. You can feel his charisma and charm on the rockers. But I really like the sad sweetness of some of the songs he wrote.
Dirk and Brendan round the thing out with some amazing instrumental accents and the recording quality is amazing.

…oh yeah, and this is important, the drummer ROCKS! So often when ‘acoustic’ acts add drums to the mix it sounds like crap. Like they’re playing their songs and … oooh ….. this’ll be fun ….let’s add a drum!!! It always ends up weak and out of place. Not here. These drums aren’t an add-on. They’re part of the deal…part of the Wilders. Well-done! When you said there were drums I was very scared. After listening, I love it. The drums allow you to keep the intensity without getting too busy and cluttered. They allow for some dynamics that are hard to deliver in a drumless world. The drums help to make this an album that can be listened to over and over.

Overall, after one quick listen, I’m inspired. Don’t get me wrong, I love the old Wilders, but you guys have so much more to offer. This album gives your fans a glimpse at some of that. I think they’ll be happy. I am."

thanks Hamp!
The Wilders, "Someone's Got to Pay" is available at www.wilderscountry.com

brotherphil

I Read the News Today, Oh Boy...

2008-03-28T22:34:00.000-05:00

The following is the opinion of the author only. It should not interpreted as a view represented in any way by The Wilders or it's members (except for me that is...)

I got an email a couple of weeks ago from the advertising department of No Depression Magazine. Seems that the flagship publication of the alternative country genre (as they said, "whatever that means"), is ceasing publication next month due to declining ad revenue. This can only mean one thing- alternative country is officially dead. And there's a part of me that says, "good riddance".

I mean, who came up with the bright idea that we NEEDED an alternative to country anyway? Wasn't COUNTRY good enough on it's own?
Well, I guess it wasn't.

As early as 1985, just as the first baby boomers moved into their forties, the sound of commercial country music started to take on a strange dissonance- it began sounding more like rock and roll. Twangy telecasters gave way to distorted Les Pauls. Outlandish sequin-studded suits and stacks of huge hairspray-solidified hair, gave way to scrubby tight-fitting stone-washed jeans, six-pack abs and the ubiquitous oversize black cowboy hat and omnipresent goatee. As the years progressed, the quaintly-old, brightly-lit stages featuring backdrops of rural simplicity, gave way to full-on rock and roll stage shows. Towers of Marshall stacks lit by dizzying laser lights and exploding smoke bombs painted a new backdrop of excess and self-indulgence. And, at the forefront, there was good old Garth Brooks swinging on a rope above the crowd with a shit-eating grin on his face and a wad of $1000 bills in his back pocket. By 1994, things had worsened to the point that the Country Music Association's Best Album of the year was "Common Thread: The Songs of the Eagles". sigh...

At the time that No Depression began publishing in September of 1995, the country music industry had pretty much wrung all of the GOOD out of good old country music.

I guess it isn't that surprising that a magazine proclaiming an alternative to this, so called "new country", would find a willing audience. This alternative to country music was spearheaded by a young and resourceful contingency of disenfranchised punk rockers- kids who grew up with commercial rock forced down their throats, who were looking for something with more substance to hang their trucker hats on. Already sick to death of mainstream rock, this wayward generation looked backward for new musical inspiration. They found it in the true sounds of 1960's country icons like Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard. They found it in the "don't take no shit" attitudes of the 70's outlaws like Willie Nelson, Hank Williams Jr., and Waylon Jennings. And they especially found it in" God's singer of songs", Graham Parsons, who 20 years before, had stuck his dirty hippie thumb directly into the eye of the overproduced ultra-conservative Nashville establishment of the late 60's. These artists were embraced, celebrated and imitated by hundreds of new bands- formed in garages and dorm rooms across the nation. Combat boots and flannel shirts were readily traded in for cowboy boots and fine western snap shirts; solid-body multi-pointed rock and roll guitars were swapped for simple acoustics and banjos. And new songs about drinking and fighting, fighting and loving, and loving and losing, were added to the existing mountains of old country standards- just ripe for the picking.

It was a good run. But 23 years later, alternative country is dead. No Depression is shutting it's doors for good. And WHY IS THAT A GOOD THING?

Because for 23+ years, the corporate interests in Nashville have essentially been given a free pass to promote whatever bullshit makes money the easiest. In this model, substance is the last thing in anyone's mind. Just check out CMT sometime.

I think its time for a return to a country music that actually acknowledges there is sadness and heartbreak in the world- not just sexy trucks and bloated myspace profiles.

The "alternative country" movement was a shining example that this music is still very much alive. Now that "alternative country" is dead, can we please have our country music back?

"I'll be that one..." - SXSW Austin,TX

2008-03-17T21:21:00.000-05:00

It was back in October of 2007. I was in Nashville, hucking merch. between sets at the back of The Station Inn. Because sales were nonexistent, I had plenty of time to catch up with B.V.D., a grammy-winning bluegrass producer, and long time "deep-throat" Wilders advisor (who saw something he liked in a very-green Wilders playing in a Nashville hotel lobby 8 years ago). The conversation went something like this:

B.V.D.: What's next year look like for you guys?

Me: Well, we've got a new record coming out in April.

B.V.D.: What are you going to do to promote it?

Me: Uhm, well we're going to tour, of course, and we are going to South by Southwest.

B.V.D.: (rolling his eyes, sarcastically) What FOR?

For the uninitiated, the South by Southwest Conference (SXSW) occurs each March in multiple locations throughout metropolitan Austin, Texas. For four days, the streets of Austin fill with music industry hustlers of all shape and size. Managers, agents, label and publishing reps, lawyers, producers, and a slew of other non-musicians converge to catch showcases by literally thousands of musicians that come to Austin each year in hopes of "making it big". From morning until late into the night, there's rockers, rappers, twangers, screamers, punkers and poppers everywhere- a dizzying array of musical styles blasting out of every nook and cranny, restaurant, bar, car wash and parking lot in downtown Austin.

So, five months after my conversation with B.V.D., I'm standing on a street corner outside the Austin Convention Center watching the stream of hipsters flowing around me. And it's like I'm standing in the middle of a military parade, except these soldier's uniforms are not olive drab. There's salon-fresh hair color in every shade of the rainbow carefully coifed to achieve that perfect "unkempt" look. Mirrored sunglasses, tattoo sleeves, Converse Hi-Tops and facial piercings are standard issue. Each soldier's social insignia is represented by carefully chosen graphics printed on their tight black t-shirt. And just like any military parade, the majority of the soldiers are impossibly young.

As the throngs move past me, I realize I'm laughing out loud. I'm remembering a comic strip by artist Daniel Clowes, (later made into a really awful movie entitled "Art School Confidential"). In the comic, an aging painting professor gives a stern "scared straight" lecture to his impressionable first-year drawing students about the reality of their career choice. He rants that only one graduate in a hundred actually makes a living as a professional artist. The other 99, having spent four years getting a degree in what is essentially a hobby, will be left to work mindless jobs at art supply stores, movie theaters and restaurants. Above the head of each student, there is a thought bubble which reads, "I'll be that one..."

And this is the tragedy of SXSW. Here, there are thousands of kids who are looking for the quick pick to stardom. And they are deadly serious about it, focusing every ounce of energy into making some kind of impact. But the reality is that most of them will zero chance of succeeding in this fickle, image-obsessed music business. The truth is that no matter how good you sound, how cool you look. or how hard you work, most success stories come down to at least 50% luck.

Based on this assumption, B.V.D. was right- what the hell business did we have going to SXSW anyway? I mean, we are already a working band with low-level success. We've all quit our day jobs, We are signed to a label that manages our recordings, and we have a booking agent that gets us work playing for money. And what about the SXSW market? Even though it takes place in the heart of Texas, there's precious little country music at SXSW. Sure, there are a lot of so-called "alternative country" bands. But, admittedly, we don't fit very neatly into that category. And bluegrass and oldtime music was nonexistent as far as I could tell. But still we chose to go and throw our hat in like everybody else.

I realize it's sort of weak, but basically my answer to B.V.D.'s question was, "why NOT?"

And, as a result, for three days, we soaked up the warm Texas sun, ate great Texas Bar-B-Que, and saw some killer bands. We also played a couple of showcases ourselves. Who knows what the impact will be? But, like the young soldiers that surrounded us the entire time we were there, we believed it was possible. You've GOT to believe right?

Happy 2008!

2008-01-21T18:49:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year! The Brown Clown is rolling west on I-70 about 75 miles from St. Louis. We just inaugurated 2008 by dipping our touring toes into the frigid pool of the central plains. It was a quick trip, with stops in Louisville, Kentucky, then Lafayette and Danville, Indiana. Nothing notable to report. You've heard the story before: good crowds, good music, good times, blah, blah, blah. But it did feel good to get back out and play for the people after a fairly lengthy holiday break. Our winter schedule is pretty light by design. We burned the candle at both ends for most of 2007, and our middle was running out of wax. So we all agreed that it would be a good idea to snuff out the flame for awhile to recouperate. So once we get back home today, we will be off again until almost the end of February.

Our time off has allowed us to forget about the road for awhile, and focus our efforts on finishing up our new recording. The new full-length album, "Someone's Got to Pay" is scheduled for release on April 15th, 2008. The original tracks were recorded with Dirk Powell in his Louisiana studio in November of 2006. After careful listening, we decided that additional tracking was necessary, and so the entire project was moved up to Kansas City and placed in the capable hands of our old pal, Brendan Moreland. Due to our busy touring schedule, he had to wait until late October before we could begin overdubbing sessions. But ideas had been germinating all year, and it was fun to finally get them recorded. As I excitedly reported last spring, this new recording will be quite a departure from our previous recordings. Glenn Fields, from The Red Stick Ramblers, sat in on drums on many of the original Louisiana sessions. There's also electric guitars, electric piano, organ and electric bass along with button accordian, cello, viola, cajun triangle, lap steel and tambourines. Our old formula of recording as close to our live sound as possible, was thrown out the window in favor of a completely new approach.

Why the change? Honestly, we needed to be more creative this time. For one thing, all of the songs and tunes on album are original except one old fiddle tune from the Skillet Lickers. So there was really no preconcieved way of doing any of them. We were free to play around with our ideas and experiment with sounds until we got what we liked. Secondly, we were getting bored with the four instruments/ "live performance" model. Although this approach has served us well in the past, we always had to make sacrifices in sound quality in order to play all together in the same room. The bass and fiddle had a tendency to bleed into all the other microphones which really limited how much control we had over the final mixes. So this time, we recorded all of the tracks in complete isolation. For example, even though all of the fiddle tunes were played live, none of us were in the same room. Betse sat in the center of Dirk's main recording room while Ike looked on through the glass of a tiny vocal isolation booth. Nate could see Ike through another window , but was not able to see Betse at all. And since Dirk's studio only has these three rooms. I played banjo and mandolin sitting on the couch of his tiny Toyota RV parked outside the studio. It was pretty wierd, but the resulting sound was fabulous.

Finally, we wanted to make a record that people would actually WANT to listen to this time. I'm not saying that our previous recordings aren't good, but for the past 10 years, we’ve made records that attempted to accurately represent us as a live band. Although we’ve been pretty happy with the way they’ve turned out, you can’t really get that “live” experience from audio content only. There is a visual element that is missing. Because of this, I've always felt like our recordings were a pale imitation of the “real thing”. And usually when people purchased our albums, it was because they had just seen us play a live show. Then, when they listened to their new cd at home, I guess they were probably thinking, “man, I just loved seeing them live, this reminds me of that great experience”.

But for this new album, we wanted to make a record that people would want to listen to over and over- a record that would musically stand on it’s own- a record that people might even hear first, then want to come see us play live because they enjoyed the cd so much. So we set out to make each song unique- to add instrumental textures and production that would be impossible to recreate in a concert setting- to use the studio as a palette to make something richer than just four people playing together.

An "album" is actually a pretty hard thing to find in today's downloadable world. In fact, it seems like we've almost drifted back to the time when people bought 45rpm singles. Then, If you liked an artist, you'd pay a couple of bucks for their new single, take it home and put it in the stack next to your turntable. Now, if you like an artist, you pay your 99 cents to iTunes, download a song and slap it on your iPod where it appears in a playlist along with thousands of other songs. How the song relates to other songs on the same album is now meaningless. In fact, most "albums" nowadays are really just a bunch of songs slapped on a cd with no relationship to each other at all. The concept of sequencing a record- putting songs in order to tell a story with the sound is now a lost art. But this is exactly what we did on "Someone's Got to Pay". There is a beginning, a middle and an end. And hopefully, when you start it, you will WANT to keep listening until the last note. Maybe I'm full of crap for thinking we've made something a little bit better, but that's what we were trying to do. I guess you can be the judge on April 15th.

"Sittin' on a Jury" now available on iTunes!

2007-12-03T15:05:00.001-06:00

Sittin'_on_a_Jury
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

Hey folks,
For all of you digital downloaders out there, our new e.p., "Sittin' on a Jury" is now available at many of your favorite digital download sites. You can download the entire album for $3.96!!! Or you can buy each track for 99 cents each. Of course, you won't get the cool red vinyl, or the cover art, liner notes or anything else besides the actual music. But hey, if that's enough, by all means knock yourselves out.

But for the luddites out there, you can still purchase the actual album on our website, www.wilderscountry.com/goods.asp. Remember, we only pressed 2000 copies. When they are gone (which many are gone already), they are gone for good. Thanks for your support!
p

Angels Still Exist!

2007-11-01T15:51:00.000-05:00

Back in the summer of 2004, not long after we launched this blog, I wrote several posts regarding the kindness paid to us by strangers on the road. We dubbed these folks "angels", for their unbelievable willingness to help us fix our broken vehicles, stay in their homes, loan us their cars, feed us wonderful home-cooked meals, etc. Most of these people provided these services with little or no compensation, and many times, did so after knowing us for only a few hours. As I unwind after returning from our second-to-last tour of the 2007, I feel compelled to again recognize the continuing appearance of these angels. They are still very much alive and well. In fact, we meet them in some shape or form almost every time we go on tour. Here are a few short tributes...

To the rider's club crew in Ulm, Germany- who not only welcomed us, but two weeks worth of our stinking, dirty laundry into their home. We made a great afternoon of it, eating doner kabobs, checking our email on your computer, listening to your cd's, and running your heavy-duty-american-made washer and dryer in tandem until each and every sock, shirt and skirt were neatly folded and repacked into our suitcases. Sure we were a little late arriving to our gig that night, but we felt and smelled SO much better...

To our "North of 60" pal George (see "Alaska Part Three" June 2006)- who, without any communication from us whatsoever, was waiting patiently with his wife outside the Whitehorse, Yukon bus depot when Betse and I lumbered off, after a grueling day of travel. You grabbed up our bags and cases, loaded them into the trunk of your car, then took us out to a wonderful dinner, gave us a car-tour of your town and, finally, shuttled us to our motel... Earlier that day, I remember saying to Betse as we neared Whitehorse in the bus, "I have a fantasy." "What is it," she asked. "I have a fantasy that when we get to the bus stop, George will be there waiting for us." She responded, "Yeah, that WOULD be great." Well, it wasn't a fantasy was it? Thank you George. Your generosity will not be forgotten...

To the two Wisconsin farm hands who saved our necks at Larryfest- For two days, the swollen storm clouds had dumped a flood of biblical proportions on the festival grounds- turning our only exit into something resembling the Grand Canyon. Just when we thought we would be trapped there for days, the rain let up. For the next hour, you worked feverishly with tractor, shovels and elbow grease to create a thin, mushy and very temporary bridge that stood for only a few minutes. You guided us across, pulling, then pushing the van after it got stuck (almost tipping over the tractor in the process). And then once we were on the other side, you shook our hands, bid us farewell, and then went back to work straight away. Later that day, we learned that the skies had opened up again, washing the road away beyond any possible repair. You were there at the right time in the right place. Without your efforts, we would NOT have made it home in time to catch our flight to Scotland.
And I never even got your names...

Finally, to our most recent angels Red, Nita and M.D. in Knoxville, Tennessee- You got off from a grueling day of work, drove through a pounding thunderstorm (the first rain storm in months) to free us from our boring Motel 6 prison. You took us back to your house, let us dig with abandon from the Pabst Blue Ribbon box in your fridge, played us great music and engaged us in the first lively conversations we'd had in days. And to top it off, you made us home-made chicken soup and grilled cheese sandwiches to refill our empty souls. Sometimes it's the little things that make such a difference. We didn't ask you to do it. But we were so glad that you did...

There are so many more stories. These are just the ones that come immediately to mind. It's just such a weird thing. I mean, we don't really do that much to warrant such generosity. We stand up on stage, and make our music, and enjoy the hell out of it all the while. People seem to like what we do, and honestly, that's enough for us- In fact, it makes us feel great. But there must be something special, something I have no way of defining, that sometimes occurs during this interchange between band and audience. And I believe that this indefinable thing must lie near the heart of this unique angel phenomena. Regardless of the reason, I know that each of us appreciates our angels whenever they come around.

Thank you again. Thank you for everything.

The Wilders- "Sittin' on a Jury" available Sept.11th, 2007

2007-09-07T17:50:00.001-05:00

Sittin'_on_a_Jury
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

Howdy folks,
We are proud to announce our most recent release: "Sittin' on a Jury" . Recorded during our November 2006 sessions at Dirk Powell's Cypress House Studios, this limited edition 10" album (on red vinyl!!!) clearly marks a transition from the old school country and old time music you've grown to love, to the original music that's been germinating in our subconscious for the last year of so.

Side-A opens with an old Flatt and Scruggs gem, "Bringin' in the Georgia Mail". Then we put the honk in the tonk on Hank Williams' classic, "Long Gone Daddy". We round out the side with a wonderfully sloppy and loose version of "Brown's Dream"- an old time fiddle tune pushed to its limit, with Dirk Powell sitting in on banjo, and the band sounding like it might be the last thing we would ever record (it WAS, in fact, the last song we recorded during the session).

Side-B is the title track, "Sittin' on a Jury"- a 9+ minute meditation on yours truly's experiences while sitting on a Kansas City 1st degree murder trial jury in 2005. It is completely different that anything you've ever heard from us before, with surpising instrumentation and unbelievable additional production from Dirk Powell.

Sound great? Well, hell yeah. But I can hear the critiques coming in now..."But I don't have a turntable any more..." Well, no problem, because inside each 10" vinyl jacket, you will find instructions to acquire a free digital download from Free Dirt Record's website. Follow the instructions, and you can burn a cd version of the EP, that will play on any old regular cd player. Or, better yet, slap them directly on to your Mp3 player and listen to them in the privacy of your own brain. So, even if you don't have the archaic technology to actually play the beautiful vinyl version, we've made sure that you can still enjoy the music, without any additional cost. Warning! Free Dirt Records is only pressing 2000 copies of the vinyl version. So I urge you to go to wilderscountry.com and order a copy now. It is certain that we WILL SELL OUT OF THESE, and once they are gone, they are gone forever. So please, reserve your copy as soon as possible. Thanks friends.
brotherphilwilder

Wilders Head East...

2007-08-24T06:38:00.000-05:00

Editor's note: I am sitting outside at a table in the Speigel Garden in Edinburgh, Scotland. I have a few minutes of free time before appear on the Fred Macauley Show on BBC/Scotland. I began this blog almost a month ago and never got a chance to finish it until now.
So, even though it's old, at least it's new to you. Enjoy.

Sunday July 29th, 2007
After two and a half weeks, the Brown Clown is rolling back home. We finished up our tour of the east coast last night, and are now 1544.7 miles away from our own beds. MapQuest says that should take 25 hours and 16 minutes, but with the traffic, road construction, toll booths, and the usual Wilders slowpokeyness, I'd estimate that it will take us more like 30 hours to get back. So I've got plenty of time to catch everybody up on our trip.

Our tour started in Bloomington, Indiana. We played our concert, sandwiched between a fantastic african drum and dance ensemble, and a powerful electric latin band. It was a kind of weird musical gumbo, but it worked. The audience really liked us. I guess with such a diverse three course meal, it was comforting for them to hear some Hank Williams.

The next morning, we got on the road early, arriving in plenty of time for an afternoon performance in the Family Fun Tent at Millennium Park in Chicago. Our sparse audience was made up primarily of toddlers and their parents. Just when I start to think that I'm really making it in the music business, I get head-checked by a gig like this. I mean, Millennium Park on a Saturday afternoon? I was expecting hundreds, no wait, THOUSANDS of people. But the few toddlers seemed to have a great time playing with their hoola hoops and balloons, while we struggled through two suffocatingly hot and humid sets under the big vinyl tent. After the gig, the band split off- Nate and Betse heading north to stay in Skokie with friends, while Ike and I jumped on the L-train to stay in the western suburbs with our old pal (and former Wilders bassist), "Country Giant" Clayton Brown.

We reconvened the next day for a gig at the Chicago Folk and Roots Festival dance tent at Welles Park. It was fun, but the sound bleed from the main stage made it really hard to hear. We were honored to be asked back to this great festival, and made the best of it despite the challenges.

After only 3 shows, we had a precious day off in Chicago. Betse and Nate went to a pool party, while Ike and I just hung out at the house with Clayton. It was great to spend the day doing virtually nothing. We needed to rest up, because the next day, we drove 15 hours to Kutztown, Pennsylvania staying the night with Ike's wife, Carrie. This was a strategic move aimed at putting us within striking distance of NYC, with the added benefit of saving some motel dough. Carrie had the fridge stocked for us and, as always, made us feel welcome for our short visit.

The next day we fueled up and headed into the big bad city. All systems were go, until I tried to take the Holland Tunnel into Manhattan. The toll booth collector looked at our trailer, pointed at several uniform police just ahead and said, "deya nat gonna let yous take DAT tru DIS tunnel" The cops directed me to make a u-turn, and head up the Jersey side to the Lincoln Tunnel. Ok, no problem right? That's just one of the realities of life in the age of new terrorism. Except now it was the beginnings of New York rush hour. I made a few illegal moves to position ourselves onto the choked ramp that leads into the tunnel, and NOW had to merge a full-sized van pulling a trailer into a single lane with 6 lanes of choked New York drivers vying for the same limited space. It was like trying to force a pint of peanut butter into a drinking straw. I learned very quickly that this was not a situation for the meek. I was outsized and outgunned on all sides. I just kept inching forward, and after a bus nearly took off the right wheel cover of the trailer, I closed my eyes, put my trust in the force, and somehow made it into the tunnel. Of course, this was just the beginning of our troubles. The Lincoln Tunnel empties into the middle of Manhattan. In theory, this shouldn't be too hard. Manhattan is 12 miles long, give or take, but only about 2 miles wide. But it took almost an hour to cross over to Queens. We only made about 20 feet per traffic light, but had a great view of the local New York color. At one point, we passed a 6 foot guy with curlers in his hair, holding a transistor radio to his ear and singing verse after verse of Madonna's "Material Girl" at the top of his lungs. It was awesome.

Anyway, we finally made it across the East River into Queens where we were met by our best Brooklyn buddy, Vito. We were late for sound check and Vito offered to hook our trailer on to his SUV and take it to the sewage treatment plant (where he works) for safe storage. Vito's best gal, Jennie hopped into the van, and directed us like a pro to the club. This was to be our first play at The Southpaw in Brooklyn, and we were psyched to play in a different club. We were scheduled to open for King Wilkie from Charlottesville, Virginia, who were in the city to premier their new cd. Also on the bill, were our old friends, The Red Stick Ramblers, from Lafayette, Louisiana. We had a few minutes to wolf down a precious first slice of New York pizza before hitting the stage to open the show. The stress of the drive melted away as we kicked out a rocking 45 minute set to the surprised cheers of the audience. Exhausted, we cased our instruments, and joined the crowd to watch the Wilkie boys do their thing. This is a band that originally formed around the idea of playing fairly traditional bluegrass. But the material they performed from the new album was very different than what we had heard before. The tunes were more poppy- featuring ukelele, lap steel along with the banjos and guitars. It was a really refreshing sound that made me excited to hear the recorded versions. King Wilkie finished their set and then it was Red Sticks turn to hit the stage. When they did, it was like a bomb went off. In my opinion, there is just no better band in the world than the Red Stick Ramblers when they are on their game. After the show, all three bands hung outside the club congratulating each other. It was getting late and Vito took Ike and Nate back to his apartment, while Betse and I headed back across Manhattan through the Holland Tunnel (no trailer this time) into Jersey to stay at a decently priced hotel.

The next morning, Betse and I packed up the van and headed back across Manhattan to pick up the boys. The lunch traffic was even worse than the day before, due to the congestion of delivery trucks in midtown Manhattan. It took us over three hours to make the 2 mile drive across the island. Ike and Nate were waiting for us, and after loading them into the van, we followed Vito back to the sewer to get the trailer. It was quite an experience. The treatment plant is situated right on the East River and smelled, understandably, like a sewer. Vito said, "hey, you see dose tanks up theya?", he pointed to 6 enormous egg shaped tanks behinds. "Each of dose tanks is filled with New York City's shit." We retrieved our trailer, said our goodbyes to Vito, and headed back out onto the highway en-route to our next show. Once we cleared the city, the traffic eased somewhat, and within a few hours, we entered the sleepy little town of Rosendale, New York. This was our second time playing at the Rosendale Cafe', a sweet little 75-seat vegetarian restaurant. The small but appreciative audience made us feel welcome and the show went very well. Ike used the informal setting to debut a new song he wrote recently about an lonely oil-worker in Barrow Alaska. We sat around after the show enjoying the cool upstate New York night, drinking beer and chatting politics with Mark, The Rosendale Cafe' s owner.

