One of the most interesting things about folk music, to me, is the way it changes over time. Not just in terms of general style, but specifically. By which I mean to say, you have a primarily oral tradition going there, unlike classical music where you're given a more or less concrete piece and told how to play it. Because of this, you can track a specific song back hundreds of years (lyrically, anyway... a hundred and change for actual recordings), and hear how that singular piece has changed with the times.
I find this fascinating (in fact, the same core concept applied to languages is the primary reason I tried to minor in linguistics for awhile). If music is expressive of the human mind and heart, then when we have a song that's been played for a long time, we basically have a map of human growth and diversity over however many years we can track it back. Like analyzing the rings of a tree- a skilled student can learn many fascinating things if they listen close enough. Although to be clear, this is significantly less scientific and more interpretive, as are all things that work on a nonphysical level. I like that better anyway.
Of course, this would be a very boring blog if I didn't give you an example. My favorite example (one that has glazed the eyes of more than one hapless girlfriend) is
Stagolee
Stagolee is a (really) well known murder blues. There are several traditional murder blues songs that've been covered a lot. Frankie and johnny is a good example- I'm guessing that one actually goes back further- but one of the things I like about Stagolee is that the song can be tied concretely to the actual event that spawned it. There's a newspaper report from a 1895 copy of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat that details the events in the song. Basically, according to the paper (I'll paraphrase), the story goes like this:
"Stacker" Lee Shelton (the nickname has a bunch of variations, the most common one being "stagolee")- a pimp and a carriage driver (apparently you could be both)- and his friend William Lyons were gambling in a St. Louis Saloon on Christmas eve. Both were drunk. At some point the conversation devolved into a political argument, at the end of which Billy grabbed Lee's hat off his head. Lee told Billy to return it, and when he refused, Lee pulled a gun, shot Billy in the stomach, and walked away. Lee was arrested and Billy went to the hospital. Billy died of his wound a couple days later. Lee was convicted and died, in prison, of tuberculosis, 17 years later.
No biggie, right? I mean, it sucks, but in the grand scheme of things that shit happens every day. People really really seem to love killing each other (I'll share a couple other choice selections on the subject a bit later), and they'll jump at the opportunity. But that leads us to the other thing I think is cool about this- this is one of the most related stories in music... ever. Hundreds of people have covered it over the past hundred years. So, knowing what the event at the root is, I find it pretty fascinating to look at all the different variations that've sprung up so far.
Time for some examples.
...Is 10 enough?
Trust me, I promise this is the only time I will ever give you so many versions of the same song.... but I think this is so cool, I just can't help it this time. It's worth noting, however, that while I might be inclined to share notes with you about stylistic variations, that's not quite what I'm talking about with the tree rings thing. You can talk about music all day long, and regardless of how eloquent you are, you may still be missing the point. I feel like I've hammered this in so many ways from so many angles in the past, but in the artistic world (most of the world, really) it's the key point. So I'll italicize it this time, just to make it extra clear. It's not about facts, figures, thoughts or analysis- IT'S ALL ABOUT SOUL! So if you really want to understand what I'm talking about, close your eyes, sit back, and just listen.
Mississippi John Hurt
...covered the tune at one point. Although it's unlikely that he wrote it (he was 2 years old when the deed actually went down), his version is generally considered to be the quintessential one.
Herb Wiedoft's Orchestra
...is one of the earliest recordings (1924), although the only thing to link the song, really, is the title.
Furry Lewis
...did a version around 1927, As you can hear, the lyrics, melody, and story all started changing pretty drastically, pretty fast. 15 years after Stagolee was in his grave, his story was already pretty varied. Cool, huh?
Ma Rainey
was an "urban blues" singer (Furry and John are "country blues"- you'll hear the difference) contemporary with the rest of these guys. She did a version called Stack O' Lee that was, in fact, Frankie and Johnny with slightly tweaked lyrics. A lot of the urban blues performers were... not very original.
Moving along, they (predictably) schlocked it up pretty considerable in the '50s.
Lloyd Price
...managed to make a No. 1 hit out of it, though.
As you no doubt noticed, the same basic elements usually remain (the names, the shooting, and usually the hat)... but everything else is fair game for...modification. By the '70s, Stag's legend had grown to truly epic proportions.
Pacific Gas And Electric
...released a pretty embellished rendition, in which Stagolee goes to hell and dethrones the devil. Really... we're getting pretty out there, man.
Renditions of Stagolee have also been featured in two movies of late.
Keb Mo
...plays it in the 2007 movie Honeydripper.
and
Samuel L. Jackson
Plays a heavily modified version in Black Snake Moan (2006). I really like the first person narrative in this one. The version he's playing is actually a spinoff of R.L. Burnside's version -not the only nod to Burnside in that movie. If you haven't seen it, I recommend you go watch it and find out what I mean!
