We've just come home from a week in the cold, snowy Midwest, which is fast becoming our home away from home. We played our first combo Jam/concert/square dance gig at the MBOTMA Winter Weekend outside of Minneapolis, an indoor festival in a hotel where people jam in the elevators. It went all day long, and by the end we were tighter than Dick Cheney's ass. The jams kept going even after we were officialy done, but not for me. I felt like I had to have Tommy John surgery on my elbow. The next day we drove out to Ashland, WI, and I tried putting my elbow out an open window of the van, but it was too cold for my mediterranean blood to handle. We played a concert in the Masonic Lodge, and I was blown away by how good it sounded in there. Are Masons musicians too? Folks stuck around for a square dance afterward, fueled by the strongest coffee ever made. It really was, it was so strong it made Taylor's ear wax run. It was messy, so we gave him a solo motel room that night. When Brian and I were flipping channels and found Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, I tried to call him and cheep him up, but apparently he couldn't hear the ringer over the torrent of wax gurgling through his ears. Too bad, because it was the funniest thing I've seen on tv, ever. Went he went to Madison Square Garden and banged all those show dogs? Brian had to break my nose just so we could get some sleep.
We had a solid show in Duluth, then went back to ex-Portlanders Sara and Clancey's home out in the boonies. They built the things using timber-frame design, haybales, and a lot of clay. It was more cozy than Momma's womb. We had a blast just hanging out, shooting rifles, eating venison, playing a few tunes, and petting their 2 kids, Casper and Ida. Nicer people are hard to come by. Unless of course you're talking about Sammy's dad Mark, who was waiting for us at the Lind family cabin in Webb Lake, WI. We were late in arriving, since we took a detour to go to the Cabaret bar and have many drinks and play Buckhunter. The instruments came out, and we had a good time playing in the bar, drowning out the fish stories. Sammy's cabin rocked. Mark had finished the canoe he rebuilt, and it hung above the kitchen. The lake was frozen over, providing an awesome cross-country ski trail and a shortcut to Lunker's Lounge, where we ate our Walleye in good cheer. Taylor wired up the sauna Mark had been building in the basement, but it wasn't quite ready for use. We turned it on and the rocks started exploding worse than Sammy's rear after a night of microbrew.
That was all fine and good, because there would be plenty of sauna (pronounced SOW-NA) at Moosejaw. This was a dance retreat held annualy by the Wild Goose Chase Cloggers in a beautiful lodge near Detroit Lakes, MN. The cloggers are a dance troupe based in Minneapolis, and a fine bunch. They put on some great routines with the current members, and others that had been in the troupe over the last 25 years (nicknamed the "Goose Droppings"). We played for several square dances, jammed like mad, and became addicted to the sauna. Especially Caleb. He wouldn't leave that thing! It was a perfect wood-fired sauna built near the lake, about 30 feet from a hole cut through the ice that allowed us to go from sweating in 200 degree heat to swimming in 35 degree water in about 5 seconds. It was totally exhilarating. As I said, we were all addicted to it, but Caleb went overboard. He spent over 5 hours in there on the last night. The Klauder family jewels would hang like elephant ears in the sauna, then turn to truffles after the cold plunge, and then go back to the serengeti, and so forth. They're all stretched out now, it looks like he's riding bareback on a shaved basset hound. Maybe we can get a gig at a plastic surgery convention next summer, and help him out.
Colorado Tour
We met at Brian's house for a stack of tacos in the rare Portland sunshine, packed the van, and left for Bend, OR. Malin Nylander, who will soon be married to Sammy (or Stephen, as he's refered to on the invitations), came along on this trip. She was in a temporary exile in her native Sweden for several months, and having returned only 2 days previous to our departure, we just couldn't bear to leave her behind. Besides, she's a good dancer, and it doesn't make the other girlfriends jealous to allemande with her. But this wasn't necessary in Bend, because my own fiance was in town with some lady-friends, having a bachelorette party. We all met at the Grove, a great venue with rock club sound and an opium den atmosphere. Great staff there, very smooth and laid back. I love playing our music in a club that has tapestries hanging from the ceiling, and still slides of exotic flowers projected on the walls. It's dance music after all, and when the dreadlocks start weaving and diving and jiving about, it becomes apparent that although the venues have come a long way from the corn-shuckings and barn-raisings that occured when this music was actually pouplar, the beat of a big stringband is still worthy of the boogiest boogiers.
On down to Winnemucca, NV, where Bill once again put on a show at the Martin Hotel. Four years in a row we've played here! Familiar faces, hell, extended family. They even put our name on the town's marquee; "Welcome Foghorn Stringband" greeted us as we drove towards Winners Casino. Great Basque-style cooking, picons, and fun people. A homecoming. After the show we had a loose-legged square dance, with Caleb making the calls. "Do see do, don't go slow," was a particular favorite. We've got to get a few more dances in his brain, because he's a born caller. He makes it a party, as Bill Martin would say, and that's the essential part of a square dance. The rest is ornamental.