We were finished early for the night, and we took advantage of the opportunity to get a good night's sleep. The next morning came and we were again, back in the van to drive about two hours to Ancramdale, New York for our third visit to the massive Grey Fox Bluegrass Festival. This is undoubtedly the biggest and best bluegrass festival in the east. As far as attendance and talent, it is on par with Telluride and Rockygrass in Colorado. We made it to the gate in just enough time to suit up, tune up and play a noon set. The crowd was sparse, but they were loud. We did our thing, signed cd's and then hustled over to the dance set for another long set at 2pm. With our work finished for the day, we scouted out some camping spots and settled in for evening. The Grey Fox folks always hire a great lineup and this year was no exception. But the highlight of the weekend for me was sitting at The Red Stick Ramblers' camp watching lead singer, Linzay Young, cook cajun food. The Ramblers had evening dance sets both nights of the festival, and after they killed the crowd, and everybody scattered, Lindsey would start cooking onions in a skillet, over a large propane-fueled open-air burner. I'd watch him stir his pots, add some seasonings and drink a little beer. Then, when things were stable enough, he'd pull his fiddle out and play a tune. The cooking and playing went on for hours as Linzay stirred and fiddled up a huge crowd. I'm not sure if they were drawn by the music or the smell, but suddenly each night, Linzay would grab up a stack of plates and pronounce it "dinner time". I think he said it in cajun french, but everybody knew "dinner time" when they heard it. It was an infectious and gastronomically enriching experience that kept me up late into both mornings.

On Sunday, we bid our goodbyes to the Ramblers and all our other Grey Fox friends, and drove a couple of hours to Northampton, Massachusetts for a gig at the Iron Horse. The crowd was slight, but the few that were there seemed to enjoy themselves. The show was over early, and we headed back to a motel to rest up from the long weekend. Monday was a day off, and we decided to stay another night in this cool little town to see some sights, do some laundry, eat some pizza.

On Tuesday, we headed up to Narragansett, Rhode Island. Our host, Kate had warmly invited us to stay at her house Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights. This not only saved us a lot of motel money, it also allowed us to go to the beach, body surf and get some color on our pallid, musician's skins. Our tour continued on Thursday night for a dance performance at The Towers, a Rhode Island landmark. I have to say that it was pretty cool to look out at the crowd of dancers in front of me, and then look behind, out the window of the second floor dance hall, and see the Atlantic breakers crashing into mist on the rocks below us.

Friday morning we loaded our luggage, instruments and sunburns back into the van, and headed north toward Maine. But Boston traffic prevailed and stopped us dead in our tracks for almost 2 hours. A Narragansett resident had warned us of this joking that this was "traffic control by constriction". Knowing this, we had left plenty early, but had no idea that the traffic would be this bad. Once free from the traffic snarl, we stopped for gas and deli sandwiches to let ourselves decompress for a moment before jumping back in the box in a rush to make our 5:30pm load in time in Cornish Maine. We arrived at the Ossipee Valley Bluegrass Festival about 6pm and were surprised to learn that the schedule printed on our contract was incorrect, and we supposed to play in 15 minutes! In true Wilders fashion, we broke out the instruments- tuning up in the humid early evening, and were ready just after 6:15pm. The crowd was friendly, but it had been a really, really long day and we were all happy to get out of the festival as soon as we could, to get to our accomodations for the night. The house where we stayed was very nice, with an outdoor shower and a real horseshoe pit. Nate, Ike and I traded a few rounds of horseshoes before the Maine mosquitos threatened to drain every last drop of our blood. We sprayed on the DEET and then sat outside, trading around Nate's old guitar releasing stress of the whole tour out into the rural Maine evening.

I fixed breakfast for everybody the next morning, and then we headed back out to the fest. We had a great workshop in the afternoon where, basically, the crowd could ask us about what we do, why we do it, and why on earth anyone would pay us to do it. It was humorous for us and educational (I hope) for the crowd. Later that evening, we were the final act of the night, and the folks that stuck around got their money's worth. Ike and Betse were both in rare form especially on their solo tunes.

Before retiring for the night we all agreed, due to everyone's exhaustion, that instead of getting up super early, we would only drive back to Kutztown, PA (supposedly 7 hours from Cornish) to drop Ike off at Carrie's. Then, we could catch a few hours of sleep, and head out for two 8+ hours per day of driving. Regardless of the plan, the east coast traffic prevailed again, and our 7 hour drive turned into 10. We were pooped when we finally got to Carrie's and everybody went straight to sleep.

We woke up early the next morning, bid Ike and Carrie farewell and set off on the highway with about 20 more hours to go. I took the first shift, driving about 5 hours. Then Betse took over and drove another 6. Nate, who had been trying to rest up all day, then took, us all the way across Indiana and Illinois where we collapsed around 11:30pm at one of the most horrible Motel 6's in America north of St. Louis (this experience will be detailed in another blog entitled "CRACK 6!"... I pulled the final drivingshift the next morning (a miniscule 4 hours), back into our Kansas City home. If you'll remember, MapQuest estimated that the 1544.7 miles should take 25 hours and 16 minutes. But with the traffic, road construction, toll booths, and the usual Wilders slowpokeyness, it took us every bit of 30.

July Update...

2007-07-16T16:29:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting in the western suburbs of Chicago, listening to the soothing sounds of a jackhammer operator tearing up the driveway across the street. We have a blessed day off, early in our first summer tour, that will take us from Chicago to Brooklyn, and all the way to Maine by the end of the month. I thought I would pass the time, by giving everyone an update of our recent travels, as well as some new Wilder developments.

Europe:
Our first tour of Europe was a complete success. We spent the entire month of May in a whirlwind of a tour, playing 24 shows in 27 days by crisscrossing Germany, Belgium, Switzerland and the Netherlands. Audiences in Europe were very kind and enthusiastic, and we will most definitely return. There were so many stories I could tell from our experience. I realize, however, that even if I gave up the band and went to blog-writing full-time, it would take me months to get them into readable shape. Although my previous entry, detailing our last night in Germany, was by no means a "normal" gig for Europe, I felt that the uniqueness of the night warranted the extrapolation. Maybe, if I get writer's block in the future, I'll try to go back to our first European tour, and expand on the story.

North of 60:
Within a few days of returning home to KC, we were back in the air for a 7-day return visit to the Yukon and Alaska. We spent 2 days north of the 60th parallel in Haines Junction, Yukon for a repeat performance at the Kluane Mountain Bluegrass Festival. It was another great year, with fantastic weather and stellar performances by The James King Band, and 2006 IBMA "emerging artist" winners, The Steep Canyon Rangers. But personally, the "high" point of the weekend happened well after the festival was over. The Kluane folks had arranged for one member from each of the three bands to take a half hour helicopter ride into the adjacent mountains. I was joined by James King's bassist, John Wade, and Steep Canyon band-leader, Woody Platt. The experience was indescribable. If it weren't for the cost, I would travel only by helicopter from now on... Thanks to the Kluane folks for a ride of a lifetime.

After the helicopter ride, we were driven to Haines, Alaska for a performance at their exceptional performance space, The Chilkat Center. Somehow, before we left Haines Junction, my fancy cowboy boots were loaded mistakenly into a car headed to Whitehorse. So, for the Haines show, I faced an obvious wardrobe dilemma. Mark Battion, (one of our friends in Haines) suggested that I borrow a pair of "Extra Toughs" (durable red rubber boots that are the year-round footwear of choice amongst the locals). So, I slapped a pair on over my slacks, and walked out for the beginning of the show to the roar of the crowd. I don't know what got into me, but I kept altering my wardrobe throughout the performance, and by the last song, I was wearing my Extra Toughs over suit slacks, a Carhartt duck jacket, no shirt, and my mexican wrestling mask. Although it was weird thing to do, we were running on all cylinders all night, and the performance was one of our best in months.

The tour ended the next night with a return performance in Juneau at Centennial Hall. I think we must have made an impact last year, because about 15 minutes before we took the stage, the promoter scrambled for more chairs to seat the overflowing crowd.

Northeast Tour:
As I wrote before, we are 4 days into a three-week tour of the Northeast. We will be playing in Brooklyn and Rosendale, NY before heading out for two days at the Grey Fox Festival in Ancramdale. Then, after a show in Northhampton, MA, we are planning to find a nice state park to camp for a couple of days to save money (unleaded gas is $3.69 here in Chicago! I can only imagine how high it will be in the east). Our tour will continue on to Narragansett, RI, followed by a final performance at the Ossipee Valley Bluegrass Festival in Cornish, Maine. If any highlights happen over the next few weeks, you can be sure to hear about them here first...

Vinyl? Who buys vinyl anymore?
The recording session we did with Dirk Powell down in Louisiana back in November is still in the works. The release date is pending, but it will most likely be finished by the end of the year. Expect it to appear early in 2008. For those who can't wait, we will be releasing a limited edition 10" vinyl EP in September. The A-side will consist of three good old Wilders tunes- a bluegrassy version of Flatt and Scruggs' "Georgia Mail", a rocking version of the Hank Williams classic, "Long Gone Daddy" and a rollicking version of the old time fiddle tune, "Brown's Dream". The entire B-side is an original tune I wrote after my experience of sitting on the jury of a murder trial back in 2005. All of the music on the EP was recorded in Louisiana during the sessions for the upcoming full-length cd. The A-side tunes are gems from the cutting room floor. The B-side is something else entirely. I believe that this EP accurately represents the Wilders in a state of transition. It will be a fun listen for old Wilders fans, and a sneak peak at what we are now becoming. We are very, very proud of how it turned out. For those who no longer have the ability to play a vinyl record, the tracks will be available on several websites for digital download. Look for more info on this and future releases on our website.

Finally, a word about the comments section of this blog. Since Google bought out Blogspot, you people wanting to comment on our blogs have had a tough time logging in. I love to read what y'all have to say, but this "anonymous" thing is really annoying. I'm trying to decide whether to move the blog to another site. I'd like to hear your comments on what problems you are experiencing. Maybe I can help get it figured out.

Well, that's all the poop that's fit to poop right now. Hope all of you have a safe and relaxing July.

Unser Gestern Abend in Deutschland...

2007-06-18T10:50:00.000-05:00

May 26th, 2007
Darmstadt (sort of rhymes with varnished cat), Germany

"Rainout, rainout, RAAAAinout!, Rainout, rainout RAAAAinout!" I chanted in the stifling backstage tent. Ike looked at me and grinned, saying, "I know Dude, if there was EVER a night for a rainout, this is IT." He joined in my chant, "Rainout, rainout, RAAAAinout!, Rainout, rainout, RAAAAinout!" Betse looked over disapprovingly. "I don't WANT a rainout. This is our LAST night in Germany."

I stuck my head outside the tent. The sky was a combination of pissed-off purple and bad-omen black- each of the colors swirling and cavorting into a wall of doom. The air shifted with each gust of wind from a humid Mississippi July, to a crisp Vermont October. The rumbles of thunder added to our chant in the near distance. "It's coming, and it's coming hard, " I said. Ike looked out at the sky from behind me. "Right on, I love it!" We both ducked back in, and uncapped a cold beer in celebration...

30 seconds later, the stage manager stuck his head inside the tent and said, "Wilders, we need you onstage...NOW."

A few menacing raindrops speckled my hat as I begrudgingly lugged my cases to the stage. "No way, I said to myself. No way this is going to happen. It's going to POUR."

Luckily the stage was covered-but barely, and I made sure to put my instrument cases well under the tented part of the stage. The inevitable downpour was minutes away, and I didn't want to waste a moment getting my stuff safely stowed. The sound man came up to me and asked for the details of our sound setup. I said, "Look, the show is obviously going to get rained out any minute, so why don't you just set up one mic. That way, you won't have to pull as much off stage when it comes." He agreed, and began the necessary preparations. My instruments were nearly impossible to tune, due to the constantly changing pressure and humidity. Looking out from the stage, the sky had now darkened into a disfigured grayish-black mass with pulsating, darker formations in the near field-all of it sagging with the weight of the water that would soon be dumping all over us. The crowd of revelers didn't seem to be concerned though, and as I tried to tune my mandolin, I noticed a contingency of the curious moving toward the stage.

Frankly, I was pissed that they were making us start at all. I mean, it just seemed so pointless. But to insure that we would get our paycheck, I went through the motions. Although the storm was imminent, it was taking it's sweet time before washing us out. Once we were as close to as in tune as possible, Betse shrugged her shoulders, and then sawed up a blistering introduction to her rocking fiddle tune, "Old Dirty Boot". Having already played from one end of Germany to the other, Switzerland AND The Netherlands in 25 intense and tiring days, I was sort of surprised at our power as we ripped into it. The crowd looked dazed, and I could see the party contingent at the lip of the stage begin to rock and roll. As we gave it everything we had, I thought to myself, "Well, at least they are getting a little taste before the storm washes them away."

Betse tagged the ending, and our audience went crazy. The cold drops of rain were more frequent now, but more people moved toward the stage- packing in all the open spots until it was about 5-6 people deep all the way around. Other, more prudent audience members stayed back, under the cover of a bratwurst vendor, or the kebab seller's tent, or the covered beer garden in the back. So, in addition to the brave 50 or so in front of us, there was a spotty mix of about 75 more people looking out at us from the distance of their safe spots.

Suddenly, the water started coming. The people in the front pressed together to try to get under the stage roof, but there just wasn't enough room. That's when everything changed. That's when a certain rainout, a definite and much-needed night off, became something very different. That's when Ike said, "Hey y'all come on up HERE with us and get out the rain, come on up, come on UP y'all." In response to Ike's invitation, those at the stage lip pulled themselves up, then turned around and helped others climb up behind them. Suddenly the stage was filled with Germans, and I feared that it might collapse under our combined weight. Ike smiled at what he had done, and began singing, "Bring a drink of water, Leroy. Bring a drink of water..." "Nien!" I grumbled into the mic in a bad German accent (this was apparently funny only to myself and Betse). Ike continued, "If I can get to the mercy man, he'll give me some I know." It was pouring now, and several more people ran from their safe spots to join in. Ike continued, "I got a girl in Vicksburg, Bertha is her name." We were now surrounded by a semi-circular sea of soaking-wet Germans sitting indian-style looking up at us with wide soggy eyes. "I wish I was tied to Bertha, instead of this ball and chain". It was like a giant German story hour hosted by The Wilders. "I'm goin' to Memphis!" Ike sang, and our twisted story hour commenced to the sound of their screams as the rest of the band kicked into gear...

Two hours later I put my sweat and rain-soaked instruments back into their cases. For everyone's safety, the single microphone had long since been put away. Only a few audience members remained. And two fierce-looking security guards still stood their ground at the lip of the stage- their arms folded, their faces scowling. I snapped the final latch on my banjo case and looked out into the wet darkness. There was no sign of the young German girl in the pretty red dress, who had sat in a mix of spilled beer and rain water for the entire show screaming like it was a new kind of Beatlemania. She sat and screamed for both sets, with dancers splashing puddles of beer and rainwater all over her. She never stopped loving it for one minute. It was inspiring.

And there was no sign of the drunken scotsman who had stood at the edge of the stage heckling us until we finally did "Man of Constant Sorrow" to shut him up. This was the scotsman who later, begged to Ike, "Now, I want to sing, " Ike's response was. "Go ahead!" Sheepishly, the scot whined, "But I need a microphone." Ike, knowing full well the mic was long gone, had had enough, "Dude, are you BRITISH?" he accused. "Hell, no, I'M A SCOT!" the drunk roared. "Oh," Ike said, "I thought you must be British if you need a mic to sing. If you're Scottish, then you don't NEED a microphone do you?" Ike stood toe-to-toe with him, mentally drawing a southern-Missouri-redneck line across the stage for him to cross. I actually thought we might get our first Wilder/audience fist fight in 10 years. Finally, the drunken scotsman caved, and wheeled around to the crowd-breaking into a slurred lyric that none of us understood. He DID put his heart into it though, and the crowd ate it up in spite of his poor elocution and annoying insobriety.

And there was no sign of the young Turkish man in the muscle tank who had danced with boundless energy to our music for at least an hour. He had danced in every possible position and style, on every possible part of the stage, with every possible person. Once, he had even danced backwards laying OVER my back in a hilarious limbo position as I crouched down to take a low dobro solo. Toward the end of our set, I changed from dobro player to pinball flipper- turning my back to the Turk and bouncing him away whenever he danced too exuberantly toward Betse (who takes a dim view to young Turk impacts to her antique fiddles). The stage was filled with dancers and this melee finally brought the security force into action. As they roughly began pushing people back off the stage, I knew the night would soon be over.

The storm was intense while it lasted, but just like the crowd, it too had moved on. A feeling of equilibrium had settled where, earlier, there had been so much instability. The air had a sweet smell- the kind of smell that suggests that the storm's needs had been satisfied. I certainly felt that way. It wasn't a rainout- no, far from it. It was a rain IN . It was our last night in Germany, and it was absolute mayhem. It was the kind mayhem that is equal parts frightening, weird, amusing and invigorating. We survived them, and they survived us. And we were all richer for the experience.

Burning Up the West with Martha...

2007-05-01T00:07:00.001-05:00

Marthacollage
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

I guess we first heard about the recording session in the spring of 2005. We had just arrived in Louisiana and were setting up in Dirk Powell's studio to record what would become our "Throw Down" cd. Dirk had just returned from Levon Helm's studio in Woodstock, NY- where he had recorded the basic tracks for Martha Scanlan's debut cd, and he was psyched. I have to say, I was a little jealous to hear him say that, not only was Martha branching out from the safety of old time instrumentation (using pedal steel guitar and other electric gadgets), but she actually got Levon Helm to play drums on several tunes. Levon, for the uninitiated, was a major creative force-and the drummer for The Band. We listened intently as Dirk described the experience, and I could only imagine the sounds he must had heard...

August, 2006: We were kicking back with some Vietnamese food and a few beers at our booking agent, Mary Brabec's house in Seattle, Washington. I was snooping around a stack of cd's on her desk and came across one with the words, "Martha Scanlan- New CD", scrawled on it in black Sharpie. I freaked and got confirmation from Mary that this indeed was a rough mix of the Woodstock sessions. I stuck it in her computer and started it up, I tried to focus, but It was a beautiful day in Seattle and everyone was sitting outside talking. It was hard to appreciate what I was hearing over the conversation. One thing was for sure, it was a ROUGH mix. The songs didn't seem to be in any order and the volume of each song was wildly inconsistent. The next morning, (as usual) I was up before anybody and, without really thinking about it, I made a copy of the cd (along with copies of Mary's entire Reggae collection) and stuck it in my backpack.

October 2006: I was hanging out with Betse at the International Bluegrass Music Association conference in Nashville, TN. We had just eaten lunch, and she asked me if I wanted to go watch Martha Scanlan's showcase on the Roots and Branches stage. Martha was already on when we arrived. We slipped in and found seats near the back. Almost immediately, I was transfixed by the sound coming from the stage. Martha stood center, flanked by Travis Stuart on string bass and Trevor Stuart on fiddle. The sound of this simple instrumentation, combined with Martha's idiosyncratic voice ( I mean that in the best possible way...) was mesmerizing. The smallish crowd, most of whom were familiar with Martha from her days as guitarist with The Reeltime Travelers, were quiet and respectful, drinking in the sound, but Betse and I were excited and whooped it up in the back at the end each tune.

At once point, Martha sheepishly told the audience that her new record was, "almost done"...
"Right ON!" I yelled.
Then she told them hesitantly, " And it's going to be kinda different for some of you"...
"WHOOOHOOO!", I whooped from the back.
"It's going to have some drums on it"...
"ALLRIIIIIIIGHHHHHT!", I belted.
Several people looked back at me and scowled.
"But we got Levon Helm to play the drums, so that's ok, right?"
"HEEEEELLLLLLL YEAH!", I shrieked.

On the way home from IBMA, I dug through my backpack and grabbed the copy of Martha's new cd I had secretly burned in Seattle. Everyone was completely shagged from the conference, so this time there was no conversation to distract me. Although the mixes were rough, the purity of the sound came through loud and clear. I don't think a word was said, but when it was over, we all agreed that this was the sort of album WE would like to make someday.

November, 2006: We were back at Dirk's, recording our new cd. The long, long sessions stretched into the early morning hours. When we returned to the house where we were staying, I was always too keyed-up to go right to sleep. So I listened to Martha's cd on my iPod for inspiration before collapsing into unconsciousness.

January 12th, 2007: It was my birthday. I don't generally like my birthday much, and this year was no exception. Basically, it makes me uncomfortable for people to treat me different just because it's my birthday. However, this year, I was bummed out because no one treated me any different than they ever do. Yes folks, I am a gigantic 41-year-old baby! Anyway, I was hanging out backstage at The Grey Eagle in Asheville, NC feeling sorry for myself, when Martha Scanlan walked through the door. I guess I knew she lived fairly close to Asheville, but still I was shocked to see her in person. Without my usual conversational restraint, I began to babble and gush to her about how much her record had impacted me. Later in the evening, I saw her again and told her that if she ever needed somebody to play dobro, she could give me a call. I gave her my email and I felt good about the the interchange, but doubted (with The Wilders intense schedule) that it would ever actually happen.

February, 2007: I got an email from Martha asking me if I might be interested in playing some dates in Colorado in April. She told me that Travis and Trevor Stuart would be in England teaching old time music classes, and she was scrambling to get a band together for the tour. I was flabbergasted. I searched our schedule and realized that at least four of the shows were possible. Then I really started to think about it. I imagined the sounds that I had grown to love on Martha's cd coming to life. I imagined myself playing dobro on some of her tunes. I imagine myself playing steel guitar and electric guitar on others. Then I began to imagine other things. I imagined Nate playing electric bass and Betse covering Dirk Powell's fiddle parts. But the final piece was drums. Of course, we know a lot of really great drummers. But still, I was bummed that Ike would be left out. Then I tried to imagine Ike sitting behind a set of drums. It wasn't so far-fetched. I'd seen him fool around on a kit before, and he wasn't half bad. So I called everybody up, and asked them if they would be interested in becoming Martha's band. Not surprisingly, everyone (including Ike) was thrilled at the prospect. Then I wrote Martha back to offer her not one musician, but four. I'm sure she was shocked at my proposal, but she agreed to give it a try anyway.

Monday, April 9th: Ike and I picked Martha up from the Kansas City airport and immediately got her in the KC spirit by forcing her to eat Arthur Bryant's Bar-B-Que and share a pitcher of Budwieser. As she finished half of her mountainous sandwich, she said, "wow, the streets of Kansas City are paved with MEAT." Then we checked her into a Best Western on the Boulevard, and went off to ready things for the tour. We had invited her to play as our special guest at the Rural Grit Happy Hour that night, and there was a larger-than-normal crowd assembled to greet her there. Although we had never played with her before, the four of us decided to "wing it" with Martha on about 6 tunes. Don Carrick, legendary Rural Grit drummer yelled out to Ike at one point, "you are doing great, you just need to RELAX!" It was somewhat of a train wreck, but there was a strong scent of something musically wonderful floating around the bar by the time we had finished.

The next morning we all met at an honest-to-goodness, real-deal practice space located above the all-ages punk rock club, El Torreon, in midtown KC. I had acquired access to this jewel-in-the-rough, through the generosity and diligence of our pal David Regnier who hooked us up with The Pink Socks (the band that rents the space). We lugged all our gear up the stairs and started plugging stuff in, while Martha made notes on a legal pad. After plugging in mics and making some adjustments, we tentatively began a practice session, which begat a song swap/jam session that stretched late into the night. The next day, we scrambled to get all our stuff together, packed up the trailer, stopped by The Pink Socks practice space to leave a case of PBR for our rent, and hit the city limits by 7pm. After only an hour of driving, I was burnt out. I stopped for gas, and when I returned, Martha had plopped herself in the driver's seat. Obviously quite comfortable with the strange ways of the road, she drove our Brown Clown halfway across Kansas stopping for the night around 1am at our favorite Motel 6 in Colby.

We were up-and-at 'em the next morning, passing into Colorado for our first hump over the Rockies this year. Our van handled the high mountain passes like a champ, and within a few hours, we arrived in Carbondale, CO at Steve's Guitars- the site of our first gig. Steve was there to greet us, and helped to load in our gear, move amps, drums and mic stands around in an effort to squeeze our huge band onto the tiny stage. We got everything plugged up and used the sound check to rehearse the material one last time. Our band pals from Paonia, CO, Sweet Sunny South, arrived during the rehearsal and gave us some much-needed feedback on our relative volumes and sound. It didn't seem like any time passed before the tiny music store was packed for the sold out show. In Kansas City, the fire marshall would have shut it down immediately, but in Carbondale, it appears things are a little more relaxed. We took the stage around 9:30am and, as Martha strummed the first chord, I said a silent prayer, "please, please don't let us screw up..."

My prayers must have been answered, because the audience was electrified. During the next two hours, we played most of the songs off Martha's album. Betse, of course, played her fiddle, but also got to add her tenor guitar and a harmony vocal to the mix on several tunes. Nate mostly hung in the back making sure Ike was staying on the beat. To save space in the van, he had decided back in Kansas City to only play his electric bass on this tour. He sounded great- especially when he stepped up to sing harmony with Martha even taking a lead verse on the song "Hallelujah". To change it up, Ike and Martha swapped positions on the drums so that he could lead our band on a few honky tonk numbers. In addition to being a great songwriter and singer, Martha Scanlan is a very fine old time guitar player, and I could tell she really enjoyed herself, when she got to bear down on some of Betse's fiddle tunes. I sat over in my corner truly fulfilling the "jack of all trades" role. I played electric guitar, electric lap steel guitar, dobro, clawhammer banjo and mandolin. On the outside (due to my concentration level), my face must have appeared to be made of stone. But on the inside I was grinning ear-to-ear. To quote Wilders mentor Dale Frazier, "it was a pretty good deal, I guess..." The evening seemed over almost before it started. I talked to several people after the show and everyone was pretty much blown away by the sound.