That's probably enough about Stack and Billy for one day. Hopefully you're getting a little bit of what I'm saying about the sheer breadth and depth of variation on this story. If you're really interested, I encourage you to look up some more tunes. I guarantee you won't run out anytime soon. I'm going to leave you with one of my favorite versions (for obvious reasons).
The Black Keys
...did their own Stagolee on the album they released around the time I found them (you know... before they were cool). Awesome!
I'll be back soon with some more examples of good old fashioned murder blues.
Later
-JC
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Badass Weirdos
So the topic of today is musical weirdos. People who operate outside of normal standards, be it for race, nationality, sex, or just style... and are all the more badass for it. And I don't mean the affected mainstream "rock & roll" or "punk" I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude... these people just are what they are. But they have or will go down in history for raising their voices and not allowing the what or how to dictate the who. That's what I think, anyway.
So. What if you're an old toothless black dude with no instrument, sitting on an empty stage, with only your own off-time clapping to keep you company? Can you still be a badass? Maybe you should ask Son House...
How about if your guitar has knotted together strings, hasn't been tuned in about a year, and your singing sounds like one of the crazy winos outside Walgreens? Maybe you can... if your name is Joseph Spence.
Speaking of weird voices, what if your midrange voice sounds smooth and croony, but your lower register can only be described as "demonically gravelly"? It only made Blind Willie Johnson go from stud, to super-stud (you'll see what I mean about gravelly at 1:30 or so).
Ok, so old blues guys were cool even if they sounded weird. But what if you're a contemporary white kid who looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy sans hat, with an acoustic guitar for accompaniment, trying to belt out soul like James Brown? Eli "Paperboy" Reed has my vote for BAMF membership.
Here's a chick with hair like a bottlebrush, who usually records with stuff like this for backing. I wonder if she can take the same song, and make it awesome using only her own voice and a multitrack. Listen to Martina go...
OK, what about a transsexual lead singer (who incidentally pronounces his 'r's like 'w's... I thought I was the only one that did that)?
The Cliks (combination of Clits and Cocks, if you're curious) are all the cooler for it.
How about weird style-crossover? Can you sing metal in a sinatra-esque lounge singer voice?
Richard Cheese can.
OK, nationality mismatches? How about a Swedish Delta Bluesman? (He does a lot of lessons on youtube if you ever take a notion to learn...)
What about an Argentinian Delta bluesman?
Gabriel Gratzer- Canned Heat
Gabriel Gratzer- Highway 49
No problem there I guess... turns out blues is pretty big over in Argentina. Who knew?
So then maybe if you're Russian you can still play some surfer guitar. In fact, you can even
do it to a polka beat while wearing zoot suits and bowties!
One more... while I'm on the topic, I just wanted to show you a rareish live video of a man who lost half the fingers on his left (fretting) hand to a fire... and went on to become one of the greatest jazz guitarists in the world. His name, of course, was Django Reinhardt.
So, now you see. Regardless of what shit you might have to deal with in life-be it physical capability, social standing, or just all around oddity... it can only enhance you in the world of music. Music is the language of the soul- and when the soul speaks, mere appearance is unimportant.
-Mojoe
So. What if you're an old toothless black dude with no instrument, sitting on an empty stage, with only your own off-time clapping to keep you company? Can you still be a badass? Maybe you should ask Son House...
How about if your guitar has knotted together strings, hasn't been tuned in about a year, and your singing sounds like one of the crazy winos outside Walgreens? Maybe you can... if your name is Joseph Spence.
Speaking of weird voices, what if your midrange voice sounds smooth and croony, but your lower register can only be described as "demonically gravelly"? It only made Blind Willie Johnson go from stud, to super-stud (you'll see what I mean about gravelly at 1:30 or so).
Ok, so old blues guys were cool even if they sounded weird. But what if you're a contemporary white kid who looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy sans hat, with an acoustic guitar for accompaniment, trying to belt out soul like James Brown? Eli "Paperboy" Reed has my vote for BAMF membership.
Here's a chick with hair like a bottlebrush, who usually records with stuff like this for backing. I wonder if she can take the same song, and make it awesome using only her own voice and a multitrack. Listen to Martina go...
OK, what about a transsexual lead singer (who incidentally pronounces his 'r's like 'w's... I thought I was the only one that did that)?
The Cliks (combination of Clits and Cocks, if you're curious) are all the cooler for it.
How about weird style-crossover? Can you sing metal in a sinatra-esque lounge singer voice?
Richard Cheese can.
OK, nationality mismatches? How about a Swedish Delta Bluesman? (He does a lot of lessons on youtube if you ever take a notion to learn...)
What about an Argentinian Delta bluesman?
Gabriel Gratzer- Canned Heat
Gabriel Gratzer- Highway 49
No problem there I guess... turns out blues is pretty big over in Argentina. Who knew?
So then maybe if you're Russian you can still play some surfer guitar. In fact, you can even
do it to a polka beat while wearing zoot suits and bowties!