After dropping some money in the slots, and Brian laying down some fiddle tunes in the Red Lion, we left for Salt Lake City. We had a house concert at Gillian's place, organized by Sharon, and settled into some tunes as the sun set in Utah. Old-time music always sounds good in the living room, and house concerts always seem to attract the hard-core pickers and historians, so we had a good little convention there, as if the library came alive. When nearing the end we jokingly asked where the nightlife in Salt Lake was on a Sunday, and Klaus pointed us toward an Irish pub called the Republican. Of course. There was a three piece honky-tonk band there, led by Jerry, who played guitar and sang and sounded so good we were floored. He had it. In the cold concrete-walled bar he sounded like he was in the old Sun Records studio, pouring out all the lonesomeness in the universe. Sammy joined him for a few tunes, like "Don't Stop the Music" and "Cotton-Eyed Joe." It was really special, and I'm not being trite.
Then we ventured on to Boulder, CO. The Southern Sun in Boulder has music on Monday nights, and more fun couldn't be had anywhere else. It reminded me of our own McMenamin's, with it's homespun beer, carnival decor, and love of local acoustic music (of course we came from a long way, but in between sets it was Colorado's finest on the stereo). The place is a restaurant, and when we set up we thought it would be one of those gigs where you're cranking out music in the corner while people gorge on burgers and maybe offer a golf clap as they pay their tab and leave. But the tables were cleared, and when the music started so did the dancing. We met a lot of good people here, including Taylor's cousin Alan and his wife Gionna (sic). Who would have guessed the redneck Reverend Taylor had a long-haired vegetarion Buddhist cousin in Nederland, CO? The next night we did another house concert at Jeff's house. He had all this homemade wine made from good quality varietal grapes, which makes my own concord brew at home seem silly. The tunes were fun and the chicken pot pie served up was enormous. But it was over early, and we needed some rest.
After playing tunes all day out at KC Groves' house in Lyons, we made the quick drive up to La Porte to play at the Swing Station. Bradford Lee Folk opened up this joint about 9 months ago, and he's got a real classic little bar happening. BBQ, beer in cans, the greatest country jukebox I've ever seen, and a trailer next door for the bands to sleep in. This was going to be good, largely because of the staff: Aaron on the sound, Erin at the door, Jesse and Michelle serving up the goods. A local band called the Lowland Spitbiters opened up the night with some tunes, and then we got to it, playing in a little bar in a little town; it reminded me of a country version of Ireland's pubs - a real down home spirit to it all that somehow symbolized the culture. Swing dancers in cowboy hats, beer-laden shouts, an ex-marine behind the bar telling sniper stories. This place rocked. I'd go there every day if I could, and hear every band. When they finally locked up at the end of the night, we found Chowdy already in the trailer blasting the Bee Gees on the old console stereo. It sounded really good, as if they were live on the local radio station, and radio was just invented yesterday. We rocked until the cops came.
After a lazy day in Longmont, we went back to Boulder and the Trilogy Wine Bar for a show in their cool club space in the back. Bare bones rock club, with great sound. Well, Brian didn't think so, but the recording is pretty awesome. The turnout was sparse but enthusiastic, and we had some good music fueled by some classy wine. Thanks again to Alan, who put us up that night, and pointed us to breakfast in Nederland, which we ate as the snow came down high up in the Rockies. We had a long, windy drive to Hotchkiss, where we met up with Sweet Sunny South, a highly fun band from Paonia. What a great bunch. They brought us down to the Kiwanis Club for a fish fry dinner. Some old-timers were playing fiddle tunes and old country hits on the stage, while the Kiwanis formed a line to get the grub on everyone's plates and little-girl rodeo queens bussed the tables. We polished off the hefty portions and headed back to Memorial Hall, which was a community room attatched to the library. SSS played a set of mostly original songs, all done in the old-time style, and were really charming and genuine and good players. Their guest fiddler, Andrea, Sammy knew from Minnesota, where they had both grown up and jammed together years ago. Whaddaya know. Then we had a short set, and then a big square dance the likes of which we don't see outside of the Kennedy School here in Portland. Caleb again called a dance, having the whole room twirling about. Felt like home. Many thanks to Bill, Rob, Shelly, and Rebecca too for letting us crash in her house!