It took a long time to get all the equipment packed back into the van and trailer, and it was soon after midnight when we set out on a two-hour drive over McClure pass to Paonia, CO. Our Sweet Sunny South pals agreed to not only let us stay in their homes that night, but also to wait for us slowpokes and lead us over the mountains. I realized how tired I was when we started winding up the pass. I was sure glad I had their tail lights to follow. We arrived safely and everyone collapsed for the short night. The next morning we hauled a stripped-down version of all our junk into the studios of KVNF in downtown Paonia. Our pal, Rob Miller was hosting the "Talking Music" program there, and we were able to do about 4 of Martha's tunes, a couple of Wilders originals, and a fiddle tune during the show. Then, after wolfing down some very fine burgers at Sweet Sunny South HQ (thanks Bill and Shel!), we high-tailed it up the road to Montrose, CO to load in at La Cabana. Yes, our gig this evening was to be at the downtown Montrose Italian/Mexican Restaurant. I LOVE the west because of weird combinations like this. Say you don't have a population in your town that can support an italian restaurant AND a Mexican Restaurant? No problem, COMBINE THE CUISINE. We all had a good laugh on the drive up, imagining fettucini burritos and chips and marinara. Oh, if only they were just jokes. Later that evening, I actually saw a basket of bread sticks AND tortilla chips next to a bowl of salsa AND tomato sauce. I would not lie about this.

Our motel was across the street. It was one of those classic motor lodges from the 50's, and, after sound check, we walked over and checked in. We only had about an hour to kill before we had to head back over to the restaurant. The show was sold out, and it was packed to the rafters when we walked in. Most of Sweet Sunny South made it for the second night, accompanied by several of their friends. It felt good to see them right up front. Martha was cool as a cucumber, and smiled at everybody before hitting the first chords. We got through the first tune no problem, then on the second, I couldn't get any sound out of my guitar. I panicked and started checking connections, while Martha and the rest of the band waited. Then I realized that someone had come up and turned all the knobs on my amp down to -0-. I don't know if the sound crew had done it as a precaution, or if it was some kind of a bad practical joke, but I was livid. I pulled myself together to get through the song, but was pretty shaken. Of course, nobody ever turns down anything when I play with The Wilders. We have no knobs to turn.

I settled down and turned in a decent performance despite the mishap. Later in the evening, we had a few "guests"- one of the sound guys came up to play drums on one of Ike's honky tonk tunes. He wasn't bad, he was horrible. He kept trying to do drum fills without any sense of where the beat was. Nate, who was already used to staying right on top of Ike to keep him in time, was on this poor guy in a second. He yelled, "STOP DOING FILLS, JUST PLAY THE SNARE!!!" The poor befuddled guy finally got it together- sort of- but I was glad when the tune was over. Later in the evening, Rob Miller- guitarist with Sweet Sunny South, told me that this was the moment that made the whole evening worthwhile for him. I guess he must like to watch train wrecks. Martha sang great, and Betse played some killer solos. We had already got our nervous jitters out the night before, and I felt that everybody just did a fantastic job.

After the show, Betse was pooped out. She said her goodbyes to everyone, and then turned in for the night. I had very much the same intention, but about the time I got all my stuff packed up, Martha walked up and asked me if a friend of hers could borrow my mandolin. Of course, I agreed and got it out of the case while Ike and Martha pulled up a couple of chairs to play host to a post-show jam. I took the delay in my imminent sleep in stride though, and used the time to catch up with the Sweet Sunny South contingency. The befuddled drummer pulled up a chair and whipped out a case of harmonicas to join the party. This was definitely an instrument he could play, and he sang and blew his harp with indefatigability. Then the other sound man asked me if I would mind it if he played my dobro. At this point, I realized I wasn't going anywhere soon, and grabbed it out of the case for him. He plopped down on my amp, and joined into the ruckus. He was pretty dang good too. Everybody seemed like they were having fun, so I didn't really mind. Then the Sweet Sunny South crew had to leave- which left me and Nate sitting at the bar, drinking free beers, critiquing the noises coming from the corner. I guess an hour or more passed before it finally wound down. I jumped off the bar stool and started loading stuff out to the van. I was surprised when Ike and Martha, who had been the eye of the jam-icane, apologized to Nate and I for keeping us up so late for such a, "lame jam". I said, "you guys looked like you were having so much fun, though". I guess I didn't realize that they had felt as trapped as me. We loaded all the instruments into Martha's room, so as to not disturb Betse, and then retired to Ike and Nate's room for a nightcap. When I quietly entered the room I was sharing with Betse, I saw that it was almost 4am. We were due to leave by 9am the next morning to get back over the mountains for our next gig in Denver- a 6 hour drive. Uhhhhggg.

Everybody looked a little beat the next morning, but our "little band that could" took it in stride, as we chatted and laughed all the way up the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. Soon, the conversation wound down, and so I DJ'd my iPod to keep everyone entertained- especially Ike, who was driving. We arrived with little time to spare in Denver, and spilled out of the van, delirious, but happy. The sound man at Swallow Hill, a nice 200+ seat theater in an older part of Denver, was waiting to help us get situated. We loaded in all our crap and began to plug everything up. The sound was great, and we all got a little excited to try our third night in a real concert space. Nate ran out to get us all burritos from a restaurant across the street, and I killed time by eating a chocolate cookie and drinking coffee. This was a mistake. I hadn't really had much to eat. and the sugar and caffeine made my heart race.

Just before we went on, Martha looked at all of us in the dressing room and confessed, "guys, I'm really nervous tonight, this is a folk crowd, and I'm afraid the drums and electric stuff is going to be too much for them." Even though I was about to pass out, I truthfully replied to her, "Don't worry about it Martha, we will do GREAT. These folks will LOVE it." I believed what I said, but something happened (I'll blame it on the sugar) when I walked out on stage. For some reason I forgot what instrument I played on the first tune and, by the time I realized what was going on, I had to scramble to get ready. This set off a domino effect for me that I did not recover from until almost the end of the first set. It seemed like no matter what song we were doing, my instruments were out of tune, my amp settings were wrong, or I just straight up forgot my parts, It was embarrassing and I felt terrible as I walked off stage for the break.

We reconvened in the dressing room and I apologized to Martha for screwing it up so bad. She was gracious and downplayed the whole thing. Then she said, "you know guys, screw it, let's just have FUN." This statement (along with the beer I gobbled down to counteract the sugar/caffiene) really seemed to help. We went back out and got through it with some skin still left on our teeth. After the show, Ike loaded up his drums and went to fall asleep in the van while we all chatted and ate our cold burritos. Then I went to pack up all my stuff, while Nate serenaded me on an old classical guitar he found lying in a back room. I'm not sure what it was called, but he played a lullaby he had written for his daughter Gretel. It was a great way to end a traumatic evening- Thanks Nate.

For the first and last time of our short tour, we checked into a really, really nice hotel for the night. Everybody was completely fried, and we only had about an hour to drive to the gig the next day. We all got in our rooms by midnight and crashed for a nice, long, comfortable night's sleep.

Martha had arranged for a late check out, and we all met in the lobby around 1pm to load up. We grabbed some lunch at a nice bar and grill in Denver before heading up I-25, just north of Ft. Collins to The Swing Station in Laporte. This is the current home-away-from-home of one of our best old road pals, Bradford Lee Folk. Brad was formerly the lead singer of the fabulous, but now-defunct bluegrass band, Open Road. He purchased the bar just over a year ago, and we had been wanting to visit him there for a long time. Now one thing I haven't addressed yet, is the fact that nobody was supposed to know that we were playing with Martha. We have several dates booked in Colorado later this year, and promoters take a dim view of bands barnstorming too close to their festivals for fear that, if somebody can see them at a bar, why would they pay to see them at a festival? So, even though Bradford knows us, he didn't know we were coming with Martha. The look on his face when we arrived carrying in our gear was priceless. I could literally see the blood drain out of his face when he realized that Martha was coming into Laporte with both barrels blazing. He quickly grabbed the bar phone and starting calling everybody on the front range.

Brad's business partner helped us get the sound going outside on the concrete pad/ beer garden, and we hit the first song while the sun was still blazing. The small crowd was in a great mood, and we just let all the tension of the last few days drain away. We even got Brad to come up and pick a couple of obscure old country numbers with us. It was a great way to end a great tour. Later that night, Brad invited us over for an after party at his home a mile up the road. We sat around his dining room table trading tunes and swapping stories late into the morning, before finally heading back to the doublewide trailer behind the bar to crash before the sun came up. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow and, after what only seemed like only a few minutes, Betse's alarm clock startled me awake. It was noon. We sluggishly got ourselves together and headed back over to Brad's to pick up Martha. I helped her load her suitcase in the trailer and took a quiet moment to thank her for the experience. I have to say, I got a little choked up. She gave me a hug and said, "we'll do it again soon, I promise."

It seemed like it took forever to get back to the Denver airport. We pulled up to the rental car area, and all bid Martha a very fond goodbye. As Ike pulled the van away from the airport terminal, I watched Martha disappear behind the glass doors lugging her gear behind her with confidence and grace.

It was 6pm. Now we had a 10-hour drive to get back home to KC. We were exhausted, but it was the best kind of tired.

BREAK!

2007-04-23T07:42:00.000-05:00

A full quarter of 2007 has already slipped by. "What the heck," you might ask, "have you Wilders been DOING?" Well, I aim to answer that question right now...

We busted right out of the gate on January 10th for a 3-week run from Nashville, through the Carolinas, up to Washington D.C. & New York City, and into Pennsylvania accompanied by our Lafayette, Louisiana pals, The Red Stick Ramblers. Then we hauled our butts from Pittsburgh all the way to Madison & Milwaukee to play two shows with our old buds, The Foghorn Stringband. We headed home for just a few days before we did another quick run down to Springfield, MO to play a couple of shows with our new friends, The Arkamo Rangers. Finally, we rounded out the first weekend of February by returning to the Free State Music Festival in Lawrence, KS.

When the dust settled, there were four very-exhausted Wilders standing there scratching their heads- and we had only finished the first MONTH. February passed quickly and we all took a little time to rejuvenate, before heading back up to Wisconsin (dodging snowstorm after snowstorm) to host a three-day stand at the Oneida Nation Casino in Green Bay. After that, we came home and took a long-overdue break.

So, until recently, I haven't seen my band mates much. We all sort of splintered into our own pursuits and distractions. Everybody did their own thing and took care of long-overdue personal business. I, for one, luckily had the opportunity to play rock and roll guitar with my old band, The Pedaljets for the first time in over 10 years. It was a blast. The Wilders took almost 2 months off for the first time in over 3 years. Even before we went full time, we almost always had a festival or show at least once a month. This was a full on, no holds barred, vacation and I think everybody really used it to it's full advantage. We broke our gigfast by becoming the backing band for one of our favorite singers, Martha Scanlan, for four great dates in Colorado. I'll detail that experience in the next blog entry. Take care everybody.

Wilders Reissues- Available Nationwide, February 13th, 2007

2007-02-09T10:44:00.001-06:00

WOD
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

Here they are folks! "Throw Down", "Spring a Leak" and "Wings of a Dove" are now remastered with better sound, bonus tracks and great new packaging. The reissues are produced by Free Dirt Records in Tacoma Park, Maryland and will be available everywhere quality cd's are sold on February 13th, 2007. You can get them first by ordering directly from our website: www.wilderscountry.com. I am currently having them added to our site and the price will be going up to $16.00 each. But, the upload hasn't happened yet, so if you want to save a buck, click on "Goods" and put down your cash money. All orders taken on our site from now on will be filled with the reissued cd's.

Wilders Reissues- Available Nationwide, February 13th, 2007

2007-02-09T10:43:00.001-06:00

SAL
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

Wilders Reissues- Available Nationwide, February 13th, 2007

2007-02-09T10:42:00.001-06:00

TD
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

50 Comment Limit Reached!

2007-02-05T20:48:00.000-06:00

I'm just now starting to work on something. Your patience is appreciated. In the meantime, go read Tick's new blog entry...

http://ticksense.blogspot.com/

later, bp

It's hard to name a fiddle tune

2006-12-21T17:29:00.000-06:00

Photo by Michael Kanemoto. From our Liberty Hall Holiday Hoedown, December 2006.

Thanks, LVJ, for the inspiration for a new post from me.

LVJ mentioned a couple of new fiddle tunes of mine that were played at Liberty Hall:

Christmas Eve -- which is NOT mine, though I wish it were. It comes from Jim Bowles, a fiddler of whom I know little. Well, I just did a little search for him and found out more... he was from Kentucky. Even cooler is that "Christmas Eve" is mentioned in this article... the link is in the blog title here, for those who are interested. Now, why that tune is called Christmas Eve, I can't imagine exactly. But it is a great tune and I'm trying to learn it a little better for next year.

[So far I have 3 seasonal fiddle tunes which only get played for our holiday shows. For a while all I had was "Breaking Up Christmas" -- you can find great versions of that by Benton Flippen and Tommy Jarrell. Then last year I got turned on to "Christmas Time Will Soon Be Over", which was recorded by Fiddlin' John Carson way back in the day... he was one of the first stars of the Grand Ole Opry. That tune/song (it does have a few lyrics -- "country haiku", as Ike calls it) also appeared in the film "Cold Mountain", and Jack White sang it. I notice when I do a search for it that some sites credit it as BY Jack White... interesting, and just a note on how traditional tunes sometimes do end up getting copywritten by someone much later. Is this a good or bad thing? I am not here to judge that right now, just a side topic for later consideration.]

The other tune was Douglas County. A funny thing about that tune. It's not a new one; we've been playing it for a while, maybe almost a year. I originally gave it a temporary title: "Bob Holt Meets the Crooked Jades". That's a mouthful, at least! Plus the confusion of folks thinking I was talking about Bob Hope made it not such a good title. Not to mention there are a precious few who know of the Crooked Jades (if you are not one of them, look them up - we think they are awesome). So shortly before we set out to record, Phil suggested (strongly suggested, you might say) that I come up with a REAL title for the tune. Good idea.

[If you want to hear this tune, you can find it on our listen page -- on the left column, with the title "BHMTCJ"]

So... it's really hard to name a fiddle tune, sometimes. My first tune ever, January Waltz, was a gift from the heavens and was easy to name as it came to me in January, several years ago, and is a waltz. The first dance tune I came up with was inspired by Art Stamper's playing, but I was bound and determined to give it a GOAT-y name. Thus, Goat Creek.

However, there's a more specific reason for giving it a watery name.

Many years ago, while attending the workshops at Augusta Heritage Center (man, I love that place... hope to go there and teach some day), I was bowled over by a lecture/demonstration given by Alan Jabbour. Now, this fellow was the founding director of the American Folklife Center at the Smithsonian. He also is a dedicated fiddler and before he was all official, he spent a lot of time in West Virginia hanging out with the old fiddlers and such. Doing what I wish I had time/money/ambition to do my own self. Anyway. One of the things that Jabbour spoke of was river/creek fiddle tunes. He said that those tunes tend to start out high, jump around some, and that the B part was almost always low, or lower, than the A part. Case in point with a very common tune: Cripple Creek. See what I mean? So that was one of many things that got me all excited during Jabbour's talk/play session. My students get to hear about other things from time to time when I'm really geeking out.

GOAT CREEK was written without a title in mind. It starts high, jumps around a lot, and then goes low for the B part. Once I realized that, I had my title!

Other tunes I have had trouble naming, too. The tune now called "Old Dirty Boot" didn't have a name for quite some time. We even performed it nameless... we'd usually play it at the beginning of a show so I wouldn't feel compelled to talk on and on about it without a name, etc. You know how I can be. We had to name it eventually when it was included in the music we chose to have available for that Merlfest live download deal earlier in 2006. I sat and thought about it for a while and for whatever reason, that's what popped out. Well, kind of. I had "Old Dirty Boots" in mind, and Ike suggested making it just one boot. Good idea! I love that title now.

"Rock in the Woods" is potentially mistaken for Rockin' the Woods, so can be problematic. I told the story of that tune for a while on stage. We were at the Hiawatha Festival in the U.P., Michigan, summer of 2005. I was alone at our campsite for a while. It was a beautiful wooded camping grounds, with very tall evergreens and plenty of shrubs and plants and places for little things to live. As I sat messing around with this melody, a chipmunk appeared about six feet from me. It was munching away on something, moving around, and totally unconcerned. Some of you know how fond I am of almost all animals, especially the really cute ones... one of my very girly qualities. Well, I kept on playing and that chipmunk kept on hanging out. It was a very cool few minutes for me. All of a sudden, the little guy took off, going 100 miles an hour and right by my left foot... I could almost feel him. (maybe I played a sour note...) I was sad to see him go, but you know what? He came back! After a while. By then I had the tune finished and I tried really hard to name it after my little friend. But the character of the tune is not chipmunk-y or cute. It's a rocking tune. And it was written in the woods. I started out calling it Rocking the Woods, which has a cool double meaning when you think about our wooden instruments. However, I ended up with the Rock because I like tune titles that bring about imagery, or questions, or those that are a statement in themselves (Hawk's got a chicken and flew into the woods, anyone?).

So... back to BHMTCJ. This tune was directly inspired by the playing of Bob Holt, from Ava, Douglas County, Missouri. Then we added a funky chord partway through that gets played twice, on one full A part. That's the Crooked Jades influence. But the main thing for me is the melody, which is, to me, very Bob Holt-y. There is precedent for naming fiddle tunes after counties... Robinson County, an Ozark tune, being one good example. So, I thought maybe I'd name it after Holt's native county. We just recorded the tune for our upcoming album. I gave it that title for the recording. Then, when I announced it on stage at Liberty Hall, everyone cheered and Phil mentioned to me that we were IN Douglas County. Oh, yeah.

I love Lawrence and the people of Douglas County. But I don't want to have a fiddle tune with a name that references a specific geological spot be confused with a spot of the same name but different place, especially one so close to our home. Yeah, there's probably a Douglas County in most states, anyway.

So... guess what. This tune starts high, jumps around a lot, and then goes low for the B part!

I'm currently doing some research on rivers and creeks in the area around where Bob Holt lived. I even wrote an email to one of his friends, Jim Nelson, a St. Louis guitar player (who happens to be one of my favorite all-time old time guitar players). I asked Jim if he knew of any waterways that Holt was fond of. Sadly, there is nothing conclusive to report from that query. However, I am sure Bob Holt got around to many of the waterways in his county. I'm going to choose one of them and then that tune will have its final, hopefully long-loved, name.

The Ritual of 6...

2006-12-05T03:18:00.000-06:00

At 2am, we arrive at Motel 6-Iowa City-tired and grateful. I go to check in, leaving the rest of the gang in the van in various states of unconsciousness. The night clerk eyes me suspiciously as I walk up to the night registration window. I tell her, through the bullet-proof glass, that I have a reservation. We keep the nationwide Motel 6 directory book in the van, so we almost ALWAYS have a reservation. It sucks to arrive late at night and find the motel sold out. It means you are not going to sleep for at least another hour, and you will have to pay more, sometimes a LOT more. Worse yet are the motels you pay LESS for. But that's why we always reserve at Motel 6. We only got burned on a reservation once- in Lafayette, Louisiana. When I went to the window that night, they had given one of our rooms away. It was a costly clerical error and made for a tough night. We had to go to a Super 8 instead. It was more expensive, less comfortable, and had a peculiar odor. This time our reservation stands.

I ask the clerk for rooms on the second floor (this Motel 6 only has two floors). Although it's more of a pain in the ass to climb stairs with all your gear, at least you won't have an early bird walking around on your head in the morning. I also ask for rooms that are NOT next to each other. Noisy neighbors are a common hazard when you stay in motels, but for some reason. knowing your noisy neighbors is intolerable. I put the band credit card through the bullet-proof glass along with my driver's license. As usual, the night clerk has to run it as two separate transactions even though I'm paying for both rooms on one credit card. This inefficiency is typical of the entire Motel 6 chain. However, there have been a few times that I've been checked in by a star employee- one who has advanced training in Motel 6 computer ops. So I KNOW its possible to put two rooms on one charge card. Tonight's clerk is no star, and so I have to sign two separate charge slips, and fill out two separate guest information sheets. When I get to the vehicle line, I grumble and have to walk out to the parking lot to get the plate number. You'd think that I would have memorized it by now. But, I still have our old van license, HYF-493, cemented in my accessible memory. I am always surprised by the actual license number 382-YHT, and vow to remember it the next time. But I never do.

I return to the office and finish filling out the forms. The night clerk asks how many keys I want for each room. I answer two. Somebody always loses their key, or locks themselves out, no matter how short a time we spend in the motel. I finish up the transactions, and glance up at the floor plan map taped to the bullet-proof glass. I look for our rooms in relation to the office on the map. I can't figure it out. I never can. I decide to just drive around the motel and look at the numbers instead. I drive around the motel, looking at the numbers. I spot our rooms, slam on the brakes, and then everybody goes into immediate action. Like a swat team, we pull everything of value, instruments, microphones, computers, iPods- anything that somebody might steal, out and into the parking lot. One of us from each room grabs a load and heads up the stairs- while the other continues to grab luggage. This tag-team approach insures that the van is never left unattended. Nate and Ike have their load-in down to a science. Each of them purchased back packs at Wal Mart last year just for this purpose. Inside, they keep extra socks, maybe a clean shirt, pajamas, and their toiletry bags. Ike always makes his load in one trip. Sometimes Nate tries too. He looks like an overloaded camel as he lumbers up to the second floor with his backpack, bass and amp. Betse and I prefer the multiple trips approach.

Once everything is safely moved into our rooms, I move the van to a parking place that will accommodate the trailer. Sometimes this is impossible, and the trailer must be unhitched and parked in its own space. Tonight there's room against the curb, but I have to go around the motel once to get a better run at it. I turn off the van, pull all the shades down, and lock it up, then walk around the van, double-checking that all the doors are secure. I check the trailer too, yanking on the padlock to make sure. Then I head up to the room.

The rooms at Motel 6 come in one of three configurations. Betse has classified these as "A", "B" or "C". "A" rooms are usually older motels that have been bought, renovated and reopened as 6's. Their unusually shaped rooms are large and comfortable. "A" rooms have a table with chairs, and (sometimes) an easy chair for lounging. And the beds can be as much as 15 feet apart in these palaces of economy. We check into "A" rooms once in a blue moon. "B" rooms are slightly more common, and are smaller as a result, but still have plenty of space to move around. The beds in "B" rooms are 9-10 feet apart. Commonly, these types of rooms are at Motel 6 locations that are laid out on a single level, like a military compound. They are truly "motor inns" and you can park right outside your door making it easy to load in. And, because they only have one floor, there's never anybody walking on your head in the morning. Hands down, "B" rooms are my favorite.

I put my key card into the slot and open up the door. I groan because tonight we have a "C" room. I know it immediately because Betse is standing on the other side of the room by her bed unpacking her stuff. She is no more than 15 feet away from me, and I haven't even come into the room yet. There is only enough space for one person to walk between the foot of my bed and the poorly designed all-in-one shelving unit/desk/chair/TV stand. Betse's bed is against the bathroom wall and mine is on the opposite-jammed up against the heater next to the door. There is maybe 3 feet between our beds (think Laura and Rob Petry from the Dick Van Dyke Show). All other available floor space is taken up by instrument cases and our 2 suitcases.

It's now after 2:30am, and so we choose not to turn on the TV. Betse readies herself for bed in the bathroom, while I unpack my pajamas and toiletries. The room is freezing. Betse turned the wimpy wall heater on high heat, full blast when she first came in, but I still have my coat on. I hear a whimper of pain through the thin bathroom wall. Betse comes out in her PJ's and Robe shivering. "I hate to put on cold clothes before bed," she says as she jumps under the covers with a "hmmmmphh." I grab my pajamas and toothbrush and head into the bathroom for a hot shower. I prefer to wash off my filth at night before I go to bed. Betse is the opposite. She relies on a hot shower to wake her up. And she hates going to bed with wet hair. I haven't had to worry about that problem since my hair fell out in the 80's. The standard "C" room Motel 6 shower design looks like something from a Star Trek episode. The stall is round, and the shower head is above you when you walk in, pointing at the back wall. I turn on the water and wait for it to heat up before stepping into the transporter bay. The standard Motel 6 shower head is ball-shaped and sends out an uneven blast of water. Nate calls this type of nozzle a "horse piss shower". This is a particular pet peeve of his, and he often threatens to bring his own shower head with him on tours. So far, he hasn't.

Now nicely warmed, I turn off the water and step back into the cold bathroom. I put on my PJ's and brush my teeth. I walk back into the room and the chill begins to overtake me. Betse is reading in bed. I grab my own book, and jump beneath the covers. I check the heater- high heat, full blast. I put my hand over the vent, located right next to my bed. The air coming out is slightly warmer than cold, not an encouraging sign. I glance over at Betse, already lost in her book. Without fail, she reads before bed every night to get sleepy. Tonight, she is reading the new Charles Frazier novel, "Thirteen Moons". I open up my book, "A Riot of our Own-Night and Day with The Clash 1976-79". I read maybe three pages before I hear Betse exhale and shut her book. It's late and we both need to sleep. We wish each other a good night, and I reach up and turn out the light.

I am a crew member on an interplanetary space flight to venus. We have achieved orbit and are beginning our descent into the outer layers of the gaseous planet's atmosphere. As we begin to skim the upper mesosphere, a warning signal begins blaring. I flip open the control panel, and see that the exterior temperature gauge indicates a dangerous heat build up. I am worried that our heat dissipation panels might have been damaged during our long flight. My throat is scalding as the air becomes too hot to breathe. I fear we are not going to make it...

I awake in a pool of sweat. It is 6am, and apparently the wall unit is now working- high heat, full blast. It's easily 100 degrees in our room. I get up and crank the thermostat knob to "cold". I have to go to the bathroom, and I'm careful not to make any noise as I walk past Betse's bed. She is notoriously a light sleeper. I do my best to shut the door behind me as quietly as possible, so as to not disturb her from her delicate slumber. I pee and then drink 10 plastic cups of water from the tap. I open the door carefully and listen for a moment. I hear Betse's breathing, slow and steady, and gingerly move back toward my bed. As I pass by her, a joint in my foot cracks and she stirs with a gasp. She rolls over and groans.

