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
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
Fanfest
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Almost Fixed!
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!!!!
THANKS MIKE!!!!
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Enter The Tick...
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!
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!
Friday, September 01, 2006
Hark, the Herald Angels, CRAAAACK!!!
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...
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...
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Off to the UK...
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
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
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Mountain States Recap
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.
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.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Alaska: Part Five
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.
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.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Alaska: Part Four
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.
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.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Alaska: Part Three
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.
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.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Alaska: Part Two
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.
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.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Alaska: Part One
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.
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Ah, Louisiana!
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Miss us at Merlefest?
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
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
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Nashville is Always Darkest Before the Dawn...
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Greetings from...
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.
Foghorn StringbandThese 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 waitWe 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, WYThese 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.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Reader's Digest Condensed Western Tour
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...
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...
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