In the morning we left for Durango, after being delayed by a truckful of vets dispersing flags downtown. The drive was absolutely trecherous. The road was narrow and curvy, with no guardrails, and a sheer cliff dropped from the side. It was all I could do to keep my eyes on the road, the bright sun reflecting off the snowy peaks all around us nearly blinded me. The air was getting thin. I thought I saw John Krakaor taking notes from a helicopter overhead. But we came down the other side, and checked into the Durango Bluegrass Meltdown. We played in the Diamond Theater in all it's old west glory, to a rowdy bunch far removed from the hippies in Boulder. We all caught a few sets by Open Road, these being their last performances with Brad Folk. Man, they were good. That is good bluegrass music, like very very few put on these days. Classic, and yet it was original, most of it penned by Brad himself. At midnight it was my birthday! I was sipping a buttercrown in the Stater hotel when it struck, then commenced walking from bar to bar along Main St. with a group of friends, riding the snake. The bars were too busy, so we made trashy wine cocktails back in our own room with the Boulder homebrew and Sprite. The rest of the gang went to bed soon after, but Chowdy wasn't around. He was back at the Stater; I found him there in an upstairs hall, and we played and sang with musicians from other bands there, Open Road and Chatham County Line and the Steep Canyon Rangers and SSS, who were kind enough to share one of their last beers with the birthday boy, who by then was a babbling mess, just like the day I was born.
I'm writing about it months after it happened, and I've lost a lot of detail, but I'm confident that detail doesn't have much to do with it. We went down to Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, to the home of Dirk Powell and Christine Balfa, their 2 daughters and Sammy the dog. Note that now we have Sammy, of course, Sammi-girl, and now Sammy-dog, even though there never was an actual Sammy to begin with. Is the universe absurd? Or obscured with absurdity? More cognac (I'm on an international flight ((aren't I cool?)) ).
Our mission was to record some music for Dirk's next cd, which he says will be out in August but it's August now and we all know how these things go. You can bet it will be out before our next recording is, whenever that might be. It's going to be a good one, when you can hear it. We spent the first night in Dirk's home studio, which is actually a small house that he moved on to the property (a common thing in LA, I hear), cranking out tunes and songs as if we were forming dumplings, knowing that they came from heaven. I love the process of recording. I suppose I might be spoiled, in that it's just like playing normally, all of us in a room playing like we play anyhow, maybe having another go at it if a string breaks or a cellphone goes off as the last note rings; but playing and listening and playing again in the studio is always such a growth spurt. You leave the studio knowing where you are at, and where to go, if anywhere. I mean, Dewey Balfa probably heard a recording of himself and thought it was good, like someone giving him a photograph of a good time, one among many. But I am not so holy, and as I crawl through this Purgatory of musicianship, lost, injured, and sometimes smelling like rancid oil, I get some sense of direction from the echo on playback speakers. Music can feel good while you're playing it, sound terrible later, sound good again after you listen to some Tracy Chapman for comparison, and then be the worst thing again when you stick to your own standards. But I always walk away from recording sessions feeling like I know music better. The truth was spoken.
I can't remember the order we did things in. There was the night we got our faces rocked off by Keith Frank. We were lucky to get to Richard's before it closed (after something like 50 years of music) to see Keith's band play. They pumped out the zydeco, holy f&%$&ing s&%t! There was dancing and loud loud music, tight and soulful and rowdy and raw and grooving. They didn't stop for about 4 hours. It was excruciating, a night with a true professional. My ears rang for days afterward, and that doesn't happen much since I got into folk music. Then in one day we heard Jackie Callier, Gino Delafose, Sheryl Cormier, and Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys play. We went to 3 different venues, spending the bread on Easter Sunday as if we could split loaves. That was a highlight. There is so much music in SW Louisiana, and it's all so local, and traditional, it's like a foreign country. The place has it's own culture, and it doesn't have much to do with the mainstream crap along the interstate. It's just different down there.
There was a party at Tony Davern's house, and at the Whirlybird (ask Caleb about the quail eggs) where Jim and Christy hold court, and at Yvonne's too. And there was plenty of good times right where we were staying. Courtney Granger was over one night, and I tell you, that man has the greatest voice I have ever heard on any singer that isn't dead. You just have to hear him, he will break your heart, even if you don't understand what the hell he is saying. We played a gig on the last night of our stay in Lafayette, and he joined us on stage for a version of Jack O'Diamonds in Cajun French. The lyrics are meaningless, stuff about shoes and fences and insomnia, but I swear when he sang them you felt as if an angel had come down from heaven and explained all misery, without offering any hope of escape, no promised land in another world, a dismal prospect except that the angel himself and the music are so beautiful that hope is delivered by their existence. The next day we were back in Portland, opening for Pink Martini at the Crystal Ballroom, the place filled with wannabe-cultured upper class bores, and if the event had not been for charity, and the cocktails not free, I would have killed myself.