The morning light is already spilling into the room from around the edges of the curtain. I pull off my bedspread and hold it up against the window, standing on my bed. I tuck the edge of the spread over the upper left corner of the curtain. Then, moving to my right, I work the bedspread over the curtain rod sealing out most of the light from the room. I then carefully tuck the bottom of the bedspread into the small gap between my bed and the the heater. It's still about 98 degrees, but at least cold air is now blowing out of the vent, and this makeshift barrier keeps it from blowing on my head. I lie back down, covers off, and wait for my body temperature to equalize. We don't have to check out of the motel for another 4 hours and I desperately need to go back to sleep. Thoughts begin to race through my head and I know sleep may prove to be elusive. I come upon an idea for a new blog entry. I go over various ways of telling it in my mind. I'm pleased with myself, but then begin to worry that I might forget some of this genius by morning. I briefly consider getting up and writing some notes. But Betse's breathing has steadied again, and I decide not to risk it. I'm not sure how much time passes before I finally drift back to sleep.

Betse's alarm goes off. At first I'm not sure where I am. I open my eyes and reality rushes back into my groggy brain. I am in Iowa City. I am on the road again. I am at a Motel 6. I am in a "C" room. And I am freezing again.

Dedicated to James Frey

News Update

2006-11-28T11:15:00.001-06:00

Well, we are closing in on the end of another year, and there is much to report. We spent the entire week before Thanksgiving in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, recording our new album at Dirk Powell's Cypress House studio. Specific details of that session will follow in later posts, however, I'll go on record right now and tell you that this will be a landmark in the recorded history of The Wilders. For example, this new album will feature many more of our originals. Everyone in the band contributed new songs and tunes to the project. There's a lot of surprises too. Our old approach of trying to capture our live sound in the studio, was basically thrown out the window. Each song features it's own unique instrumentation and treatment. We recorded in complete isolation wearing headphones to monitor the rest of the band. We overdubbed extensively, building songs up from a rhythmic foundation. Why do this? Because we wanted to make an album that stands on it's own as a total listening experience. In the past, most of the people who bought our albums did so after seeing us live. And so those recordings only served to remind them of the experience. But there has been a significant development in the last year that made us rethink that approach. What happened? We finally signed with a record label.

In the early spring of 2006, I got an email from a young man in the Washington DC area who expressed interest in working with us. He told me he was starting a new label, Free Dirt Records, and he wanted us to be one of his first artists. His enthusiasm was compelling, and we met with him several times over the summer working out the details. This week we have finally inked a deal which not only includes the release of our next album, but also the re-release of "Wings of a Dove", "Spring a Leak" and "Throw Down" on the Free Dirt label. Each of these back catalog titles will be professionally re-mastered, and will feature bonus tracks and a new package design. The reissues will be available sometime in February of 2007. The new album will be slated for release in the early fall of 2007 (think Winfield!!!)

So you got signed, so what? Well, because of retail distribution and marketing, for the first time in our 10 year history, people who have never heard of us will be hearing our album FIRST, before they see us live. This is significant. We can't rely on having a kick butt show to get people to buy our records. This record has to stand on it's own. And it most certainly will. I expect that a very small percentage of our old fans will walk away, scratching their heads when they hear it. But I also expect a much larger percentage to hear it and tell 40 of their friends about it. I also expect it to get a lot more attention from radio stations. Dirk Powell has acquired several vintage microphones since we recorded "Throw Down" and the warmth and quality these mics delivered was unbelievable. Then, with the separation we were able to achieve by isolating all the instruments, the resulting sound quality will be crystal clear and LOUD. And ultimately, the songs are great- full of pain, desperation, loss, love, sacrifice and resignation. Dirk and I were talking one very late night in his studio. He told me, "This album is going to be world class..." I believe him. Other bands may shoot to the top of the mountain a lot faster, but sometimes their momentum carries them right off the other side and they ultimately break up. We've always taken the "little engine that could" approach. Each year we grow a little bit. This album will be a major step up.

I'll go into the actual making of the record in more detail later. In the meantime, be patient and put some money aside so you can buy the reissues in February. They will sound and look fantastic too. And for those who still thirst for our live sound, there are two new live shows on our "listen" page. Check them out at wilderscountry.com/listen.asp

Fanfest

2006-11-10T09:43:00.000-06:00

The date: Friday, October 27th 2006
The scene: Pop's Blue Moon Tavern, "on the hill"- St. Louis, Missouri

It was a small, warm feeling room that, if packed (which it was), would hold about 100 people before the fire marshall would object. The bar ran the entire length of one wall, and there were a few tables on the opposite. We were next to the entrance, playing our hearts out in an effort (for once!) to have a decent show in St. Louis. Although we'd played at least two other times in our sister Missouri city, our past experiences had been less than stellar. This time, we thought, we would go to a place where people already hang out, a place with a neighborhood feel, a place small enough, that even if not that many people were there, it would FEEL like we had a great crowd. Then, if we played well, word of mouth would seed our future success.

Only problem was, the St. Louis Cardinals were in the World Series. And they were not just in it, they were WINNING it. And they were not just winning it soon, they were going to win it TONIGHT. The glow of the TV in the opposite corner of the bar was an irresistible draw to the crowd. We did have some fans in the room, but even the diehards in the Wilders T-shirts had their backs to us. Don't get me wrong, everyone was glad we were there, and very supportive. It was just funny because no matter how much they liked us, there was something else very important happening at the same time, in the same room, and their attention was divided at best. Luckily, we were situated so that we could see the game too. As the game moved into the late innings, electricity began to build. You could feel it, it was palpable.

Bottom of the ninth- St. Louis needed three outs to win. They had a decent lead and, short of a rally by the Detroit Tigers, all signs pointed to a victory within a few minutes. Ike looked at me and said, "Let's play Higher Power." This is an old Louvin Brothers gospel tune that we used to do a lot. It's the one we try to get the crowd to help us out with on the choruses, "AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POWER. AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POW-WEEEEER".

I kicked it off and the whole room vibrated. The crowd's attention turned to us for a moment, then back to the TV, then back to us. The first chorus came and they jumped right in, "AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POWER. AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POW-WEEEEER".

St. Louis got the first out, and the crowd roared. They began to jump up and down, dance and grin. When the chorus came around again, they sang louder, "AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POWER. AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POW-WEEEEER". I think everybody in the room thought the same thing...that in our own way, we were HELPING- that if we could all just sing loud enough, and believe hard enough, we could get the next two outs OURSELVES.

Ike finished singing the final verse. He looked at us and said, "keep PLAYING". He started the whole tune over again. It was just too cool. The feeling was electric. "AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POWER. AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POW-WEEEEER" . He doubled the chorus as the Cardinals got the second out. The crowd roared, "AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POWER. AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POW-WEEEEER". The energy was dizzying. They were locked into it, they sang and watched and sang again, "AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POWER. AMEN! AMEN! THERE'S A HIGHER POW-WEEEEER".

With only one out to go, it was hard to stop. We so badly wanted the game to end with everybody singing with us. But then things slowed down, as the next batter began to hit foul ball, after foul ball. The St. Louis pitching coach came out to talk things over, and the TV station went to a commercial break. Ike had already sang all the verses twice, so, like it or not, we finished the tune. With sweat dripping out from under my hat, I gazed around the room. Everybody looked like they had just stepped off a roller coaster.

Ike looked at me and said, "Now what?" Then somebody in the crowd yelled out "BUCKET!"... Without batting an eye, we launched into Hank Williams' familiar lament about not being able to "buy no beer". This was St. Louis after all, home of Anheiser Busch, and people in this town take their beer seriously. The crowd began to sway and shimmy as the game resumed. The Detroit batter hit another foul ball. Everyone continued to divide their attention between us and the TV. Our playing was automatic. It was like we weren't even in our bodies playing the instruments. It felt like it was all a giant hallucination. And then it happened, a fly ball hit right to the center fielder. It was over. The St. Louis Cardinals were now World Series champions. The crowd went into hysterics jumping up and down, screaming, and singing "Yeah my bucket's got a hole in it, yeah my buckets got a hOOOOLe in it, yeah my buckets got a HOLE in it, I CAN'T BUY NO BEEEEEEEEER!"

We finished the song triumphantly, and Ike suggested to the crowd that we all take a short break to grab a beer and join in the celebration. It was amazing. People were hugging, kissing, crying. I felt like my face was going to break, I was smiling so wide. All of us in the room had momentarily become one. Our tribe had conquered. It was dizzying. We hugged, and screamed, and danced, and jumped for joy. A round of high fives went down the bar. Everybody cheered, and toasted, and basked in the afterglow. It was a chemical reaction- a unification of feeling occurring at the same moment. The music, the crowd, the game- all of us bonded together at the right time, in the right place, with the right people.

It was one of the most memorable experiences I've ever had playing music.

And I'm a ROYALS fan.

Almost Fixed!

2006-10-31T14:04:00.000-06:00

Almost Fixed!
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

Here's Ike's guitar! All patched and glued and fixed up real nice by master fix-it man, Mike Horan at Mass Street Music in Lawrence, KS. I asked Mike to take a picture before he glues the back of the guitar back on. If all goes well, he is hopeful that Ike will have it back in his hands by the end of the week.

THANKS MIKE!!!!

Enter The Tick...

2006-10-10T23:18:00.000-05:00

It was Saturday afternoon behind Stage One at this year's Walnut Valley Music Festival in Winfield, KS. My wife, Kim and I were chatting with Dale Frazier, aka The "Tickmeister", and he told me that he wanted to apologize for always downplaying my past efforts to acknowledge his influence in the formation and development of The Wilders. He said that he had been thinking about it, and realized that when somebody gives you a compliment, you should shut up and accept it as graciously as possible.

Up to this time, out of respect for our shy and venerable Tick, I had only scratched the surface.
SO, NOW LET THE FLOODGATES OF TICK LORE BE THROWN OPEN WIDE!

The Beginnings:

My first Winfield was in 1994. I arrived late on the first night in a Volkswagen van filled with two non-musician friends, a cheap Kay mandolin, a no-name resonator banjo and Fender Catalina flattop guitar set up dobro style. Although I watched a lot of music that weekend, I participated in none of it. I was too intimidated by the level of those playing all around me throughout the entire weekend, and I never opened any of my numerous cases even once. Humbled, I was nonetheless so excited by the experience, I vowed to vigilantly practice at home, and to bring another musician with me to Winfield the next year.

That second year, Betse and I camped out by the softball diamonds, and spent the weekend huddling around "The Fiddler's Fake Book". Betse had bought this wonderful spiral-bound bible from a vendor underneath the grandstand not long after we arrived. Inspired by the fancy fiddling of Tim O'Brien and Nickel Creek (the preteen version), she would flip through the pages, sight reading the strange, yet somehow familiar tunes, while I looked over her shoulder, holding on to the guitar chords for dear life. Although clearly we were out of our element, we knew we had something going for us when people kept stopping in the road next to our camp to listen.

So the next year we brought Ike with us. Now we had a guitarist AND a singer who actually knew all of the lyrics to some Hank Williams songs. We camped in our same spot, (stretching cheap K-Mart tarps over an old soccer goal to keep out the wind and rain that pelted us that year) and, not only attracted the attention of our neighbors in the campground, but several others wanderers who actually came OFF the road and INTO our camp to listen. By a stroke of luck, Betse signed us up for our first Stage V performance that year on Saturday night at 1am. You can see evidence of that important, first Wilders performance. as a special feature on our Live DVD. Nobody is arguing that we were short on talent, but long on potential.

Enter the Tickmeister:
I think it was Friday night of that year, that I heard Ike telling Betse, "Hey, I ran into Patrick Frazier's dad, Dale. He invited us over to his camp. I'd love to go play a couple of songs with him tonight." Ike had met Dale earlier in a the year at a jam session in a friend's basement in Kansas City. Betse and I sort of shrugged our shoulders and agreed, but I have to say, I had a little trepidation stepping so far out of my comfort zone. I had still never jammed with anybody at Winfield- choosing instead to hand-select my own musical partners and drag them down there with me. So, it was a big step for me to grab my dobro case and follow Ike and Betse into this strange territory.

Dale had given Ike pretty good instructions on his location, and I was astonished when I saw his encampment. As I remember, there were at least three diesel bus-to-RV conversions parked at 90 degree angles forming an impenetrable barrier to the surrounding campground. We moved past one of the buses' bumpers into the inner sanctum of the camp- where no blade of grass was visible due to the bus-to-bus blue astroturf carpet stretched out inside the perimeter. I remember thinking, BOY these people know how to CAMP. Anyway, Dale was there with his mandolin. After a few introductions and pleasantries were exchanged, we pulled our instruments out and started to try to jam. Dale was clearly the alpha jammer, and we all deferred- me secretly hoping to hell that he didn't throw me a solo. So far, so good. Then Ike sang a couple of his Hank Williams tunes and I got to see the Tickmeister in full flight. When a solo came his way, he didn't duck it. He grabbed it up with a bluesy gusto that was not only appropriate to the tune, but stylistic to boot. Even though I might have seen Chris Thile playing something onstage beyond my imagination earlier in the day, Dale's gutsy performance literally blew my mind.

And there was something else about him that made my night. He was FUNNY. There was a special comedic chemistry between Ike and Dale that laid me out in stitches for long painful moments. I don't have any recollection of what crap they were going on about now, but I know that, at some point, I begged both of them to stop before I hemorrhaged. In short, the whole evening was perfect. Betse got to play some new fiddle tunes she had learned from her fiddler's fake book, Ike got to sing some Leadbelly and Hank Williams songs, and I got to play a few rudimentary solos on my dobro. Best yet, nobody made fun of me. I had made it. I had successfully jammed. And Dale was the catalyst.

In subsequent years, Dale has been a mainstay to my Winfield experience. He's generally the first person I seek out when I get in the gate, and he's often the last person I say goodbye to before I leave. I've followed him throughout the Pecan Grove campground (where the jams go all day and all night) and said a ridiculous "good night" to him as the sun was coming up. I've learned from him how to find the best "action" in the campground, and when to move on when it's clear the life is dying out of a session. I remember the first year the Freighthoppers appeared at Winfield. Dale and I were both so stricken by Frank Lee clawhammer fever, that it was nearly a race between he and I, to see who could figure out how to do that crazy thing on a banjo. Well, within a year, we both figured it out on our own. But in recent years, Dale has eclipsed me on the banjo, as well as buck dancing, beyond my wildest imagination, and still remains humble about it (and will, I have no doubt, deny this praise to anyone who reads this).

So all hail the Tickmeister! He was there at our beginning. And he continues to inspire us today. He has often told me in private that WE did as much for HIM musically, as he did for us. I don't know about that. I guess you will have to check his blog to know his side of the story. I'll suffice it to say that without Dale Frazier, we would be a very different band- and maybe never a band at all. All hail the Tick!

Hark, the Herald Angels, CRAAAACK!!!

2006-09-01T06:28:00.001-05:00

Edinburgh, Scotland, August 26th 2006

It was our final night of performances in the La Gayola tent, at Spiegel Gardens, in Edinburgh, Scotland. We were all in high spirits because, earlier that morning, we had accepted a Herald Angels award for our performances at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. This award, presented on a weekly basis by the Edinburgh Herald newspaper throughout the 3 week festival, is a huge honor. Basically, we were picked as best band at a festival featuring about 2000 bands. In addition to that, we had a near sellout audience inside the antique La Gayola tent, who were just as excited as we were. We were approximately halfway into our performance, when Betse asked to do a solo. Nate, Ike and I were happy to oblige, and went backstage. We were joking around with members of the band following us, when the night turned from triumph to terror... That was the moment when Ike said, WADE, throw the WHIZZER!"

As some of you know, I was a wrestler in middle school and high school. Coach Elder, my middle school coach, used to yell that phrase at me while I was getting my head squeezed off by a more powerful opponent. He would wait for my foe to reach over my shoulder, at which point he would scream from the side of the mat, "WADE, throw the WHIZZER! THE WHIIIIIIZZZEER!”. I’ve told that story on countless occasions, and Ike loves it so much that he often asks me to throw the whizzer in non-wrestling situations. I might be having a hard time tuning my mandolin, or fishing my keys out of my pocket, and Ike will shout, “WADE, throw the WHIZZER!".

So, we were joking around with the other band, when the subject of band wrestling came up. We all laughed about how we often kill road boredom by spontaneous wrestling and Ike, of course, told them about my old coach- the way he would scream, “Throw the WHIZZER!". We all laughed amongst ourselves when the bass player from the other band asked, “Just what, exactly, IS the whizzer?

Ike dangled his arm over my shoulder. I reach up, grabbed it high on the bicep and bent over. That's when I heard a pop, and the sickening sound of splintering wood. I turned around, and Ike's guitar was completely smashed in on top. He was still wearing his guitar, and it had been between us when I demonstrated the move. We were both in total shock for a moment, and I thought I was going to throw up. It had happened so fast. Ike was pretty cool, and said, "It will be ok, we will call Mass Street Music and get it glued when we get back." His nonchalance was hardly calming to me, however, and were it not for a complete ban on handguns in the UK, I would have gone out right then in search of an instrument of my own demise, in retribution for my stupidity.

By this time, Betse had finished her solo, and we skulked back into the La Gayola tent. She turned around, looked at my pale face, and said, “Is everything ok?” I just shook my head, eyes fixed to the floor while Ike held the guitar up, like a dead rooster at a cock fight, for the wall-to-wall crowd's revulsion.

He finished the show on a baby grand piano that was luckily onstage, and we have been borrowing and renting guitars ever since. I still feel horrible about it, but I’m going to follow Ike’s lead and just try to keep positive thoughts about its possible repair.

Mike Horan, if you are reading this, we will see you first thing Wednesday morning. Get extra glue...

Off to the UK...

2006-08-20T17:50:00.000-05:00

Sorry folks,
Didn't get a chance to do any writing in the few days I had home. We are leaving for Scotland tomorrow. If possible I will write some updates while we are there. If not, hang on, I'll try to get some stuff posted when we return. Regardless, take care and enjoy the last of your summer.
brotherphil

Mountain States Recap

2006-07-30T13:01:00.000-05:00

In as few of words as I can muster, here is a report on our tour of the western mountain states earlier this month:

Wednesday, July 5th- Travel day
Betse, Nate and I drove the brown clown as far as Colby, Kansas. The air conditioner in the van had died before the Alaska tour, and we lacked the sufficient funds to replace it before leaving this time. Thus, it was a hot and loud drive across Kansas with all the windows down. We checked in to our Motel 6 around midnight.
(More on the Colby, Kansas "field roaches" in another post...)

Thursday, July 6th- Denver, Colorado: The Bluebird Theater
Picked up Ike from the airport around 3pm. Opened for bluegrass up-and-comers, Chatham County Line. Not many in attendance. We Wilders were rusty after our post Alaska break. The highlights of the night were tunes we don't normally do. Otherwise, it was a bust show for all concerned. I think Denver is like KC, it's a heavy metal town. We just can't get a crowd there to save our lives.

Friday/Saturday, July 7th & 8th- Buffalo, Wyoming: Bighorn Music Festival
Neat festival situated at the county fairgrounds. It reminded me of the old Iowa days-dust blowing in your face, the smell of manure, and bluegrass fans in lawnchairs, sweating it out in the sun. We reunited with our old pals, Sweet Sunny South, as well as Pete and Anne Sibley. Also had a couple of funny conversations with Tim O'Brien. Later, I was blown away by an exuberant Missouri/Arkansas band called the Arkamo Rangers. Had to split right after our show on Saturday to drive halfway to Salt Lake City. Saw more deer on the side of the road than I've ever seen in my life. White knuckles and tired eyes were the result.

Sunday, July 9th- Snowbird Ski Resort, Salt Lake City, Utah: Founders Festival
This was a big tent show at a very swanky ski resort. One hot night followed by one hot day just to get there, resulted in an explosion of energy from the band. We played our best show in a LONG time. Also got to celebrate our pal, April's birthday, in ski resort luxury.

Monday, July 10th- driving day en-route to Jackson, Wyoming
Split the driving/ riding between April's Subaru and the Brown Clown. Stopped at a roadside bar, and had a beer and a few games of pool before heading on into Jackson.

Tuesday, July 11th- Jackson, Wyoming: Harvest Cafe'
We sold out this funny little show at the local natural food store. They converted a grocery store into a concert hall in about an hour. Being so close to the crowd was a nice change of pace.

Wednesday, July 12th- Gardiner, Montana: Gardiner Community Center
It was a pretty good crowd for a Wednesday. the audience was made up of a lot of Yellowstone National Park employees. Everybody came to dance and sweat.

Thursday, July 13th- Bozeman, Montana: The Filling Station
We hadn't played a stinky bar in awhile. The crowd was psyched and we picked up on their energy and delivered it back. I get the impression that people in Montana like to dance. The sound was horrible but we persevered and everybody had a great time.

Friday, July 14th- Great Falls, Montana: Bluegrass by the Bay Festival
Left early but arrived late due to a blown trailer tire. Luckily we got 2 new tires, and replaced some bad lugs at a Sinclair Station in Sulfur Springs. This festival had the largest attendance we've played to in awhile. People seemed to like it, but we were too besieged by bugs, heat and humidity to really get it going. That night, we stayed at a motor lodge downtown with a 2nd floor bar which looks directly into the 3rd floor pool. Sadly, the mermaid that usually swims for entertainment on Friday nights called in sick. The next morning, there were several regulars sitting at the bar watching kids swim in front of the glass. Sort of creeped me out.

Saturday, July 15th- Helena, Montana: Mount Helena Festival
We've played events like this in Helena several times, so we knew exactly what to expect. People hung out in the shade and enjoyed the music. Our set was early and we got back to the hotel before the sun went down. Still, I stayed up too late watching cable. Then I got up early the next morning and climbed up a mountain trail just outside of town. It took me an hour to get to the top and then I was attacked by gnats. Still, the view was more than worth the effort and the misery.

Sunday & Monday, July 16th & 17th. Travel home
A heat wave of hellish proportions tortured us the entire way back. We took turns driving, so that at least the driver and copilot could have direct hot air blowing on them. At one point south of Sioux City, Iowa, I woke up in the back, delirious and basting in my own juices. I realized Nate had overdriven his shift by about a half hour. I yelled from the back, "DUDE, its time to pull over and let ME drive! This turkey is DONE!" I made a mental note to call the mechanic and get an estimate on the A/C repair as soon as possible.

Alaska: Part Five

2006-07-13T11:48:00.000-05:00

Ok, sorry to leave everybody hanging in Juneau. We are back on the road cruising in the Brown Clown en-route to festivals and concerts in Wyoming, Utah, and Montana. As the days pass, my memory of Alaska is sadly fading. What images remain, are mostly centered around the final weekend we spent near the Arctic Circle. Therefore, I give you my final Alaska installment:

There's no place like Nome...

We took off from Anchorage in the late afternoon, and quickly the landscape beneath us changed from mountains to wide open rolling tundra crisscrossed by hundreds of shallow river flood plains. Roads are almost non-existent in the Alaskan interior, and it was really weird to see so much open land with virtually no human development. We flew northwest for a few hours, landing briefly north of the Arctic Circle in Kotzabue, a tiny island settlement hanging by a thread to the continent under constant assault by the ice and winds of the Bering Sea. As we took off again, I could see the sea ice still floating just offshore. From above, it looked like somebody had emptied a giant bag of flour into the ocean. The short flight across the Seward Peninsula to Nome was amazing. There were miles and miles of green tundra, divided by meandering rivers fed by snow-melt from the interior mountains. From high above, the rivers writhed across the tundra like long giant snakes. These were rivers still in their natural state- free to flow this way and that, seeking the most advantageous route to the sea without the Army Corp of Engineers meddling to straighten, dam, or impede their progress in any way.

We landed in Nome around 8:30pm, and were greeted in the tiny terminal by our host for the weekend, Carol Gales. Carol was dressed in tie dye and sensible shows, and had the spare, thin and hardy look of someone who could easily survive in the harshest of landscapes. We threw our stuff in her van and took off to the Forest Service bunkhouse- our lodging for the next few days. Each of us tossed our bags in our rooms, and then we piled back into the van rolling up the roller coaster road above the permafrost to a welcoming party hosted in our honor at a fishing camp/cabin 20 miles outside town. Several Nomites waited there for us, and we were immediately made to feel at home with cold beverages and caribou barbeque to satiate our thirst and hunger. We broke out the instruments, and played a good hour or so of tunes for our hosts. On a break, I walked outside the cabin for my first walk on the tundra. Everything I had read or heard up to this point was confirmed when I got about 10 feet outside the cabin. The experience of walking on tundra- being a thin skin of living vegetation and soil delicately perched atop frozen land that never thaws (thus it's name permafrost), is the equivalent of walking on top of giant car wash sponges. The vegetation seems to grow in clumps, and as I walked, I had to be careful to not twist an ankle as the tendons in each of my legs tensed with each unsure step. I tentatively made my way to a rock outcrop about 200 yards above the cabin. It was after midnight, and the sun still hung on the horizon as I looked over the incredible treeless terrain stretching before me on three sides, and the vast Bering Sea darkly cutting across the horizon to the south.

The next morning we were awakened, from too-little sleep, for a series of morning radio performances on various stations in Nome to promote the Midnight Sun Folk Festival. We were to be the "host band" at the festival, and we sleepily played a few songs at each station-inviting the residents of Nome and beyond, to abandon their mining and fishing and come hear some music. After the radio shows, Carol took us to the Nome Elder's Center to play a few more tunes for the lunchtime enjoyment of Nome's senior citizens. Alaskan natives pay great respect to the elders of their community, and I was fascinated by the large portraits of these honored citizens hanging on the walls all around us as we played. Many of the smiling faces were native- a term I heard much more than the culturally imprecise "Eskimo" (there are many tribes, and quite diverse languages in this part of Alaska). However, there were some lighter faces represented on the walls as well- leading me to assume that respect for your elders is not culturally exclusive. We played a few tunes, and then sat down with some of the elders for a lunch of cold cuts and lemonade. One older white gentlemen, seated across the table, struck up a conversation with Carol about his vocation- gold miner. I eavesdropped as Carol questioned him about his success at this precarious occupation.

Question: How are you making out?
Answer: Well, last year I panned on the beach for the entire summer, but I didn't really know what I was doing. It was the greatest experience of my life.

Question: What are doing this year?
Answer: I bought a new floating dredge. I'm waiting for it to be delivered on the next barge. I also bought a new dry suit and I'm learning how to fit it properly. As soon as I get the dredge up and running, Then I'll be in business.

Question: How does that dredge thing work? I thought the only "claims free" area was on the beach?
Answer: Well the law states that you can dredge mine from the beach 100 feet out in the water at mean tide level. But I'm planning on keeping my distance well under that 100 feet. There are a lot of people with claims that shoot first and measure later.

Question: Wow, you must have done pretty well last year if you bought a new dredge. They don't come cheap do they?
Answer: I cashed in my IRA. I'm not going to live that long. The doctors tell me I have diabetes.

Question: So you're betting on gold for your retirement?
Answer: It's not about the gold. It's the adventure that I love. Gold is just the reward for the exercise in adventure.

At this point I excused myself, searched for a pencil, and wrote this last comment down so I wouldn't forget it. Something struck me as sad and wonderful about this guy. He knows he is going to die soon. He's chucked the whole idea of retirement and is cashing it all in to pursue a lifestyle he loves. "Gold is just the reward for the exercise in adventure." In my opinion, that's Alaska to a T.

After lunch, we caught a nap and then headed over to the Nome Elementary School for our sound check. The Midnight Sun Folk Festival is different than any festival we've ever played. As the "host band", we were to play a full concert on Friday night, then a second short set on Saturday night amongst a full roster of performances by volunteer musicians from within the community. Our final performance would be an all gospel set scheduled on Sunday evening. Because we had to fly to Alaska, Nate had to borrow basses in each city. Now, in the past, Nate has had to deal with this situation several times with varying results. Thus far in this tour, the loaner basses in the Yukon, Juneau and Anchorage had ranged from very decent to barely playable. So I wasn't that surprised when we were in the middle of a smoking fiddle tune during our first set in Nome on Friday night, and I suddenly noticed there was something sounding very wrong in the bass department. It sounded like Nate had started playing the tune in a different key, and Betse quickly put it out of its misery before we embarrassed ourselves any further. I looked behind me to see Nate examining the neck of his borrowed bass, which now had a huge gap between the body and the neck. The strings had slackened due to sudden release of pressure and Nate looked at me and said, "dude, this bass is done." We took a break to try to figure out what we could do. This was apparently the only acoustic bass in the entire town, and there was a frantic rush to acquire anything else that might work. The patient crowd waited expectantly, and within a half hour, a Fender electric bass and amp were liberated from a local bar a few miles away. Now, this wasn't the first time that Nate has had to use an electric bass (he played an electric after breaking his own bass during the first set at the Winfield festival in 2004). So, without batting an eye, he tuned it up and adapted to it like a champ, and we made it through the rest our set without a hitch.

On Saturday morning, Carol picked us up in the van to participate in the annual Nome Midnight Sun Festival downtown parade. This was Betse's first ever participation in a parade, so she wants to tell that story in another blog. After the parade, we waited around for about an hour for the annual Nome Midnight Sun Festival bank robbery. Apparently, every year there is a bad posse of dudes that, like a foul-smelling wind, blow into town to loot the bank. Luckily the local sheriff (portrayed this day by the dreadlocked owner of the java shack across the street from the bank), foiled the heist and the lucky children of Nome scrambled for a share of the spilled bank booty of hard candy and chewing gum (which was "accidently" dumped into the street during the gunfight). Another hour passed, and we piled back into the van again, to head out to the beach for the annual Nome Midnight Sun Festival polar bear swim. Pretty much the whole town turned out- arriving in various states of undress, and The Wilders fielded a team of two for the event. Nate came to the beach dressed in fashionable red-stripe-on-blue trunks, while Ike arrived in his beautiful tahitian-blue, extra-long surfboard jams. In short, they represented the "host band" fabulously. There was a huge bonfire built on the beach, and everyone huddled next to it, preparing for the 43-degree surf of the Bering Sea that lay just beyond. Then, someone unofficially yelled something, and everyone moved down to the edge of the surf. Then a group yell filled the air, and what seemed to be the entire town of Nome, plunged into the icy water. I stood just out the water, and snapped photos of the ensuing melee. Screams of delight and shock rang out and, as quickly as they had jumped in, the masses ran back up the beach in terror to warm themselves by the fire. I had lost track of Ike and Nate during the initial plunge and, as I turned back toward the fire, I saw them sprinting down the beach for a second dive into the freezing water. Ike dived headfirst into an oncoming wave and then leaped back up like a jack in the box, shaking the water from his beard and screaming in the high pitch of a terrified little girl. He and Nate paused for a moment, whooping and hollering in the water, and then lumbered back up onto dry land to warm themselves by the fire. I snapped a few more photos, and then Ike said to Nate, "come on dude, one more time", and they were off and back in the water again. The cold water must have felt pretty good, because they repeated this process over and over while everyone else watched with amusement by the fire. I lost count after 5 times.

We played our second set on Saturday night, with Nate still on Fender electric bass- and finished the show with a rousing "Amazing Grace" sing-along with many of the performers who had played during the evening. Then it was back to the bunkhouse for a short break, and then we were rushed down to the Bering Sea Bar, to lead the after hours "jam". As you can see, the Nome Midnight Sun Folk Festival really gets their money out of their "host band". I'm not complaining, I mean, how many people get paid to visit Nome, Alaska for crying out loud? But, by the end of the jam, we had been participating in, or observing one event after another for over 15 hours. Regardless of how tired I was though, I still ended up getting into bed just after 4am.

It's almost impossible to describe how weird it is for it to never get dark at night. Alaskan residents basically have the luxury of getting used to it. Each day past the winter solstice, there is more sunlight, and more sunlight, until the summer solstice, when it is all light, all day, AND all night. So, it is a cycle that happens over a long period of time. For us, however, we were used to it getting dark, like, YESTERDAY. The result of this relentless midnight sun on us "lower 48ers", was that our bodies still thought they were supposed to be awake far later than they should have been. Then, after finally crashing, we couldn't sleep late enough to catch up, because it's unnatural to sleep in the daytime. After two weeks in these conditions, we were beyond tired. We were The Zombies, reformed as a bluegrass band. Since I got back home from Alaska, I find myself unable to stand in direct sunlight for very long. And my eyes have become much more sensitive to the sun. Sunglasses have become more than a fashion accessory too, and I recently spent some of my hard earned Alaskan dollars on a pair of good polarized sunglasses to put more of a barrier between me and that blazing orb. It isn't like I despise the sun, I just feel better when its under clouds, or setting, or better yet, SET. This is untrue for Ike, who the lack of darkness affected more than any of us. He has gone on record several times since Alaska, bluntly saying, "I HATE the sun." He now glares back at it in defiance and, once or twice, I think I saw him shaking his fist at it when he didn't know I was watching.

Sunday's schedule was more loose, and, after having breakfast downtown, Carol took Betse and Nate to observe the annual Nome Midnight Sun Festival's river raft race. I decided to stay behind to catch up on some email, and make a few phone calls while Ike did laundry. We reconvened in the late afternoon and enjoyed a meal of muskox stew, moose barbeque and grilled Dolly Varden (a delicious fish reminiscent of trout), before heading back to the elementary school for our gospel performance- which was a wonderful way to finish up the festival. We had been told that the gospel show was to be broadcast on the powerful AM radio station in Nome, and that the signal would be quite audible across the Bering Strait in Russia. Luckily, the radio station had a russian language interpreter on staff, and Betse asked her if she might give out a greeting to our Russian listeners. It was a really cool experience to hear her speaking russian on our microphone- understanding none of it except "The Wilders". We pulled what little energy we had left into the show, and I think the audience (many of whom had not attended any of the other festival events due to religious convictions), really enjoyed it. After the show, we hung out for awhile, said some goodbyes, and then headed back to the bunkhouse to pack our bags for our early flight back home the next morning.

I had already packed my crap earlier in the afternoon, and so I decided to take one of the forest service interns, Monique, up on her offer of a guided midnight bike ride up to Anvil Mountain- which overlooks the entire Nome area, and the Bering Sea from the north. We pedaled out of town for about 5 miles until the steepness of the road forced us to ditch the bikes and walk the rest of the way. Muskox herds were grazing about 200 yards ahead, and we stepped off the road into the low-growing willow bushes to pick the fur that these remarkable animals shed in the summer time. Monique told me that muskox fur has been collected by the natives for thousands of years, and is the lightest and most warm wool on the planet. The herd was just off the road, and we were able to get within about 20 feet of them for a few pictures before moving to a safer distance. Apparently, muskox were hunted to extinction in Alaska until conservationists relocated a few small herds from Siberia to the the Seward Peninsula. The animals have short legs, mountain goat-type curled horns and a powerful and squatty body that looks like an american bison. We left the Muskox to their grazing, and trail-blazed across the tundra toward the summit of Anvil Mountain.

Monique told me that the snow had only melted in the last two weeks, and I was astonished to see the explosion of vegetation under foot. There was a layer of fragile flowers and succulents as far as the eye could see. With so little time to grow, the tundra flowers grow and bloom only a few inches above the thin layer of thawed soil. It was now about 1am, and the twilight made the color of these fragile blooms all the more beautiful. Protected from the wind, we were suddenly assaulted by swarms of mosquitos, and decided to move back to the road for the rest of the hike up. Near the summit of Anvil Mountain, are four monolithic parabolic radar receivers which once functioned as America's first line of nuclear defense during the cold war. If Russia had attempted to launch missiles over the Bering Sea, these receivers would pick them up within seconds, allowing for a potential counter-strike. Monique told me that the two story structures used to be staffed 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and that the crews actually had living quarters inside the radar receivers. As we approached these huge structures, I realized that they were sheathed in rusting corrugated tin. They looked like giant drive-in movie screens, and standing next to them, I felt really, really glad that Russian never launched anything. We walked past the monoliths up a steep outcrop of volcanic rock, and were finally at the summit. It was just after 2am, and the sun was finally setting in the northern sky. I took a few more panoramic pictures, and then we bushwacked back down- stopping again to watch the muskox herd, then grabbing the bikes for the ride back into town. The five miles back were very cold, as the wind was whipping in off the Bering Sea like an icy wall right in our faces. We arrived back at the bunkhouse just before 4am, and the sun was rising back above the horizon as I climbed into bed.

Carol picked us up just a few hours later to take us to the airport. Our flight was scheduled to leave at 10:30am and after boarding, we were flying or in airports for the next 31 hours. I've expended more than enough words here, and I won't bore you with more stories of air travel discomfort. I'll just finish by saying that we were very fortunate to be able to play in Alaska. There are so many more stories to tell. We met so many quirky and cool people. We made a lot of new fans and a lot of new friends. We will definitely be going back. But, I have to say, it felt really good when I looked outside my house in Kansas City, and watched the sun go ALL the way down.

Alaska: Part Four

2006-06-23T16:11:00.000-05:00

We woke up bright and early on Monday morning, and packed our stuff in a shuttle van for the short drive back the Haines, Alaska airport. Our driver was running late, and we held on tight, as he exceeded every posted speed limit in order to get us to our plane on time. He screeched into the airport gate, and pulled the van directly onto the tarmac. We were actually there early, and we joked around with the driver about speeding tickets while we waited for our planes to land. A few minutes passed, and then we heard a familiar buzz from overhead. Soon, two Piper Cubs taxied right up to us, stopping a few feet from the van. We were excited about our second wild ride of the morning, and quickly piled out of the van to load all our crap into the tiny planes. This time, there was no mail delivery, so we all got to ride in the same aircraft. We buckled our seat belts, and soon were off, flying down the runway. I was thrilled to be sitting in the rear left seat, where I hoped to study more glaciers. The skies were absolutely clear, and the flight proved to be scenic beyond belief.

After takeoff, I quickly set about taking pictures of the surrounding mountains. Off to the east, the coastal ranges seemed to go on forever, and below us, I could see a huge cruise boat making it's way up the inner passage. About a half hour into the ride, I noticed our pilot, Chuck, was veering off toward the mountains to the east. Soon we were flying over the Juneau ice sheet-an enormously deep reserve of compressed snow, which feeds most of the glaciers north of Juneau. Previously, we had seen the sheet off in the distance on our flight north to Haines, but now, on the return flight, Chuck was taking us right over it. Suddenly, the high mountain peaks surrounding us on all sides. Ike sat in the copilot's chair, Betse behind him and Nate to her left. I sat behind Nate and, to my right, sat a young man named Jeff. He leaned over to me and shouted over the din of the engines, "I've flown this stretch about 100 times and I've NEVER done this." Jeff told me he is a Sergeant-At-Arms for the Alaska State Legislature in Juneau, but lives in Haines. "This is a total TOURIST flight!" he shouted in my ear with joy. Chuck motioned out the right side of the aircraft, and word was passed back to us that there was a dogsled camp immediately below. I tried to see, but I was on the wrong side of the plane to see it. Chuck suddenly banked hard to the left and pulled a tight 360 degree turn so that we could all get a look. I heard Betse yelp (she hates roller coasters), but we all got a good picture of the camp from our new vantage point. Then Chuck straightened the Cub, and headed right down a deep glacier valley. In a few short and glorious minutes, he shot us out right over the Mendenhall Glacier, which terminates right at the city limits of Juneau. Before we could stop our gasping, he lined up the cub, and brought our plane in for a perfect landing at the airport. We piled out, shook Chuck's hand, and thanked him for the special unannounced tourist excursion.

Our hosts from Juneau, Liz and Greg, were waiting for us inside the airport, and we piled our stuff in the back of a pickup for the ride back into town. The view from the ground was equally beautiful, as we made our way up the channel to the Alaskan Hotel and Bar-our lodging destination for the next two nights. As I said in my previous post, the Alaskan is a historic and aging hotel right in the thick of downtown Juneau. We checked in, lugged our stuff up to our rooms, and then walked to a nearby restaurant for some badly needed breakfast. After eating, we were scheduled to do a radio show, and, since it was a "talk" only appearance, Ike and I agreed to go do the radio show as a duet, to let Nate and Betse catch up on some rest. After the interview, he and I took Liz up on her offer to see the Mendenhall Glacier up close. She stopped off to show us an area where bald eagles are plentiful, and we gawked at our nation's birds as they flew from tree to tree all around us. Then Liz took us on a short hike into a flower filled meadow in hopes of seeing more of the birds, and other possible wildlife. The snow melt from the mountains above us cascaded down the valleys, and we crossed over several small, and completely clear streams as we walked. Liz said, "You know, there's no development between here and the snow above us. There isn't enough wildlife to pollute the streams. This water is completely clean. You can drink it." Ike and I looked at her skeptically as she leaned over one of the creeks and scooped up a handful to her mouth. "Oh, that's sweet!" she said, "You should try it." Now, I was an eagle scout, and Ike was raised in the country, and both of us instinctively know that there is no such thing as drinking water from a stream without vomiting and potentially dying from the experience. But this was Alaska. Ike stepped over to the stream and inspected it closer. " It sure looks clear," he said. Then he looked at me and announced, "I'm scared, but what the hell?" He took a handful and raised it to his mouth. "That's good." he said. I figured I better give it a try too. That way, if there was going to be sickness and suffering, at least we would have each other to thank, blame, and hang out with at the hospital. I leaned over and cupped my hand, and, lifting it to my mouth, let the ice cold water pool at the back of my throat. It tasted fresh and sweet as I let it slide down. Ike looked at the stream and pointed out some tiny fish swimming in the area where we had quenched our thirsts. "Are those minnows, Liz?" he asked. She answered,"No, those are salmon fry. They were just born, and are trying to find their way down this stream and out to the ocean." I looked at the tiny fish and imagined what they would look like about 20 pounds heavier- fighting their way back up this exact stream to spawn in about 4 years. This was indeed a strange and wonderful place.

We hiked back to the car and drove a few more miles out to Mendenhall Glacier Park. Tourist busses and cars filled the parking lot, and Liz ( a long term resident of Juneau) was clearly upset by the number of visitors. "I hate the tourist season," she said as we walked through the crowd, "In the winter, we have this place all to ourselves," Ike and I sort of chuckled at this, since we had just played in Branson, Missouri a few weeks before. This was the kind of crowd you might find in Branson, during the off season, on a rainy day, with half the attractions closed and a good football game on TV. However, as is the case at most state parks, the visitors were content to cluster at the first available scenic overlook, taking a few pictures, before heading to the snack bar for some calories and souvenirs. Liz led us down a trail, and soon we left the crowds far behind. Up ahead, the face of the glacier loomed large over a shallow outlet pool of melted ice. It was a nice hot day (unusual for Juneau- which has over 200 rain days a year), and the locals were basking in the sun, testing their new swimsuits in the frigid water. The sun had heated some of the shallower spots, and, in those areas, kids laughed and splashed while their parents soaked up the sun's rays on the banks. We continued on, finally stopping where a gigantic waterfall of snow melt from the mountains above poured into the pool just a few yards from the glacier's terminus. The air next to the falls was easily 20 degrees cooler, and Ike just stood there gazing up the falls while I scurried around taking pictures. It was quite an experience. After a half hour or so, Ike and Liz headed back toward the car, while I reluctantly followed behind examining some glacially-smoothed rocks on my way. We stopped for some water at a grocery store (the sanitized and bottled variety), and arrived back at the Alaskan Hotel with enough time to catch some rest before our sound check.

That night, we played a couple of high impact sets in the Alaskan Hotel Bar in trade for our haunted hotel rooms. The sound was horrible, but none of the crowd of Juneau locals seemed to mind, as they danced and screamed and made us feel quite welcome. When I returned to my room around 2am, light was still pouring through my window as I finally lay down and drifted off to sleep with thoughts of glaciers, ghosts and this strange state of Alaska wobbling around in my head.

Alaska: Part Three

2006-06-15T18:05:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here in my room in the Alaskan Hotel and Bar in downtown Juneau. I have two windows, one of which looks out at a concrete wall, the other into a 8'x8' ventilation chamber. If I open the window facing the chamber, I can talk to Betse, who has a window 90 degrees to my left, or Ike and Nate, who have a window underneath Betse's one floor down. We have lousy cell phone service here in Juneau, so this is a welcome development in communications. My room is musty with stale cigarette smoke and smells like dirty socks. Of course, the damp socks I hung to dry in the window might be coloring that aroma. This old, old hotel has a lot of history, and a reputation for being haunted. According to local lore, a woman was murdered one night in one of the rooms. She, and a few other of her ghosts friends, are said to regularly show up uninvited in various places throughout the hotel. I am staying in room 318, which is historically supposed to be one of the most "active". I was told by the guy at the front desk, that weird stuff most recently happened just down the hall in 311. Apparently, a woman who was staying in that room found a beer in her refrigerator after checking in. Being a teetotaler, she took it out in the hallway and threw it in the trash. When she returned to her room later in the day, the beer had found it's way back in the fridge. The clerk told me that she then quickly repacked her luggage, demanded a refund, and checked out in a hurry. I decided to test this phenomena, and put a beer of my own in the fridge when I arrived. With any luck, the poltergeists will recognize a kindred spirit, and a put some more in there while I'm away. We are staying here for the next two nights. By the time we check out on Wednesday, I'm hoping I'll have at least a six pack.

Everyone is trying to recover from our experience at the Klaune Mountain Bluegrass Festival. My last post left y'all at the city limits of Haines Junction, Yukon Territory, Canada. Without going into a play-by-play of the entire weekend, I will suffice it to say that we made an serious impact on the Yukoners, and the Yukoners made an serious impact on us. It was one of those places where the spectacular scenery was only eclipsed by the warmth and kindness of the people who live in it. Like all great festivals, Kluane Mountain is staffed completely by volunteers, and our hosts outdid themselves to make us feel comfortable in their home. We were fed, chauffeured around, and generally treated like 3 kings and a queen for the entire weekend. This was the festival's fourth year and, although it is primarily a BLUEGRASS (emphasis intended) festival, it's audience of about 250 showed this old timey honky tonk band that they appreciate a Wilder kind of music. Although we were seriously sleep deprived, we gave the folks our best and they ate it up. We played a concert on Friday night, and then another Saturday afternoon. I was told by one of the volunteers that the standing ovations we received after both shows were the first in Kluane Mountain's short history. On Saturday night (NIGHT???- the sun was still on the horizon at midnight), we attracted a packed house in the old community center as the last dance band of the evening. Anyone who was able to squeeze into the 90+ degree metal building was treated to the sight of a pulsating frenzy of two steppers, cloggers, and free form dancers jumping up and down at the front of the stage as we rocked, sweated, and rocked some more. Outside the mosquitos hung thickly in the air, waiting patiently for the overheated to come to the dinner table.

Sunday morning (MORNING???- the sun came blazing up above the horizon around 4am), we played an unamplified set in the Haines Junction log cabin church. The church was packed to it's log rafters, and it felt really good, for once, to be free of the microphones. We continued the gospel theme at our final show, back on the main stage, with at spirited version of "My Times Done Come" by the Golden Gate Gospel Quartet.

After the finale (featuring all the members of the bands who performed throughout the weekend), we packed up our crap and stuffed all our luggage into a van, a Subaru Forester and a pickup truck with a camper shell, for the three-hour ride back to the U.S. 19 people from the three American bands, (Alecia Nugent, The Steep Canyon Rangers, and The Wilders) had to share the cramped space in the vehicles. Ike and I knew it was a going to be uncomfortable, so we jumped into the pickup truck with Graham from Steep Canyon. We enjoyed the scenery and listened to our driver, Harvey, tell us stories about the freezing cold winters in the Yukon. He told us that Yukoners always try to park their cars so they don't have to turn the steering wheel immediately when they pull out. " At 60 below celsius, (-140 fahrenheit), if you turn the wheel to fast, eh?", he explained in a classic Canadian accent, "you'll rip out your CV boots, and then you won't be steering anywhere eh?" We rode on, and suddenly the van in front of us pulled over. Multiple band members spilled out, and I saw a short line of women forming outside the outhouse just a few yards from where we pulled over. Likewise, the men streamed into the surrounding brush, each apparently taking in the scenery for a few moments before heading back to their respective vehicles. Graham, Ike, and I got back into Harvey's truck and, as he fired up the engine, I saw Nate walking towards us from the big van. He came to the window and said, "hey, do y'all have any room for me in there?" We all shook our heads no and hoped for the best. "Come on!" he said. " I can't GO BACK in that VAN." Hey pleaded, "They've been playing BLUEGRASS the whole way, I'm SICK of bluegrass. I want to hear some AC/DC!!!" There was only a small area between Ike and Graham in the back seat of the pickup, and we all said in unison, "sorry dude, no way." Nate's head drooped, and he shuffled back toward the van. He was just a few yards away from it, when it suddenly pulled back out onto the highway leaving him in a cloud of gravel dust. He turned around and we knew our comfort level had just taken a turn for the worse. Ike cursed him from the back seat, "you son of b$@&h!, you PLANNED that!"

Nate climbed into the center seat, and after defending himself for a few minutes, he pulled out his cd, and we settled back in for the ride. AC/DC blared from the speakers, and we all had to yell for our conversations to be audible over the music. Although we were cramped, Nate's arrival brought with it an energy that was lacking before. Everyone in the van was over-tired, and the small talk and dreamy scenery had lulled us all into a state of near unconsciousness. Now, with Nate squeezed into the mix, we all perked up for the rest of the trip, laughing all the way. We arrived back in Haines, Alaska about 11pm. Everybody grabbed their gear, and we bid our Yukon hosts farewell. George, our chauffeur for the festival, had a few tears running down his cheek when he hugged Betse goodbye. Everyone shook hands and we all agreed that we really need to do it again next year.

Alaska: Part Two

2006-06-10T14:34:00.000-05:00

Air travel is both amazing and exhausting. At 6:20am central time, we left Kansas City for our first short flight to Chicago. After a two hour layover, we boarded another jet for the 4 hour flight to Seattle. Three hours later, we were in the air again, stopping at the entrance of the Alaskan inner passage in Ketchikan. Air commuters got off, then more came on, and then we were up again- only to land again a half hour later in Sitka. More people got off, and then more came on, and then then we were in the air again for another 25 minutes. The view out the window was stunning with endless miles of snowy peaks to our right, and the Alaskan inner passage below. To our left, over the peaks obscuring our view, the Pacific Ocean lay beyond. We finally touched down around 7:30pm in Juneau. That's 7:30pm ALASKAN time (which is a difference of 3 hours). From the time we boarded the first plane, until the time we walked off the aircraft in Juneau, we were in the air or in airports for over 15 hours. We walked up the skyway and everyone was sore and tired as we grabbed our gear off the conveyor belt and loaded it into a waiting van for the short ride to the Juneau Super 8 Motel. It was now after 8pm, but still very sunny. We were told by the driver that the sun usually sets in Juneau this time of the year around 11:30pm- only to rise back up again at 2:30am. I barricaded the window of our room with the comforter off my bed, drank a couple of beers and shared a sandwich with Nate before collapsing into unconsciousness. I had been awake for almost 24 hours straight. Although I immediately fell asleep, it seemed like only a few minutes before Nate's alarm went off, and we were up again, reloading our bags and heading back to the airport for our flight to Haines, Alaska.

When we arrived back at the Juneau International Airport, Nate pointed out the window to the tarmac where our next plane awaited us. It was a 6-seat Piper Cub. Our luggage took up the entire rear, and the back two seats of the aircraft. A Piper Cub is the equivalent of a Volkswagon Bug with wings. Its the type of plane I've seen hundreds of times on TV, but never dreamed I would actually climb into. Due to the lack of space, Ike volunteered to wait behind and take a second Cub, who's cargo consisted of the pilot, our venerable bearded band leader, and the town of Haines' daily mail delivery. We were taken out onto the tarmac by our pilot, Jody, and after securing us in our seats, this friendly veteran flyer put us at ease immediately with a few jokes regarding his impending license "reinstatement" and a few instructions on the safety features of the aircraft. Without much more preparation, the bug with wings was speeding down the runway. Just before we ran out of pavement, Jody pulled back on the controls and we lifted up into the sky. Almost immediately, I was struck not by fear, but by awe. I've always been a reluctant flyer and consider air travel a claustrophobic experience endured only out of necessity. But this was something very different. Nate and I sat in the back, me behind Jody, and Nate behind our acting co-pilot, Betse. As we climbed above the city of Juneau, we were treated to a 260 degree close-up view of the surrounding mountains and inner passage below.

Jody pointed out (unnecissarily) some sights of particular interest, and we shouted our approval over the roar of the Piper's engine. Regular readers of this blog know that I am the ultimate armchair geology geek. So you can imagine my delight as I drank in the scenery all around me. Snow-covered 10,000 -15,000 foot peaks stretched to the east as far as I could see. Intermittently as we flew, a giant glacier field would appear and, although I had studied them in college, I was unprepared to see the real thing from such an advantageous vantage point. Cody told us that these glaciers were all connected to the gigantic Juneau ice sheet, and had been scouring these mountain valleys for over 5000 years- since before the recession of the last ice age. He also pointed out that the ice was thousands of feet thick toward the center, and moving at a rate between 20 and 100 feet per day. From above, the ice appeared an intense florescent blue in places, and stripes of mountain gravel scrapings were visible in parallel bands indicating both their direction of movement, and astonishingly efficient and powerful erosional power. At one point in my revery, I looked over at Nate and said, "Dude, I am SO glad I quit my job!"

The flight was over way too soon, and as we slowed and approached the Haynes, Alaska airstrip, Jody set our bug down as easy as pulling into a parking lot. The runway was situated right next to an extremely large drainage of shallow water to our left, and, as we slowed, I spotted a bald eagle resting on a tree stump 100 yards away. Apparently, Haines has one of the largest populations of bald eagles anywhere in the world, and is literally overrun with them in the fall. Once we got all our junk out of his plane, we posed for a few pictures with our pilot, and gave Jody a copy of "Throw Down" so he could hear what we do for a living. A few minutes later, our hosts from the Yukon Territory pulled up in two vans. After introductions were made, we loaded our stuff up for the drive across the Canadian border to Haines Junction. Ike's plane landed soon after, and we all jumped into the vans for a trip into town for a delicious meal of salmon eggs benedict. We stuffed ourselves silly, and then it was off to the minivan with our driver/tour guide, Gordon.

After crossing the Canadian border, we began to climb in altitude, stopping at the summit of a mountain pass for a snowball fight and a few pictures. Gordon stopped a few more times on the way- one for a photo opportunity at the Yukon border, and again, at a beautiful park called Million Dollar Falls. We stretched our legs with a short trail walk, and, as we neared our destination, the sound of the falls grew louder and louder with each step. The snow in the peaks all around us was rapidly melting in the June sun, and gravity dictated that it would flow downhill- seeking the shortest path to the river below. In the case of Million Dollar Falls, that path was through a narrow canyon. We walked down a wooden staircase and felt the mist from the falls moistening the air just before seeing water, turbulently rushing down the canyon at a velocity that was hard to imagine without seeing it for ourselves. We paused for a few more pictures, and then walked back up to the parking area where we shared a local Yukon beer before climbing back into the van. Rarely do have the luxury of this kind of travel, and we relished the opportunity to actually see the sights of the country as we moved through it. Another hour or so passed before we reached the city limits of Haines Junction. It was about 2pm, and, after almost two days of travel, and only a few precious hours of rest, we had finally arrived at our first festival destination of the tour.

Alaska: Part One

2006-06-09T01:11:00.000-05:00

I am trapped in a flooded parking garage fighting to get to the van. The water is up to my knees and the current keeps making me slip and fall. My boots are soaked and they squirt out water as I run. I'm late. Impossibly late. And if I don't get to the van soon, we will miss our flight. I've got to get to the van and pick up the rest of the band so we can get to the airport...
I wake up in a panic. Its 2:02am. I've been dreaming.

The alarm is set for 3:00am, but there is no use in trying to go back to sleep now. I switch off the alarm, get up, turn on a light and get dressed. I brush my teeth, then pack the brush away in my suitcase. I zip it up and drag it downstairs clunking over each step- too tired to pick the damn thing up all the way. My drowsy elderly cat awaits me at the bottom of the steps, confused by the schedule change, but interested in it's possibilities. I put on some coffee and check email for any developments that might have occurred in the few hours I slept. There is nothing. Then I go outside and back the van into the driveway. I pack the instruments first, then the behemoth case of cds, and finally, my own overstuffed suitcase. I go back inside, give the cat a very, very early breakfast and shut out the lights.

Its now 3:30am, and as I pull out of the driveway, I call Ike to make sure he's up. He reports that he is up physically, but not mentally. I notice there's not much traffic at this time of the day as I make my way through the darkness to his apartment. I call him when I arrive, and quite a little bit of time passes before I finally see him. When he comes out, I'm surprised at the lightness of his load. Ike comes from the "I'll do laundry on the trip" school. With only a two week tour however, I have chosen to take the alternative approach- packing, no, STUFFING my suitcase as full of clothes as possible. Of course, three suits, 9 dress shirts and a pair of cowboy boots only complicates the matter. Ike gets in and I start off to pick up Betse. No wait, Ike has forgotten to pack his dress shirts. I throw it in reverse and he runs back upstairs. He returns with multiple shirts on hangers and says, "I don't know WHERE these are going to go." I inquire as to the stuffing possibilities in his luggage, but he too, has overcrammed his smaller bag to the limit. His solution is to go back and get a smaller computer bag that he can pack full of shirts, and carry on to the flight as a "personal item".

Its just a few blocks to Betse's. She is waiting outside with bags and fiddle ready to go. Like me, Betse is also of the "cram it full, and then cram some more" school. She loads it in and we head out onto the highway to the airport. On the way, Ike carefully rolls his dress shirts and places them in his bag while I fret and worry to no one in particular about the cd suitcase. I'm afraid it is overweight. The night before, I had looked up weight allowances on the airline's website, and the max they allow for a checked bag is 100 pounds. On the way, we stop by and pick up my dad, who will be baby sitting the Brown Clown while we are away. I drive to the airport and park outside the terminal. A Sky Cap is on hand to receive our bags. I tell him, "watch out for this one, it's definitely overweight". He grins at me and yanks it up on the scale. I hold my breath until he says, "Ok, yeah, it will check. You'll have to pay extra, but it will check alright." I exhale and look at the scale. It reads 99.5 pounds.

It is now 5:30am, and we are on our way to Alaska.

Ah, Louisiana!

2006-05-25T11:29:00.000-05:00

As you know, we worked our collective butts off playing Merlefest and then trucking down to Lafayette for two big fests in only one weekend. Not something I'd recommend, but we managed to have a terrific time anyway!

Wish I'd taken pics at the festivals, but just imagine us playing 3 shows on Merlefest on Friday, thus building up 3 layers of sweat (we had a great time, but too short!), and then jumping in the Brown Clown for 16 hours of close personal Wilders time. We had just enough time to roll in to Lafayette, check in to the hotel, nap for an hour, SHOWER, and then run to the Festival International to play our first set. That set was delayed by rain... we waited on stage (one of those huge sound stages they move in for an event, which had a movable cover, moved down to keep the rain from coming in. A few stauch fans waited out the storm under rain parkas and battered umbrellas. Then the staff said, "okay, you guys can play now", so that's what we did. And a few hundred Louisianans showed up! They must have been hiding under various shelters downtown.

Thank goodness for the tough spirits of these folks! I really believe if we'd done the show almost any other place, we would have only had a few waterlogged fans. In Louisiana, the rain didn't stop these folks from having a good time.

The next day was a weather opposite. Sunny, warm (no, it actually got hot), and festive. We started the day at a funky place near the fest, where our friends Curt & Cloud (who live in Portland, but used to live in Asheville for a while), and Lindsey and Tim (who live in Asheville) had a brunch-time gig. They played killer old time fiddle tunes and some songs.

At the fest itself, we played a different stage, following a Dewey Balfa tribute set that featured our friend, hero, and producer Dirk Powell, and some of his Balfa Toujours bandmates, and other cajun musicians of the highest order. Next you can imagine Dirk joining us on stage during our set, for some fine fiddling (on Jenny on the Railroad, of course!) and fierce accordion-ing (can you say Honky Tonk Habit? Not like Dirk can!)... the crowd was more than wild that day and we all felt no question that the trials of our overnight trip were more than worth it.

Our friends The Red Stick Ramblers were part of an after-fest party at the Blue Moon Saloon (for you history buffs, that was the location of my birthday show in 2005, where we played following our week of recording at Dirk's)... it was a huge party and man, those Ramblers are awesome. I was sad that we missed the set from the Pine Leaf Boys, though, who are part of this huge revival of cajun & creole music taking place in Lafayette. It's one of the most vibrant music scenes I've ever witnessed in our travels. Hey, check out these bands:

Red Stick Ramblers
Don't be fooled by their seeming apathetic or angry looks!

Pine Leaf Boys
Don't be fooled by their seeming innocent or happy looks!

I only wish we'd been there longer... if it weren't for the extreme heat/humidity of the place, I could almost say I'd want to live down there. A place can be beautiful, and this one is, but it's also the people that make the place, and they really are beautiful.

Speaking of beautiful, here are some pics of our day at the swamp (The Atchafalaya Basin, to be specific, but don't ask me more because I don't remember)... this was Monday after the festival, and it was a rare day of respite for us. Us Wilders rarely rest!

Is this what you thought a swamp looked like?

Our most excellent and generous tour guide, D.D. Fluke

There are a lot of folks living right by, or on, the swamp

Cypress trees and swamp grass

D.D. says the gators won't bother you, but I'm still not going swimming here!

Perhaps the best part of the swamp tour was that after a while, I got to drive the boat! Yes, I am an excellent driver! Thanks to my Dad, I also have excellent sea legs. Helms-a-lee!

Miss us at Merlefest?

2006-05-09T12:13:00.000-05:00

Hey Folks,
Just a quick post to let you know that you can now purchase a recording of our main stage set at Merlefest-2006. The price for an MP3 download is $10.95. You can also purchase a cd for $17.95. Here's the link.

http://flink.livedownloads.com/show.asp?show=772#

If you are broke, you can listen to two more new live shows for free on our "Listen" page at:

LISTEN HERE

Enjoy!
brotherphil

Nashville is Always Darkest Before the Dawn...

2006-04-25T10:08:00.000-05:00

Sunday, April 23, 2006
I'm sitting in a humid Motel 6 in Goodlettesville, TN trying to dust off the cobwebs that generally accompany only a few hours of sleep. You see, we played last night at the stalwart mecca of Nashville bluegrass, The Station Inn. It was our sophomore appearance at this amazing little road house where everybody who was, or is anybody in this music has played. And you know what folks? We did pretty dang good. There was no opening band, but people started to hoot and holler as soon as we came onstage. Even though we've been on a break for the last month, from the get-go, everything still seemed to be in fine working order. Ike started the crowd out with some old favorites, followed by some obscure relics from his country archive. Betse fiddled her fingers off for the audience, breaking bow hairs and dancing a hole in the carpet. And throughout the set, Ike snuck in a few of our original tunes while the crowd responded with swells of appreciation.

We were happy to see a few familiar hometown faces in the crowd which helped immensely. Standing in the back, like a Nicaraguan death squad, was Outlaw Jim, and his band, The Whiskey Benders. Jim Eaton, the leader of the bunch, is a tall drink of water, and with his black cowboy hat on, he cut a menacing silhouette in the dim light at the back of the bar. Although you wouldn't want to mess with him, the truth is that Jim is one of the nicest guys you'd ever want to meet, and it was great seeing him back there. Besides, I knew he would be on our side if any trouble broke out.

Jim is originally from Kansas City, but a few years back, he made the move to Music City to try his hand at breaking into the country music business. Check him out at http://www.myspace.com/outlawjimandthewhiskeybenders.

Sitting a few tables closer to us was Nate's old band mate, Matt Brahl and his lovely wife Amy. The Wilders played for Matt and Amy's wedding reception about 6 summers ago. Coincidentally, they were in Nashville for another wedding and saw us listed in the local paper. It was great to see them sitting out there grinning at us the way only old friends can.

All in all, it was a fine evening. We made a little money, sold a few cd's and, I think, we sent some new Wilders fans out into the Nashville night.

After the gig, we parked the van down down near lower Broadway where country music history still hangs in the air like smoke from a hundred thousand cigarettes. Outlaw Jim and The Whiskey Benders were playing at the Layla's Bluegrass Inn- a stinky, smoky, honky tonk played on multiple occasions by The Wilders ourselves in past trips to Nashville. It was after midnight, and the on-street crowd was thick with scenesters, hipsters, drunks and tourists. Rather than try to elbow our way in the front door, we decided to go around back and use the secret entrance where all the old country stars playing the Opry on Saturday night would sneak across the ally from the Ryman Auditorium for a quick drink between sets.

Jim and company were onstage tearing it up. Although the crowd had thinned a bit due to the lateness of the evening, Jim had the dancers in the front of the stage wound up like yo-yo's taking requests and grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary. Matt and Amy were sitting in the back too, and we had a great time catching up and hooting, hollering, and goading Jim into playing our favorites. Nearing the end of the night, Jim and the Benders cut into "Amos Moses" by Jerry Reed, and Ike and I fell out of our chairs.

I guess we were just wound up, because when 2am came and closed down the Bluegrass Inn, we all jumped in the van and headed up the highway for an after party at Jim's house in northern Nashville. Jim's got a music room filled with instruments and soon Nate had strapped on a Fender electric bass and was playing some serious funk grooves. Betse followed suit, grabbing up a telecaster and plugged in. Soon there was a full scale acoustic/electric late night garbage jam in the works. It was a rattle-trap affair, but it felt good to let loose. Before long, I looked at the clock and realized it was after 5am. Ike had already ditched the set to sleep in the van, so I went back inside to scrape everybody else up and out and back in the van to head back to the motel. As I was driving, the sky was lit ever so slightly by the soon-to-arrive sun. I figured if we hurried, we would get to sleep before it peaked its head over the eastern horizon.

50 comment limit reached! Let's talk about THIS for awhile...

2006-04-05T09:01:00.000-05:00

gretel
Originally uploaded by brotherphilwilder.

Greetings from...

2006-03-14T15:15:00.000-06:00

I bring you a few photos to satisfy your visual curiosities!

Foghorn Stringband
These guys look like they're working hard. And they are, even though they sit. I am now a fan of them sitting to play, though they do great when they stand up with us for show finales. What you don't see in a Foghorn pic is how much fun they are really having. Sometimes it's verbal fun at our expense... but we always get them back.

Ike and Nate taking a moment while we wait
We hit a major road block on the only road to Bakersfield.... at least, I think it was on the way to Bakersfield. It was somewhere in California. There was a wreck a few miles ahead on this 2 lane highway and we lucked out to get stopped right by a big dune, so we could see for miles around us. Note the jug of water... we stay hydrated on the road!

Keep your eyes on the road...
Note Phil's good posture while driving us through the Cascades. What you can't see is how much he looks like Hunter S. Thompson in those shades.

Why am I screaming?
I just can't believe how beautiful the Cascades are... my mind is overwrought with such glory.

See what I mean?
Ah, to live near these would be to live near heaven.

Bighorn Sheep, Jackson Hole, WY
These two were hanging out on the road in the preserve... a momma and kid, we believe. Both ewes, so the bighorns aren't all that big. By the time we drove past, they were headed back up the cliff. I asked them to please turn around one more time. The kid, ever curious, obliged.

You asked for it!
You wanted to see wrestlers... you sure about that? This was at our final show of the tour, in Denver, backstage (that is NOT the bathroom we used!)... the plan was to surprise Sweet Sunny South with a dance session on their last song, but the last song wasn't the right thing for dancing, so it was posponed until our finale with them. The guys left the stage and we played on, until they came out to wow the small but enthusiastic crowd with their unique moves.

So... I'll try to do this more often. I'm always saying that, aren't I? Well, we take what we can get sometimes! I'm actually all about that concept right now. It seems to be working pretty good for me.

Reader's Digest Condensed Western Tour

2006-03-09T08:42:00.000-06:00

Ok folks, I got home. read your comments and realized that I haven't posted squat this year. So, in a herculean effort which started at 4am this morning, I give you the whole tour summed up in one huge blog entry. Hopefully, you will be able to chew on this one for awhile...
p

Weds. 2/1- Left KC and drove to Amarillo, TX. First Motel 6 night of the tour.

Thurs. 2/2- Drove all day. Stopped in Flagstaff, AZ for Mexican food. Found $162 in cash in the parking lot. Bought band mates dinner. Slept in Kingman, AZ at Motel 6.

Fri. 2/3- Crossed the Colorado River and headed out across the spectacular Mojave Desert. Stopped in Barstow, CA at a roadside bar to pay tribute to our pal, Rex Hobart's great country tune, "Barstow Barstool". Arrived in Bakersfield, CA early enough to get a good night's sleep.

Sat. 2/4- Played at the first annual "Supergrass Festival" in Bakersfield. It was a big hotel festival with lots of bluegrass' biggest guns. Got to spend a little time catching up with our old friends, Cherryholmes. They are stars now. We are not.

Sun. 2/5- Completed our "Supergrass" obligations in time to grab beer and pizza for the "Super" Bowl. Later, set up Nate's portable digital multitrack machine and recorded "Give me What you Got"- an impromptu bass-heavy blues tune with improvised lyrics and searing lead vocal courtesy of B.

Mon. 2/6- Packed up and went to the Bakersfield Skatepark. Then the band splintered. Nate took off to LA with his old snowboarding pal, John, and the rest of us drove northwest, up the San Joaquin Valley, toward the coast. While in Bakersfield, we did not meet Buck Owens. While in Bakersfield, we did not make much of an effort to meet Buck Owens. When we left Bakersfield, we were very bummed to not have met Buck Owens. At dusk, Ike informs me that we are driving on "James Dean Memorial Highway" - the stretch of highway that James Dean died on at a over 100 mph. Arrived and checked into a Motel 6 in Monterey, CA. Ike has a sore throat and is getting sick.

Tues. 2/7- Woke up early and investigated skateparks online. Found a nice one in Marina, CA, just up the road. Got Betse to go with me. Had breakfast burritos and then came back to pick up Ike. Went downtown to check out Cannery Row. It was full of souvenir stands and only vaguely smelled of sardines. I would have liked to have seen it in Steinbeck's day. At dusk, had a few beers at Segovia's- a nice, clean, warmly-lit place where you can gamble with the bartender for your drinks. Double-or-nothing. I didn't see him lose once. Retired back at the 6 for another night.

Weds. 2/8- Drove north to Santa Cruz, CA. Around lunch, the three of us played a few tunes on a local radio show. Later, we reunited with Nate, and played a show with The Stairwell Sisters at Don Quixote's International Music Club in Felton, CA. I tried to get into it, but the Grammy's were on in the bar next door and I couldn't help watching it through the glass on the big screen while we played. Crashed for the night at our friends, Joe and Debbie's sampling Joe's delicious home-brewed beer.

Thurs. 2/9- Woke up, did some laundry, then drove back down to Monterey to play a co-bill with progressive acoustic jazz upstarts, Old School Freight Train, at a nice little listening room called Monterey Live. Apparently, few Monterey locals were excited enough about this amazingly weird combination to attend. Humbled, we drove back up to Santa Cruz to stay another comfortable night at Joe and Deb's.

Fri. 2/10- Packed our stuff and took an hour-long hike into the redwoods with Joe. Then, said goodbye to our friends, and drove north to Berkeley to play The San Francisco Old Time and Bluegrass Festival. This festival takes place all over the bay area, and our gig was at a seedy bar called The Starry Plough. Along with The Stairwell Sisters, we shared the bill with (the magnificent) Squirrily String Band. As the night progressed, more and more people kept arriving until it was impossible to walk without scrubbing shoulders with the crowd. We made the most of it and did our rock and roll thing to the boozy elation of everyone. Then we crashed at a cheap motel for too little sleep.

Sat. 2/11- Said our goodbyes to the bay area, and headed north again for a couple of days of R&R at my old friend, Lush's, house in Arcata, CA. Once we cleared Santa Cruz, the stress of the first week of tour melted away into the amazing landscape of craggy mountains and giant redwoods.

Sun. 2/12- Woke up early and grabbed my skateboard and pads for a try at the Arcata skatepark. Didn't break anything and, once properly fatigued, I went back to Lush's to prepare a gigantic breakfast for my still sleeping housemates. After eating, Lush took us a few miles up the road to Trinidad State Beach where we hiked for hours along the massive redwoods and crashing rocky surf. The experience was exhilarating. Later that evening, we pulled out the instruments and practiced some new tunes while Lush and her housemates eavesdropped on our process.

Mon. 2/13- Got up and, again, hit the Arcata skatepark. Then we packed our crap back into the van, said goodbye to Lush, and set out for another long drive north to Ashland, OR. There, we played a concert at another nice listening room called Mojo Rising. The crowd was very receptive and we were treated like royalty from the get go. It was a nice way to rejoin the tour.

Tues. 2/14- Got up early for the third day in a row and wandered around downtown Ashland until I found the best skatepark yet on the tour. The cool features of this park allowed me to try some stuff that I had never been able to do before. I had so much fun that I let myself go beyond my usual fatigue point- only stopping when I nearly broke my ankle. Then it was back to the hotel to grab everybody up and head north to Eugene, OR, where we were reunited with Foghorn Stringband . All of us were very happy to see our old tour pals again, but I had now caught Ike's cold, and unfortunately, didn't get to hang with them- choosing to go to bed immediately after our show. It was Nate's 30th birthday.

Weds. 2/15- Grabbed smoothies and breakfast burritos and headed to Portland. My cold was full blown by this time and I recall very little of this day.

Thurs. 2/16- Played at the Doug Fir Lounge with Foghorn in downtown Portland. This club was SO weird. It reminded me of David Lynch's old TV series "Twin Peaks" . All night, I kept expecting the log lady to come through the door.

Fri. 2/17- Drove north to Seattle where the band dropped me off at the SeaTac airport. My wife, Kim, had arrived via a layover in Denver, and we were very, very glad to see each other for the first time in weeks at baggage claim C. We grabbed a rental car, and headed to the Tractor Tavern in midtown Seattle for the sound check. We played yet another great show with Foghorn and, at the end, resurrected the two-bands-are-greater-than-the-sum-of-their-parts paradigm that had been perfected on our prior January tour.

Sat. 2/18- Kim and I took our rental car north, across the border, into Vancouver, B.C. There, we rejoined with the rest of The Wilders and Foghorn to play a final co-bill at St. John's Hall. Foghorn rocked it hard and gave us a run for our money. After the show, we hung out with the guys and tried to find a way to say goodbye. It was bittersweet.

Sun. 2/19- Thurs. 2/23- Kim and I took a vacation in Victoria, B.C.. Nate and Ike chose to hang out with friends in Victoria as well. Betse went back to Portland and spent the week adding fiddle tracks to Caleb Klauder's new solo project. It was a nice break.

Fri. 2/24- Sun. 2/26- Wintergrass Festival in Tacoma, WA. This was our sophomore effort at Wintergrass, and the buzz we stirred last year definitely was roaring when we hit our first show. People actually started applauding as we were adjusting the angle of our microphones before we were even introduced. That's Winfield type enthusiasm, and we used it to our advantage throughout the weekend. After a week off, I was so proud of my band-mates as I watched them kill each and every show. This festival is one of the biggest on our calendar and it was great to play it in top form. Oh yeah, AND we got to meet John Paul Jones from Led Zeppelin. SWEET!

Mon. 2/27- Woke up, shrugged off the intensity, lack of sleep and general insanity of Wintergrass, and loaded the van to leave the Northwest for good. Drove all dang day and stopped for the night in Pendleton, OR at yet another Motel 6.

Tues. 2/28- Drove all day with the hope of landing a day early in Jackson, WY. A severe snowstorm had other plans, however, and we were only able to get to Idaho Falls, ID before aborting and 6-ing it for another night.

Weds. 3/1- Slept late and waited for the highway crews to plough the pass before heading over the Tetons to Jackson. We arrived safely in the early afternoon at the home of our friends, Pete and Ann Sibley. They had arranged for a great concert at the Off Square Theater in downtown Jackson. Nate and Ike went to a motel to rest, and I took a nap at Pete and Ann's while Betse went with the Sibleys for a walk in the elk preserve just outside town. Pete and Ann are a great musical duet and they opened the show to the applause of the Jackson locals who absolutely love their home town heroes. The place was packed, and we played another quality show to the very attentive audience. For an encore, Pete and Ann joined us onstage along with Thomas Sneed, from the Reeltime Travelers, and Ben Winship from Kane's River. It was an ubber jam that made everybody woozy, onstage and off .

Thurs. 3/2- Had breakfast with Pete and Ann, and then went up to the elk preserve before heading out of Jackson. There were thousands of elk in the distance and we spotted a few bighorn sheep climbing around on the craggy hills. Just as we were pulling out, Ike spotted a bald eagle perched on a high cliff and slammed on the brakes. "i've never seen a bald eagle before." he exclaimed as he jumped out of the driver's seat. Luckily, Nate had brought a pair of binoculars and we all shared a patriotic moment watching the regal bird survey the valley from above. The elk preserve put a dent in our time management, however, and we quickly realized that we were badly behind schedule. Due to the combination of snow, ice and closed mountain passes, we were forced to drive a circuitous route to get to our next stop, Paonia, Colorado, by driving from Jackson, Wyoming, southwest to Salt Lake City, Utah. If you pull out your map, you'll see that this is like driving to from Kansas City, to Wichita, Kansas via Lincoln, Nebraska. Ike drove us from Jackson to Salt Lake and then Betse took us over the Wasatch range and down into Grand Junction, CO. On the way, we stopped to pee at a Taco Bell in Price, Utah. It was nearly closing time and, for some god-awful reason, Ike and I decided to get something to eat. The place was nearly empty except for a few scrubby teens in the corner. The guy at the counter asked if we were a rock and roll band and Ike said, "yes, we rock". He then looked over at the kids in the corner and asked, "hey, you guys are musicians too right?". They muttered something about playing around a little and Ike cut them off. "Yeah, I knew it, you're wearing scrubby clothes, you're broke and your hanging out at Taco Bell, you're definitely musicians..." The clerk then told us we could have anything on the menu "on the house". We chuckled about that one in the van for the next half hour. Finally, around midnight, we landed at the Grand Junction Motel 6.

Fri. 3/3- Woke up and drove the final two hours to Paonia, CO, and arrived in plenty of time to make a scheduled radio appearance on the local station. Rob Miller, from Sweet Sunny South, had booked us a show at the Paradise Theater downtown, and the whole town came out to see us. Later, the Sweet Sunny Southerners threw a big party for us. As a result, none of us got enough sleep. Whatever, it was a blast.

Sat. 3/4- Hit the road around noon caravanning with SSS on our way to Lyons, CO for a sold-out show at Rogers Hall. Nate was very anxious to see Melissa and his baby girl, Gretel who weren't willing to wait another day to see him and decided to drive out to Colorado. Gretel looked cute as a button and both girls were definitely glad to see their guy. Soon the show was on. Sweet Sunny South played a great opening set, followed by a weary but heartfelt effort from us. During the encore, SSS joined us onstage along with Caleb Roberts from Open Road, who took a blistering solo on Muleskinner Blues. It was a great night of music followed by an easy, one hour drive to Denver for another night at Motel 6.

Sun. 3/5- Got up and grabbed a late breakfast before heading over to The Oriental Theater, an old movie house located in an older part of Denver. We had scheduled a double header with Sweet Sunny South- the first show advertised as a non-smoking family matinee. Ike sat in on washboard with SSS, who have an alter-ego children's act called Duck Duck Gray Duck. Then we did our thing, choosing to fill up our set with non-smoking family tunes. Soon enough though, it was time for the late show, and SSS played their best set yet. We love this band's eclectic approach to fiddle tunes and original songs. At one point Bill, the mandolin/banjoist, started telling the story of how he had first met us, and how much of an influence we had been, etc. In the loudest voice I could muster, I channelled Tickmeister and yelled, "shut up and play another tune!" Bill thought he was being heckled, and it threw him for a second. I had to laugh. When we got up there, the sparse crowd of Oscar refugees made a lion of a noise throughout our set. Even though it wasn't the best attended show, the people who were there really enjoyed themselves and made sure that we knew it. It was a fine way to end a very, very long tour.

Mon. 3/6- Had breakfast with Sweet Sunny South and bid them a tearful farewell. They headed west and we headed east and 10 hours later, I pulled up outside my house and breathed a sigh of relief. In 7 days, it starts up all over again...

Sometimes We Wrestle...

2006-02-17T11:34:00.000-06:00

January 23rd, 2006 around 2:36am in Ann Arbor, Michigan

"Check it out you guys..." Looking at his watch, Brian Bagdonas, bassist of Portland's Foghorn Stringband, waited until our conversations stopped before continuing. "I'll bet you ten bucks that in 10 minutes, Chowdy is going to come in here and mess with one of us." He made this pronouncement with little emotion- as if he were telling us that the sky was blue. Everyone looked around at each other and smiled. We had gotten to know each of the Foghorners pretty well after almost a week of daily gigs and nighttime socializing. So, in this case, I knew that "Chowdy" (otherwise known as Caleb Klauder, Foghorn's prankster mandolinist), wasn't going to be coming in for just anyone, I knew he was coming to mess with me. You see folks, sometimes when the boredom of the road sets it's teeth deeply into our pelts, we have no choice but to do something pointless and stupid, and in our case, sometimes we wrestle.

I remember the first time it happened. The Wilders were down in El Paso, Texas. We had just spent about 9 hours in Juarez, Mexico and were wound up from the cross cultural experience. I was sitting in The Chief, (y'all remember our 5th member right? now quarantined indefinitely in long term storage in an Oak Grove, Missouri KOA). Anyway, I was just sitting in the RV minding my own business, when, out of nowhere, Estebel pounced on me. Estebel (Betse spelled backwards...with an le) is the name Betse chose as her mexican wrestling persona. When she spots weakness in a potential opponent, she gets a funny smirk on her face, then launches an attack. This was my first meeting with Estebel, and I was both blind-sided and flabbergasted. She caught me totally by surprise, and due to the limited mobility of the RV, I found myself pinned on the transmission hump. Rather than fight a losing battle, I willingly surrendered to the obvious victor-vowing to never, ever, let my guard down again.

But, of course, I did let it down again, and this time it was in Lafayette, Louisiana. We had just spent a week recording "Throw Down" at Dirk Powell's studio, and were in Lafayette to do a bar gig to help pay our personal expenses for the recording. It was Betse's birthday, January 28th, and I was again sitting in the Chief, which was parked outside the bar. I guess it was the combination of her birthday, and the need to release the pent-up recording stress, that prompted Estebel to rise up against me once more. Again, she chose to launch her attack while I innocently sat there on the couch. I maneuvered as best as I could, but the dark princess of mexican wrestling persevered by using the limited space of the RV to her full advantage. Once again, I was pinned to the transmission hump and humiliated. A few minutes later, Estebel launched another attack against Ike- still wearing his polyester western-style leisure suit from the show. Now Ike is a competitive guy, and all I've got to say about the match is this: Even though his polyester pants got ripped out, Ike did NOT get pinned. And even though he had a huge scratch on his forehead and rug burns on his knees, he NEVER got pinned. And although I'm ashamed to admit it, I broke wrestling protocol by jumping into the match to try to help her roll him over, STILL he was resistant to our double team attack. He was crushed, shoved, scooted, yanked, and pried upon, with reckless disregard for safety or compassion, and he WOULD NOT be pinned. It was a triumph of personal will, and he's still proud of it.

Yes, sometimes we wrestle. It's happened in hotel rooms, parking lots and living rooms across America. And, so far, no one has been permanently injured. Although we laugh about it after the fact, during the match, regardless of the combatants, it is a deadly serious game. I tell you these stories so that you will understand why I had a sense of dread when Brian made his prediction. You see, earlier in the evening Caleb had all but challenged me to a match. A few evenings before, he had wrestled all three other Wilders in a Super 8 Motel in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. That night, he wrestled Nate in the lobby, then Ike in the second floor hallway, and finally, Estebel herself, as the match loudly moved into Ike and Nate's room . But "Rowdy Chowdy" had yet to grapple with the oldest Wilder. I looked around the living room and imagined what might happen if he attacked. Caleb is slightly taller than me and has a natural wrestler's body. He is also about 7 years younger and more wiry, with short, powerful arm and leg muscles. I was going to need some room if I was to have any advantage. I moved a side table out of the way and removed several breakable objects that might somehow find their way into the impending match. The others watched me with curiosity as I continued to move objects around, opening up the ring for maximum maneuverability. Then we heard Caleb coming.

About 7 minutes had passed since Brian's original pronouncement, and everyone was still standing there waiting. Caleb came back into the living room with a smile on his face and said, "hey, what's going on?". "Nothing," we all said simultaneously. For a moment, I thought that Brian's prediction might have been wrong. Then Caleb was standing next to me and he said, "Hey Phil, how are YOU doing?", as he put his right arm around my shoulders. Before I could answer, however, I realized he was making his move. His left arm quickly crossed my chest as he locked his hands together and started driving me toward the carpet. I had anticipated this side assault, however, and rather than pushing back against him, I quickly turned my hips out and grabbed onto his right arm, essentially pulling him harder in the direction he was already pushing. He fell hard onto his back and I landed very neatly on top of his chest. He was clearly surprised, and before he could even respond, I had already thrown my left arm backwards around his head into a half nelson and scooped up his left leg locking my hands together. With him pinned to the carpet beneath me, I balled my left hand into a fist and drove it deep into his sternum just for good measure. He fought for only a moment before saying, "ok, ok. you got me."

Now, would I have been so successful had Brian not pointed out the possibility of a sneak attack? I think not. Caleb is a strong guy and I personally witnessed the ferocity of his assault on Ike earlier in the week (Ike did NOT get pinned, but did have a huge scratch on his head). However, by winning the match so convincingly, I think there might be two things that could happen. One unlikely result would be that I have eternally earned Caleb's respect. Due to this, he will steer clear of further attacks on me in the future. The other, more likely possibility, will be that he will seek a rematch. We will be playing four more shows on Foghorn's Northwest home turf in the next two weeks.

I am currently cultivating eyes in the back of my head...

Proof that a 40-year-old can still rock it

2006-02-06T12:20:00.000-06:00

Here's Phil skateboarding in Bakersfield, CA... this morning, Feb. 6! Thanks Mom & Dad for the digital camera! Stay tuned, I'll be doing an actual post in a few minutes!

Hey, here's Nate too... it was really fun watching the guys zoom around. Nate's friend John was with us too (he came up from LA for Supergrass), and he did some skating too. No, I didn't! And no, Ike didn't! Ike wanted to shoot some hoops with his new b-ball but there were no hoops at this park, just about 20 horseshoe plots and baseball & football field.

We so rarely get a chance to hang out a bit before we have to leave a town. It was a real bonus to get an extra night here in B'field, at a very nice hotel. We watched the Superbowl (yay Steelers!), enjoyed the hot tub, and got to sleep in with a late checkout today, which gave us just enough time to make that foray into the park.

So now we have a couple of days off. We think we'll take it easy and drive a bit towards Santa Cruz, and maybe enjoy a visit to the beach, or else it looks like Pinnacles National Monument might be a good route to take. I have no idea what it is, but it sounds like mountains.

I plan to tell y'all some stories about the Foghorn tour... it was more than fun and we can't wait to see them again next week. Or maybe this weekend -- they're playing SF on Thursday and Saturday, and we play Berkeley Friday, so we may get a little reunion. Gol-dangit, those dudes are sure fine musicians, fine people, good spirited high spirited comrades! We love 'em. Miss them right now, sniff.

Well... guess that's about all I got for you right this minute. I'll work on a synopsis of the Foghorn tour and will submit it for your collective edification and enjoyment, soon's I can get it written. Stay tuned for more digital photos! Thanks again, M&D!

Snapshots

2006-01-21T10:44:00.000-06:00

Vignettes from the Van-Friday, Jan. 20th

11:26am (somewhere on the way to Goshen, Indiana)...
Overcast skies absorb the horizon as we pass the sleeping,stubbled cornfields of east central Iowa. The stereo is blasting- Little Richard covering Jerry Lee's "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" and giving the killer a run for his money. Ike is rocking in the driver's seat while Betse rides shotgun with the knitting needles. Nate naps in the back. He's quiet for awhile then I hear him open a window, then the smell hits me like a baseball bat in the nose. His gaseous contractions are now coming about every half hour. I'm not sure what he's giving birth to, but by the smell of it, I don't want to be there when it happens.

3:45pm (gas stop)...
Standing outside the driver's window while pumping gas in the rain. I have contorted my face by folding down my lower lip and sticking my tongue out, up and over my upper lip. Behind the glass, Ike's head is turned away and I watch two of him through my severely crossed eyes, waiting for him to notice me. He turns and the look of surprise is less than I expected. He rolls down the window and says, "dude, Goshen is in the EASTERN time zone." My eyes uncross and my lips return to their original configuration. I realize that we are now SO late. We just lost an hour and we weren't even trying.

4:15pm (toll road outside Chicago)...
Ike dodges and weaves from lane to lane like he's trying to choose the fastest checkout line at the supermarket as Betse reads the map and tries to calculate milages per hour in relation to stopped Chicagoland traffic. Nate and I sit in the back with our fists raised watching an AC/DC video on my laptop. I thrill as Angus Young, the lead guitarist, rocks it in his schoolboy's outfit. He shuffles his feet to the beat, head bobbing, never stopping his lunatic's dance for a moment. I realize that I learned just about everything I know about performing from this guy.

6:39pm EASTERN STANDARD TIME (still at least 20 minutes from the gig)...
Ike has collapsed into the back to rest and Nate is following Betse's directions threading his way down the rained-glazed black Indiana county roads. The show starts at 7pm.

Ahh, back on the road.

Merry Christmas AND Happy Holidays!

2005-12-21T18:21:00.000-06:00

This will probably be my last post before the end of the year since there is absolutely nothing going on right now, and I have much more important things to do than try to think of something interesting to write- like waiting for the dang snow to melt so I can get back to the Sweeeeeeeeet skatepark they just built in downtown KC. So, in the meantime, all of you who are able to recieve Kansas City radio, please tune in on Christmas Eve to KCUR 89.3FM at 2pm. Yesterday, we went down to our beloved local NPR affiliate and pre-recorded an hour of Christmas goodness AND an interview for our pal, Robert Moore's show, Sonic Spectrum. Our special guests included our good friend Gary Miller (aka Bubba) AND Darth Vader, so it is NOT TO BE MISSED. If you are out of the KC radio area, KCUR 89.3FM can be heard online by pasting the following into your browser:
http://www.kcur.org/listen.html

If you are not able to listen on Christmas Eve, no problem, because Robert's show is now archived. Just go to the following:
http://www.kcur.org/SSArchives.html

I'm not sure how long it will take for the show to be archived, but I'd imagine that you might get to hear it before your fruitcake hardens up. Oh wait, fruitcake by definition has already hardened hasn't it? Well, you get the idea...
Best wishes from our Wilder families to yours...

Last month of the year...

2005-12-08T15:47:00.000-06:00

I'm sitting in the back of the brown clown rolling through the birthplace of water skiing, Lake City, Minnesota. But there aren't too many people out on the vastly wide Mississippi River right now, however, since it's frozen solid and topped with about 6" of snow. We are out on our final tour of the year, a quicky 4-day run taking us from Minneapolis, MN to Columbia, MO with stops in LaCrosse, WI and Iowa City, IA. We've put almost 50,000 miles on the clown since we purchased it in April. Our little conversion van/4x6 trailer combination has served us well, and it feels good to finish out our first year as full time musicians with one more road trip.

What a year! As I think back on 2005, it's hard to believe all the places we've been and all the people we've met. It all started in January with the recording of our new album, "Throw Down", down in Louisiana with Dirk Powell. That trip was followed by a very long tour taking us from Arizona, up the California coast into the northwest, and finally up to Vancouver for our first visit to Canada. As you might remember, we lost The Chief early on in that tour, and our finances have been compromised ever since. But we persevered, and with the purchase of the brown clown, we were able to continue on in April, making our first visits to the southeast United States on a tour that would ultimately prove to have fortuitous later returns due to a stellar inaugural appearance at MerleFest in North Carolina.

Then it was back out west for another first, The Telluride Bluegrass, followed by a return to Montana and Wyoming. The summer closed with a hot and sticky tour starting in New York, continuing on up the eastern seaboard to Maine, and then halfway back across the country and then all the way north, to the upper peninsula of Michigan. Before the leaves even began to turn, we found ourselves back in Michigan for our second appearance at The Wheatland Music Festival, followed by our beloved Walnut Valley Festival in Winfield, KS, then Silver Dollar City in Branson, and finally, IBMA in Nashville. One more plane ride in November, and we were then able to cross Florida, too, off our list of "firsts". It all seems like a blur, but by the time we finish up this current tour, we will have played concerts, clubs and festivals in over 30 states as well as one Canadian province- all in 2005!

Despite all the miles, we are all holding up well. Nate and Melissa had their beautiful baby girl, Gretel, in October, and they are now easing into the routines of parenthood. We've ordered protective flight cases for our instruments to prepare for next year's travel demands, and although we will probably not record another album until late next year, everyone is writing new tunes like crazy. I think we are all looking forward to sitting down together to work on the new material after the holidays. We are also looking forward to visiting some new places in 2006, most notably, our first tour of Alaska in June, and a trip to Ireland in late August. So, as I always say, stayed tuned. There will be lots more stories from the road. Thanks for reading.
brotherphil

80 is enough already!

2005-11-27T19:27:00.000-06:00

Hey folks,
I know I am overdue for an update but I got sidelined with jury duty and have spent the rest of this weekend trying to digest all that Thanksgiving goodness. Rest assured, we are all well and taking care of our homes, families and delayed obligations. Kim and I were blessed last week with a nice visit from Mel, Nate and Gretel. She is growing quickly and looks sort of like Winston Churchill in her carseat. She's only a month old and already she is developing her own personality. Her parents are very, very proud. So I promise I will try to get some sort of update together for you this week but in the meantime, here's a new post so you don't have to scroll down so far to read other bloggers comments. take care.
phil

Insert new heading here

2005-11-08T13:15:00.000-06:00

Real creative header, I know...

Several things to tell y'all today.

Nate was real glad to get home after IBMA to spend more time with GG and Melissa... he really missed both his girls while we were gone and was such a proud papa, showing everyone pictures and beaming a lot.

IBMA, by the way, was a great success. We worked our butts off, playing late night showcases almost every night, and then there was Fan Fest. A great many of those people had not ever heard of us until that show. They were probably wondering, who are these Wilders and why are they playing right before Rhonda Vincent? Hopefully we gave them the answers in that set. We did great.

It was almost strange playing at 1 pm after all those late night showtimes, though, and let me tell you that we sure do prefer a sound system rather than yelling and overplaying in a hotel room suite! Those can be real fun and we do know how to project, but it takes a toll. I lost my voice by the end of the week (had just enough left to sing at Fan Fest), but it was probably from talking more than singing. You know, I tend to do a lot of the talking, whenever I get a chance, and I'm not just talking about on stage!

There were a lot of folks to talk to -- always the business contacts at IBMA, and other musicians, etc. etc. I think we have secured ourselves a good place in that organization. In fact, I truly believe we wouldn't be where we are without IBMA. That's where we met Mary, our agent extraordinaire, and that's where festival promoters from Telluride/Rockygrass, Grey Fox, Wintergrass, and more, first saw us play (in those hotel rooms, past years). Many of those promoters still came to see us play showcases, and that's a great feeling to know that they want to keep up with us. We also had some time spent with the man who is going to get our new CD out to radio stations everywhere... our first publicist, Al Moss. He's a fantastic fellow, been in the biz for a long time, lives in Nashville now, and is probably even as I write this telling yet another biz person about us. He's a real go-getter -- we met him at Merlefest, and boy are we lucky.

It was great to see our Larryfest friends again, and we did get a chance to play their showcase room too. And, they have sound. (Thanks Howie!) Boy, is that a great thing. We look forward to seeing y'all in December!

A personal highlight for me took place on Friday night. I was having a high-energy big time party jam in a hotel room with some old time musician friends, and was taken aside by a mutual musician friend who whispered in my ear, "we're going to be playing in the room across the hall with Hazel Dickens. And you need to come." O-Kay! I played a couple more tunes with my friends, and excused myself, trying to be cool about it since it was brought to me in secret. I went over there and met Ms. Dickens (if you don't know who she is, let me just say -- THE singer's singer; songwriter; pioneering bluegrass lady; folk music superstar -- AND, she plays electric bass!), and played there for about an hour. It was a small jam and of highest quality and I was lucky to sit next to Ms. Dickens to hear her most powerful voice so close up. Wow. As I readied myself to leave (this was the night before our 1 pm Fan Fest play, and it was going on 3 am by now), Hazel leaned in to me and said, "you really perked this jam up. We were kinda heading down, and you came in, and just perked things up." Wow.

The next night I was at a party and in walks Hazel... when she saw me, she said, "there's My Fiddler!" Wow!! I gave her a copy of Throw Down and I sure hope she likes it and we cross paths again. She's just a regular gal, but I've never seen a singer give themselves to a song more fully than she does. Again, wow.

OK... is that a nice nugget for y'all?

Here's the other thing to let you know about. It's called MySpace and it appears to be the thing that everyone is doing. I found out about it during IBMA when some friends of mine in a new band (The Sidewinders -- old time goodness, y'all, including David Bass, the fiddler from Freight Hoppers) gave me a card with their myspace url on it. Well, it looks like every band we know and so many more we don't are on this thing. So, this weekend I started setting up a page, and it's amazing how fast people are finding us! You can join for free, and it's another place where I can add more Wilders content, cheaper and quicker than on our main site.

our myspace place

You can get lost on this thing, there are so many people out there. But it's already turned me on to a couple new bands. Just thought y'all would want to know about this, being that y'all are the best fans we got!

That brings us back around to this moment and I've got to get ready to do laundry so I have clean things to wear in Florida this weekend. That should be pretty cool, our first Florida fest! So, until I get the bug to do another wordy scatterbrained post... take care all.

And the name is...

2005-10-21T19:06:00.000-05:00

GRETEL
GAWRON
ROBBINS

GG!

Baby Gawron born healthy and happy!

2005-10-20T13:30:00.000-05:00

Just got a call from Nate. Melissa gave birth at 12:05pm today to a healthy baby girl. Both mother and baby are fine and resting. Here's the basic stats:
weight 7lbs 8 1/2oz
length 19 1/4"

Yippee!

Throw Down!

2005-10-07T14:52:00.001-05:00

Since we've all but finished our extensive travel for the year, I thought I would try to illuminate everybody on the eccentricities of our new cd, "Throw Down". As many of you know, the recording was done down in Beaux Bridge, LA back in January of this year with our new pal Dirk Powell. Dirk's studio, The Cypress House, is an old 3 room Louisiana house that has been converted into a nice digital recording facility. Dirk presided over the recordings from a smallish isolated control room that looks into a rustic, homey feeling medium-size room with exposed timbers and plenty of atmosphere. For almost all the tracks, we played all together in the main room choosing to overdub only a few backing vocals and solos whenever it seemed to make the most sense. Dirk has a nice collection of studio mics, and he spent several hours on the first day swapping mics, adjusting angles and positions, and listening while we warmed up and tried to get over our nervousness. His easy-going, friendly approach to recording made us feel welcome and soon after he got the sound he was looking for, we were up and rolling. When the first day was finished, we had about 8 tunes in the can and headed back to the RV park to get a good night's sleep before heading back the next day around noon. After two days, we had most of the album finished with two more days still set aside for overdubs, and preliminary mixing. In a way, it was the easiest recording we have ever done. Now that I listen to the finished product, I realize that Dirk really captured us at our best. We were excited but also terrified by trying to record our own original tunes. Thanks to Dirk, those tunes, I believe, are the best on the album. Here's some thoughts on the tracks and some back story on where they came from and how they were recorded:

Track 1- Hawk's Got a Chicken and Flew into the Woods
Betse brought this old ozark finger burner to the band sometime in the last two years and we played it live many times before coming down to Dirk's. So we were already pretty comfortable with the arrangement. Oftentimes, Betse has to try to hold us back from rushing the tempo on fiddle tunes, especially when they are really fun to play. On this track, however, it's Betse who charges ahead and honestly, we were barely able to keep up. It came out as frenetic as it felt while we were recording it, and I think it' serves as a great example of our "crazy side"

Track 2- Honky Tonk Habit
Bless Nate Gawron's heart, the boy has got a real feel for writing honky tonk tunes and this is one of his best. I remember when we were rehearsing for the recordings after the holidays, Nate had a very specific way he wanted this tune to be sung. However, Ike's voice is not at all like Nate's, and since Ike was the one who had to sing it, Nate had to let go a little bit and allow him to sing it in his own way. Ike calls this process "putting it through the Wilders machine". The tune percolates along and features a fantastic and wild solo by Betse. It's the first original tune on the album and sounds like it could have been written by some old obscure honky tonker from the 50's.

Track 3- It'll Never be Thru with Us (Until it's Thru with You)
This one is Ike's and it's been around forever. Back in the early days of the Wilders, Ike and I did a short stint doing brother duets and this tune dates back to that time. I've always loved it and when we started talking about doing originals, it was the first one of his that I thought of. The arrangement defiantly smacks of bluegrass and has the one-tow punch of a speedy tempo and impossibly high lonesome backing vocals courtesy of my silly falsetto. We encouraged (threatened) Nate to take a quick bass solo in the middle section and it just turned out great.

Track 4- Won't You Sometimes Think of Me
How do you collaborate with the greatest honky tonk singer of all time- especially when he's been dead for 40 years? Well, if you are Ike Sheldon, you listen to Hank Williams demos and find a truly great, but unfinished song fragment and then use your imagination. This tune is just heart breaking in Hank's plaintive verses, and with the addition of Ike's chorus, it sounds, well, perfectly finished. Betse got the idea to add a harmony fiddle part over her solo which makes my guts ache every time I hear it.

Track 5- Squirrel Hunters
Betse got this tune from the wonderful fiddling of John Hartford. It's actually the first tune we recorded during the sessions and I remember playing it for about an hour while Dirk got the fiddle mic situated just right. Since we were so warmed up, the tune has a cool nonchalant bounce. Everybody but Betse was floored when we listened to the playbacks. She hadn't even considered that it would be included on the album, and to this day, I'm not sure that she understands why we like it so much. When it came down to the final choices for the album, she was still holding out. We are a very democratic band, and the honest truth is that she got outvoted. Thank goodness for democracy!

Track 6- Belshazzar
We've been playing this old Johnny Cash gospel tune since the earliest days of the band. We actually recorded it for our first cd, "Cornbread, Molasses and Sassafrass Tea", but since that one has been out of print for years AND since Nate wasn't even in the band at that time, we decided to give it another go. Nate brings a honky tonk beat to it and we generally juked it up like crazy. Ike always says that preachers don't tell old testament stories like this because it might scare you out of church. Disembodied hands writing on the wall in blood. Yikes.

Track 7-Jenny on the Railroad
Betse got this one from an old 78 recording by Carter Brothers and Son and it just smokes. We recorded it late on the second day and I think Dirk was getting itchy from sitting in the control room for two days. We were warming up on it and all the sudden Dirk appeared in the doorway with his fiddle. We all looked at each other thinking, "is he really? no he wouldn't, yes he would!" Betse ran through it a couple of times so Dirk could get the fingering, and then he ran back into the control room and started it rolling. We recorded it twice and this was the second take. It has a crazy, almost out of control feel punctuated by Ike's yipping and yelling. Wow, Dirk played on one of our tracks. Cool, really cool.

Track 8- Together Apart
I wrote this tune about 4 years ago with the intention that our old pals, Rex Hobart and the Misery Boys, would snatch it up and run with it. That never happened and it sat in the cellar until we started talking about recording originals. I dusted it off and taught it to Ike and he messed around with it for about a week before bringing it back to us in it's current form. The subject matter is pretty depressing but I intended it as a love song. I think anyone who has had a long term relationship can relate to the feeling of this song on some level. I'm pretty proud of the way it turned out.

Track 9- The Blues Come Around
Another Hank Williams tune that we'd been doing live for about a year before the recording. This one almost met with the chopping block during the mixing phase. There was something about it, however, that represented an aspect of the band like no other song we recorded. I used an experimental tuning on the dobro which gives the tune it's 50's honky tonk voicing. I also especially like the fact that the whole band chimes in on choruses.

Track 10- Goat Creek
Betse loves goats- little goats especially, but she'll take whatever goats you've got. We were playing at the Minnesota state fair when Betse showed this to me for the first time. It was obviously a kick-in-the-butt kind of a fiddle tune. I'm not sure when she wrote it, but it sounded completely finished the first time I ever heard it. She taught it to me first, and then we rehearsed it with the band a few weeks later. It was an obvious choice for the recording along with two other Betse originals. During the mixing, it emerged as the one of the best fiddle tunes we recorded, and fit very neatly into the tracking order. Just to let you know, Betse has written several more original fiddle tunes that are just as great (if not better) than this one. You will have many more to look forward to on future recordings.

Track 11- Drivin' Nails in My Coffin
This is another honky tonker that we've been covering for awhile. Ike originally came up with the idea to break it into pieces- a slow waltz on the verses and frantic 4/4 on the verses. It's humorous. It's dumb. It's us.

Track 12- When I Get to Heaven
I'm not sure when Ike wrote this one, but he's been doing it live very occasionally at gospel shows in the last year. He recorded it on the third day after most of the other tracks were finished. We had discussed the possibility of trying a solo and it seemed like the right time/ mood to let him give it a go. Everybody just went outside and let him have at it. Dirk turned the lights down low and Ike reached down deep in his gut to pull this one off. For my money, it's the most honest tune on the record.

Track 13- When the Levee's Gone
I wrote a whole tune around these lyrics many years ago in response to the last Missouri River flood. People were pitching in with the sandbags trying to save downtown Parkville, Missouri and I just let my imagination run. When we started talking about originals, I dug into an old folder and rediscovered the lyrics. I couldn't, for the life of me, remember the tune that went with it so I just handed them over to Ike and said, "if you can come up with a tune, here's some words". The next week at practice, he showed up early and played me what he had written for it. I was floored. He took a bluesy dirge about drowning and made it happy. The recording went very easily on this one and I believe it is one of Dirk's favorites. Now, as the city of New Orleans is still being pumped out, the song has taken on a ominous tone for me. We stopped performing it live during the hurricane's aftermath. It was just way too creepy.

Track 14- January Waltz
Oftentimes, we will finish an old timey dance performance with a waltz and it seemed fitting to end the album with this wonderful Betse original. She penned this one several years ago and we actually tried to record it for the "Spring a Leak" album. But that version wasn't up to snuff, and I'm glad for it because we got another chance to get it right for this recording. For me, January waltz brings images to my mind of gray, snow filled skies. It's a lovely tune and lovingly played by all. Incidentally, Dirk's masterful use of digital editing saved this one from the chopping block. You see, my mandolin went horribly out of tune toward the end of the tune. Click click, chop chop and it's saved. And you'd never know it except I just told you.

So that's my take on the takes. If you have a copy, listen to it again and let me know your thoughts. If you haven't got a copy, you can buy it on our website (www.wilderscountry.com). Let's face it, you need the music and we need the money. It's a win win.

all the best.
brotherphil

Snake in the Grass

2005-09-20T16:30:00.000-05:00

I was getting ready to leave Winfield on Monday. I'd stayed over Sunday night but wasn't up for campground shenanigans due to already losing enough sleep (and my voice) over the weekend. So I splurged on a motel room in town, slept decently, and the next morning headed in to tear my tent and its belongings down.

I had come in to the festival at night, the Wednesday before, when it was already looking really full. My festival family welcomed me in, helped me to set up, and made me feel right at home in this little neck of the woods that was to be home for the next several days. (y'all are the best -- thanks so much -- I miss y'all already)

I came back to the now almost empty camp grounds. My tent was the lone survivor of the neighborhood. Fighting the strong Kansas winds, I emptied my tent of its contents, turned my tent over to dump out dirt clods and grass, laid out my tarp and staked it so it could dry, and began to pile all my stuff around my car.

My car is small (compact) and packing it requires careful consideration. It's not one I can pack by just throwing stuff in any old way. So I couldn't really start packing it until everything was in its respective bag, box, or rolled up or whatever. It took a good hour of work to get to this point.

I had put things near their packing location. For example, my tent, camp chairs, tables, and cooler were near the back of my car. My suitcase, hanging bag of clothes, violin case, and some other odds and ends were near the passenger door. I had opened both doors of the car, having gotten to the point where I was ready to start the big pile-in. My violin case was on the ground right beside the passenger seat area. My hanging bag was draped over the open passenger door. A couple other odds and ends sat nearby. I was about ten feet from this side of my car, and the wind was blowing, so things were flapping around a bit.

But none of them were moving through the grass.
Like the five foot long blacksnake.
Going about 10 mph.
Sliding right past me.
Heading straight for my car.
Slithering over the odds.
And the ends.
Working its way up my violin case.
Its head now above the case.
Peering inside my car.
(This takes about three seconds)

Simultaneously...
I'm crying out, "no, no, no".
I'm running toward the car.
I'm praying the snake will be scared.
I'm waving my arms toward it.
It slides off the case.
Goes under the car.
(The other door is open too...)

I shove my case out of the way...
Throw my hanging clothes off the door...
Slam the passenger door...
Run around my car...
Slam the driver's door...
Stand there shaking...
What if it's in the car...
What if it's in the car...
Where did it go...
Is it in the car?
Oh, sh**.
Where is it.

I emptied out what was already in my car. Poked something under the seats. No sign. I moved my car a few feet. No snake. Nothing to do but pack up. After I'd driven an hour or so, it occurred to me that the snake could have crawled up into the engine where it was nice and warm. So I stopped and lifted the hood, peered around. Nothing.

Nothing to do but hope that old snake stayed in Winfield.

But I haven't been out to my car since I got home.

What if it's sunning itself in the windshield?

Nah...

Certainly not.

I hope...

Home Safe

2005-09-12T12:50:00.000-05:00

Howdy folks,
We all made it safely home from the eastern tour. Sorry I didn't write more of the day-to-day drudgery for you, but it was a pretty intense trip, and we had precious little time for relaxation. The gas prices ($3.69 per gallon in Maine!!!) and Labor Day motel price gouging ($120.00 a night for absolute flea bag crap!!!) basically smacked us down for the entire trip, but we made some new fans and friends and were fairly well recieved by the masses. We are still sweating out our new CD deadline of Wednesday with no news thus far. After spending so much dough on the eastern tour, we desperately need to have it for Winfield or we will miss out on huge potential sales. Everybody please send a prayer to the CD manufacturer, AND the truck driver who will deliver it into our hands. If all goes well, the new CD, entitled "Throw Down", will be available by this weekend to all of those who go to Winfield. I have also made arrangements for the CD to be available for purchase on our website by this weekend as well. Everything came together marvelously, the artwork that Betse and I did is pretty danged neat and Ike and Dirk worked very hard to make it sound awesome. Pick it up and Throw Down! I will be shipping web orders all next week.
drive safely to Winfield!

Spin One For The Zipper

2005-09-07T21:29:00.000-05:00

August 25th: Trumansburg, New York

Here's a personal detail; I absolutely love fairs. I fondly remember my pop taking me to Sedalia almost every year to spend a day at the Missouri State fair. We'd browse the exhibits, check out the 4H contest winners and then, inevitably, I'd drag him to the midway to get on some sketchy rides and try (unsuccessfully) to win a dumb stuffed animal or a switchblade comb by tossing rings over coke bottles, or shooting moving targets with a poorly sighted BB gun. He'd top off the day by letting me eat some god-awful batter-dipped meat byproducts before yanking me out of there kicking and screaming for more. Maybe it's the corn-dogs, or the rides, or just the complete spectacle of it, but I'm a fair junky for life. So, you can imagine how happy I was when we arrived in the quaint downtown of Trumansburg, New York, and I looked out the window of the van and saw a ferris wheel. This nifty little town fair looked to be a microcosm of all my favorite fair memories- impossibly dangerous-looking rides, batter-dipped foods of all nationalities and, of course, crazy-looking carneys barking at the pretty girls and generally creeping everybody out.

We arrived in the late afternoon a little wobbly from two+ days of solid driving from KC. Since the stage hands were still setting up for the concert, there wasn't much happening yet, so we all scattered and took in the sights in our own way. We were here in Trumansburg as as a supporting act for Buffalo Zydeco, a group made up mostly from the members of New York state jamgrass heroes, Donna the Buffalo. Also on the bill, was a Louisiana band that we had heard loads about, The Red Stick Ramblers. We parked the van in the shade and, out of sheer boredom, actually practiced some new songs before we had to get dressed for the show. We were the first band up and, after being introduced, we got down to the business of playing our stuff for this crowd of local Trumansburgers- none of whom had absolutely any idea of who we were. We got a warm response, but I could tell that the crowd was saving themselves for the main act. This mattered little to me, however, because I was now off work, and ready to get my fair on.

We changed out of our soaking show clothes and lingered in the backstage area to marvel at the Red Stick Ramblers who had stormed the stage in our absence. These guys were pouring it on thick and the crowd danced and sweated and screamed for more. The Ramblers mix western swing and cajun fiddle tunes with the same effortless indifference that our band mixes old-time fiddle tunes with honky tonk. After standing, gape-mouthed and humbled for most of their set, my stomach took control of my brain and demanded something deep-fried immediately. I found Nate and Ike, and quickly deputized them as my fair posse, then we headed out for the midway. Common sense dictates that rides must always precede food, so we purchased tickets and Ike dragged us over to the bumper cars. Now don't get me wrong, I love to smash into other cars. But when you learn to drive in Kansas City, it's a lot of work just avoiding the cars that are trying to smash into you, so neither Nate or I were much interested in Ike's first choice. We made another loop, spent some money on a slice of pizza to tide us over, and then, turning another corner, Nate suddenly said, "Let's ride THAT." Ike and I looked up and stared into the face of THE ZIPPER. It's impossible to describe, but I'll try. The Zipper is an oblong tank-track-shaped structure which has two-seat cars mounted and hanging about every 5 feet. The whole track rotates around a center point tower about 20 feet off the ground. As the oversized chain drive pulls the tank track in circles, the individual human torture cages are free to flip forward, backward and upside down, with each centrifugal spin. Ike watched The Zipper for a moment and then quickly said, "sorry dude, no WAY am I getting on that."

Nate looked at me and flashed me his saddest puppy dog eyes, and I was transported back in time. I now understood what mechanism was in place back at the old MO State fair-why my dad always allowed me to drag him into this kind of crap even though it was probably the last thing he wanted-why I ALWAYS got my way, at least for awhile. I looked at Nate and said, "alright, what the hell." We walked back to the ticket booth and acquired the sufficient admission fee. As a precautionary measure, Nate ran with Ike to the bathroom, and as I walked back to get in line, I noticed the two carneys who, in moments, were going to hold our lives in their hands. The Zipper operator, who shall from this point forth be referred to as "Brutus Maximus", was a solid pro-wrestler type of a guy weighing in at a solid 250lbs+. He had a shaved head and an evil smirk and I could see him eyeing me as I stood at the gate. His assistant, who shall from this point forth be referred as "Renfield", was a wiry guy, barely 5 feet tall, with a handlebar mustache and huge thick oval coke bottle glasses. Brutus had stopped The Zipper momentarily so that Renfield could hose out one of the cars. It seemed a strange time to do routine maintenance on the ride, and then it dawned on me what he must be hosing. Nate and Ike returned from the bathroom and I called out to them, "Dude, check it out, they are HOSING OUT one of the cars. You know what THAT means." Brutus Maximus overheard me and smirked again, clearly enjoying his profession. Renfield finished up with his hose and slammed the door shut as Brutus Maximus cranked her into gear again. As is the case with its benign cousin, The Ferris Wheel, The Zipper can only unload one car at a time. So it took several minutes for Brutus and Renfield to get the few folks standing in line in front of us on board. We stood and watched the superstructure rotate, each car blurring with speed and spin, backwards, forwards, and upside down, before Brutus slammed on the brakes and Renfield opened the cage to release it's woozy occupants. It made me dizzy just to watch, and I briefly considered forgetting the whole thing, but somehow it gave me pleasure to be willing to do something, for once, that was "too crazy" for Ike.

Before I could chicken out, the Zipper stopped rotating again and Renfield swung open the door to an empty cage. Brutus smirked at us again as he took our tickets and Nate and I crawled into our seats. They were wet. Before I could even speak, Renfield slammed the door like an insane jailer and I looked at Nate and said, "Dude, this is the car he was HOSING OUT." The last thing I saw as I looked out of our cage was Renfield and Brutus Maximus laughing. Then all hell broke loose. We were up moving on the outside of the track and then we were inside, then upside down, then outside again. Nate and I held on to the bars of our cage for dear life and screamed our heads off as we flipped upside down and right-side up, again, and again and again. Then Brutus Maximus reversed the gears. Now we were on the inside track, flipping upside down the other direction, now outside, then inside again and another flip, and another. Every once and awhile our cage would be on the end of the track flipping at exactly the same time that the whole track reached the outside point of maximum centrifugal spin. It was at those points that I thought our car was going to fly off the track, landing us somewhere in New Jersey. The terror continued for, what seemed like a half hour, and then suddenly Brutus Maximus slammed the whole track to a stop. He was letting some other lucky jerks off at the bottom while Nate and I hung upside down like bats on a cave ceiling, hose water still dripping around us. Seconds later we were off again, flipping, whipping and spinning around while the blood drained from my forearms. Another brief stop and then we were headed back to the bottom. Suddenly the direction reversed and we flipped about 8 consecutive spins, then the car rocked back the other way and we flipped another 8 spins the other direction, then back again for another 8. We were near the bottom of the track and very close to the end of the ride yet we were now spinning more than ever. I looked out of the cage past my white knuckles and glimpsed Brutus Maximus laughing his head off. I realized that he was deliberately spinning us trying to make us sick. I screamed at Nate, "Dude, he's screwing with us." I don't remember now what Nate said in response because we were again spinning over, and over, and over again. Just when I could almost feel that piece of pizza climbing back up my esophagus, suddenly everything slammed to a stop. Renfield's handlebar mustache and glasses appeared at the door to our cage and the rest of the fair appeared in my shaken vision. We were free. Nate and I spilled out of our cage like soggy sardines and wobbled toward the exit gate. My brain was still spinning but as I passed Brutus Maximus, I smiled and said, "good JOB dude." He smirked back at me and then refocused on his evil lever, throwing it into gear to torture his next unsuspecting prisoners.

Jetsetting and last minute album scrambling

2005-08-17T08:45:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here quietly looking out the window thousands of miles above the eastern Utah desert. We are on our flight home from the Grand Targhee Bluegrass Festival in Alta, Wyoming and frankly, I'm pooped. But what a great time. This cool festival, situated just below the western face of the Teton range, attracts a nice mix of local mountain dwellers, avid mountain bikers and colorful mountain hippies. It was a nice sized festival with excellent sound and an imposing lineup of bluegrass/newgrass powerpickers. Rather than writing a novel here, I'll just give y'all the highlights. We played our first set on Saturday afternoon following Darol Anger and Mike Marshall. I don't think the crowd had any idea of what they were in for because once Betse broke into the first fiddle tune, they went absolutely nuts. For the rest of the set, the crowd throbbed around the stage dancing up a cloud of dust like Pig Pen in a Peanuts Christmas Special. After the show, we got to meet many nice folks who came to the CD table to buy our stuff and tell us how much they enjoyed it. Later that evening, our brave and beloved Betse raised some serious hell during the all-star, all-male, super pickers finale led by Sam Bush- but that's her story to tell.

We were the first band up on Sunday, and I was thinking that everyone had decided to sleep in due to the lack of an audience about 11:55am. But people started trickling in as we tuned up and when Betse hit the first fiddle tune, the area in front of the stage was suddenly filled. We played a secular set but threw in a fair number of gospel tunes and the crowd really ate it up. Overall I'd say that we made quite an impression. There's lots more to tell, but Betse will tell it better than me since she actually participated and witnessed the story rather than hearing about it second hand.

On the home front, we are working diligently to complete our new album in time for Winfield. Everyone please cross your fingers and toes that we can get it done in 4 weeks...Betse and I are handling the artwork, while Ike works long distance with Dirk Powell and the mastering guys in Nashville to insure that it will sound its best. For those of you that need a Wilders fix, we have two new live shows available for download on our website. Go to the "listen" link and you can click and download to your heart's content. Warning! If you have a dial-up connection, you are going to wait forever because I decide to encode these shows at a higher audio quality. Do yourselves a favor and get a broadband connection if you can. You won't regret it. This will especially help you if you also want to download the new video links that are on the same page. More good news is forthcoming.

The Power of Water

2005-08-07T14:28:00.000-05:00

(added this pic in response to recent question)
This, folks, is an erhu:

Here's something that has been resonating with me lately. And it has nothing and everything to do with music.

First, does anyone recall me giving props to water at a show any time in the last year or so? Well, I have. Pretty frequently. It probably started from needing to say something on the mic while others were tuning or whatever, but also needing a drink of water. As y'all know, I lose a lot of water in the form of sweat during a show, so I need to replenish. Ever since the first time, I find myself talking about water almost every show. (I said something Friday night, even.) Anyway, I recognize its importance even if I still probably need to drink more every day.

Last fall, Phil took all us Wilders to see this film/documentary called "What the Bleep Do We Know?" -- it's mostly about quantum physics, but also mostly about who we all are and why we are and how we can be... there was a little segment in there that showed photomicrographs of water crystals. The researcher, Masaru Emoto, had pictures of water that had been shown information. Like, "Love". Water responds to ~hado~, or vibrations. It can come in the form of the written word, or spoken, and also through music or images.

Many of the interviewees in the film have written books and I always meant to check some out. But honestly, as life keeps on going, it's easy to pass by and not follow through. You know how it is.

So, when we were in Middlebury, Vermont last month, we had a couple of hours to kill before the show. Everybody went their own way... we were staying in a beautiful inn, right downtown, and I took a walk down the street to window shop. I went into a bookstore and glanced at new releases. There was a book from Emoto, "The True Power of Water". I picked it up and started reading it that night.

Finding this book is a turning point for me. I won't try to summarize it for you. But you can check out the link (in the title) for yourself. I believe in the power of water. I'm going to read Emoto's other books now, and every morning I thank my water before and after I drink it.

You should try it, too.

Are there any questions?

2005-08-02T12:07:00.000-05:00

Would it surprise many of you to learn that I've grown very bored writing and posting our road stories? I'll bet not, considering that my last post was an exhaustive essay on modern outhouses. In fact, I was just discussing this blog last weekend with one of my great old friends, Bill Rexroad, at the Santa Rosa Tick Festival. I told him that, anymore, the story is pretty much always the same: We check out of our motel in the morning, we drive all day, we arrive at the gig on time (usually), we wait around, we play a great show (usually), the audience likes it a lot (usually), and then we go check into a motel, rinse and repeat. The exciting days of trying to resuscitate The Chief each day are over and I just don't think I have much to write about that would be of interest to anyone anymore.

I was a little surprised when Mr. Rexroad admonished me for my poor attitude toward the blog. He said that people really enjoy reading about what we do, where we are etc. So, out of my sincere respect for Bill AND since I'm home for a few weeks, I'd like to ask you folks who are reading this, what do you want to know? What can I tell you that you don't already know? Is there a story, particularly, that you want to read? Is there anything that I've written about that you'd like more information on?

I'll pay attention to your posts and try to respond accordingly. Thanks for reading.

Portajohn

2005-07-13T08:32:00.000-05:00

This year marks about a dozen years that I've been attending bluegrass festivals. At the beginning, I was a talentless, but enthusiastic fan who avidly lived and breathed the music-forgoing showers, comfort and shelter, day and night, to immerse myself in the rural musical culture. Now, as a full-time working musician, I'm living on the other end of the spectrum- rarely sleeping in the same place more than two nights in a row, living a nomadic existence from one Motel X to the next, expecting (and receiving) golf cart rides to get my instruments through the thickened crowd into the backstage area, and, of course, hobnobbing with the bluegrass royalty etc.. But throughout my varied festival experiences, one thing has remained consistent from day one: the humble Portajohn. From the Adirondacks to the Rockies, from the northern plains to the swampy bottomland of the southern delta, no matter where a bluegrass festival happens to be, the Portajohn is there.

For those who've never had the pleasure of the experience, I'll report that there is an amazing consistency in Portajohn design. Here's the basics: There's a door (with a working lock- hopefully). There is a plastic seat (ideally in the "up" position). There is a roll of toilet paper mounted to the wall. There are air vents sliced throughout the ceiling for much-needed ventilation. And finally, there is the hole- the bottom of which is filled with a strange and nebulous blue liquid. This liquid is provided, mercifully, in an attempt to mask the odor of its soupy contents. It's a no-frills place to be, for sure. If it's hot outside, it's 20 degrees hotter inside the John (which gives a new meaning to "sweating out the poisons"). True, it's not particularly pleasant, but if you've got to go (and you have no other choice), it works. The only discernible difference between one Portajohn and the next, in my opinion, is in the thoughtful extras that some of the nicer models offer its bluegrass citizens. For instance, it's becoming standard to have a hand-sanitizing dispenser mounted to the wall by the door. This allows you to feel a little better if your mom taught you to always wash your hands after using the bathroom. On rare occasions, I've even experienced the "executive washroom unit", which has actual soap, water AND paper towels. Also, many of the newer models now have a built in urinal on the wall. This feature saves a lot of disgusting wiping up if the seat is found in the "down" position. But innovation can sometimes result in confusion. A few years ago, for example, this simple, but effectively designed, elongated half-funnel shaped revolutionary feature was mistaken by a female festival patron who believed it to have a completely different function. The poor, misinformed woman lodged a complaint with the festival management on her way home-reporting that, "SOME rude person has been PEEING in the PURSE HOLDERS!" We about fell off of our plastic seats when we heard that one.

Yes, the lowly Portajohn is the industry standard of the bluegrass cosmos. It's most festival organizer's top pick when facilitating the personal elimination of their ticket-holders. Smaller festivals, like the type we cut our teeth on in Iowa so many years ago, might choose to just scatter a half dozen of these injection molded beauties throughout the camping area. In contrast, the larger festivals we find ourselves playing more recently, tend to herd their Portajohns into a sort of militaristic rectangular latrine common-area where festival attendees can gather, talk, poop and pee with abandon. Clearly, cleaning and service is an important component to consider here. If the festival provides too few cleanings over a busy weekend, you might think twice before prolonging your visit. In my checkered bluegrass festival memory, I know that on many a Sunday afternoon, I chose to save it for home when I opened up a particularly foul smelling door. For my money, the Walnut Valley Festival in Winfield Kansas, has the best Portajohn service on the bluegrass planet. These folks have human waste disposal down to a science. The Winfield festival regularly draws somewhere around 18,000 people (give or take 5,000) over 4 days, with many attendees camping for a week before AND AFTER the actual festival. Give a chimpanzee a pencil, and he'd quickly figure out the math of that many people, over that many days, with only so many plastic boxes to do their business in. The monkey's sum is this: a lot of banana peels, a LOT. But in my over 10 years of Winfield festivals, I've rarely walked into a Portajohn that didn't inspire me to hang out for awhile, because it just smelled so fresh and delightful. Here's why: there is an army patrol of suck-trucks combing the campgrounds during the daylight hours, cleaning every dang Portajohn in the place like ants on an abandoned picnic spread. These guys, wearing biceps-high rubber gloves, do some seriously unpleasant work so that you, the festival patron (no doubt filled to the brim with ears of roasted corn and onion burgers), can relax and unwind in minty-cool mountain freshness. It is because of this, that each year at Winfield, I always go out of my way to say thanks to these forgotten heroes of the festival when I spot them working the row of Portajohns closest to my tent.

And, I've got to say it, I love how the Portajohn experience is so democratic. Because regardless of what you might think folks, when your favorite bluegrass star hears the call of the number one or two, nine times out of ten, they will take care of nature at the festival the same way you do- in a hot and smelly plastic box, the only difference being that it's located behind the stage with a sign on the door that says, "for artists only".

This fact came home to me last September at Winfield. We were tuning up just minutes before our evening performance on the main stage, and I thought it prudent to empty my bladder before we went on. I walked over to the backstage Portajohn and, in the low light, did not see that it was occupied. I yanked on the door, found it locked, and stepped off a few paces to wait my turn. After a few minutes, the door swung open and out walked the female lead singer of a pretty danged famous band who had played onstage earlier. Professional courtesy prevents me from revealing her identity but she was clearly embarrassed when she saw me standing there, and we exchanged insincere pleasantries as she quickly moved past. I opened the door and was horrified by the stench that lay in wait for me. I thought to myself, "have they not cleaned this thing all weekend?" As I pointed out earlier, when deep-fried festival food is consumed, processed and eliminated over several days, the receiving Portajohn can really take on a life of it's own. But still, this seemed to be more of a localized and specific odor. In fact, I had used the same John earlier that day, and it had been as clean and fresh as an alpine meadow. This particular putridness undoubtedly belonged to my famous, and thus justifiably mortified predecessor. Holding my breath for a few minutes, I did my business as quickly as possible and then got the heck out of there. As I grabbed up my instruments and headed up on to the stage, I couldn't stop laughing.

The next time I encounter this "secret stinker" at a festival, I'll undoubtedly smile, exchange the usual pleasantries and be courteous. But deep in my brain's nasal memory tissues, I'll recall, with uncomfortable accuracy, the awful stench of that night, connect it once again with her face, and undoubtedly burst into laughter.

We shared something that night, just the two of us- something indescribable. And the humble Portajohn was there to frame the event in my molded plastic memory for all time.