One more... while I'm on the topic, I just wanted to show you a rareish live video of a man who lost half the fingers on his left (fretting) hand to a fire... and went on to become one of the greatest jazz guitarists in the world. His name, of course, was Django Reinhardt.
So, now you see. Regardless of what shit you might have to deal with in life-be it physical capability, social standing, or just all around oddity... it can only enhance you in the world of music. Music is the language of the soul- and when the soul speaks, mere appearance is unimportant.
-Mojoe
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
My lazy ass finally wrote another blog...
It's not an elegant title, but it's accurate. It's been awhile since I've been able to think of something to write about. Since returning from my trip to the reality of my unstable living situation, I've sort of taken a break from trying to solve the world's problems and instead tried to bear down and find a way out of the general life-related suckage that has been hanging over my head lately. Consequently, I've had little to write about besides that, and the blog I wrote on that subject never saw the light of day due to excessive complainy-ness. So I'll try to do the personal update in a paragraph or two...
Long story short, I have no job (the old one sucked anyway), my financial support's running out at the end of the year, my "music career" has been stalled on the runway for quite some time now, my romantic life has been more of a whimsical concept than an actuality (probably a blessing... I don't realistically have time or resources for that shit right now anyway) for about as long, and I'm mostly just trying to establish a means of living that doesn't feel like selling my soul. I suspect only other skilled artists know what I mean by that last, as the general population doesn't seem to understand exactly how much time and energy are required to maintain an art form (menial 9-5s are not conducive).
This isn't to say I haven't been enjoying myself at all. My last gig was wicked fun, I just invested some of my savings in a couple pair of sexy new pants to replace the ones that sprung knee-leaks (all part of my plan to attract a sexy sugarmama to fix my financial and romantical woes), and I also made a minor and well considered investment in a new condenser mic. This last has proven quite useful in the 6 hours I've had it, and you should actually be hearing some new recordings before long.
Anyway, I recently received a request for another music blog. So, being the kind hearted and obliging young man that I am, I have decided to make good on that. Get ready for some more delicious soulful music, in no particular order.
Playing for Change
...is a pun. And a really cool concept. Basically, some socially conscious individuals with music equipment went around and got street musicians (playing for change... get it?) from all over the world to overdub on various songs. I don't know much more than that 'cause I haven't really looked it up (lazy). I'm sure you can, though. Frankly, this is one of the coolest social/media related concepts I've seen... ever. I was reminded of it 'cus I just found a way to play Stand By Me on my guitar while I was fuckin' around today. Cool, huh? Here's some Bob for ya...
Some Black Keys you probably never heard
Long story short, I have no job (the old one sucked anyway), my financial support's running out at the end of the year, my "music career" has been stalled on the runway for quite some time now, my romantic life has been more of a whimsical concept than an actuality (probably a blessing... I don't realistically have time or resources for that shit right now anyway) for about as long, and I'm mostly just trying to establish a means of living that doesn't feel like selling my soul. I suspect only other skilled artists know what I mean by that last, as the general population doesn't seem to understand exactly how much time and energy are required to maintain an art form (menial 9-5s are not conducive).
This isn't to say I haven't been enjoying myself at all. My last gig was wicked fun, I just invested some of my savings in a couple pair of sexy new pants to replace the ones that sprung knee-leaks (all part of my plan to attract a sexy sugarmama to fix my financial and romantical woes), and I also made a minor and well considered investment in a new condenser mic. This last has proven quite useful in the 6 hours I've had it, and you should actually be hearing some new recordings before long.
Anyway, I recently received a request for another music blog. So, being the kind hearted and obliging young man that I am, I have decided to make good on that. Get ready for some more delicious soulful music, in no particular order.
Playing for Change
...is a pun. And a really cool concept. Basically, some socially conscious individuals with music equipment went around and got street musicians (playing for change... get it?) from all over the world to overdub on various songs. I don't know much more than that 'cause I haven't really looked it up (lazy). I'm sure you can, though. Frankly, this is one of the coolest social/media related concepts I've seen... ever. I was reminded of it 'cus I just found a way to play Stand By Me on my guitar while I was fuckin' around today. Cool, huh? Here's some Bob for ya...
Some Black Keys you probably never heard
...Cause I hadn't before today. Apparently now that they're popular, people have been hunting down obscure B-sides and stuff from the earlier days. And there's a live show at Abbey Rd. that I somehow missed... I love all the Black Keys' stuff, but damn I miss classic 'Keys. Safe to say finding this stuff made my day.
...Which reminds me
OK, so you know that channel full of awesome TBK i gave you back there? Well... I can nail down at least two awesome people you've probably never heard out of those covers. First, Something On Your Mind is by Karen Dalton. She was not a recording artist (I doubt she really had any input into her final product frankly), so all her records sound kinda weird and hard to get used to. Here is the most accessible track of hers I've found (see? not a studio recording...). I also play a pretty decent rendition of this tune... if you come see me play sometime, you just might hear it.
Second, Goin' Down South is by a badass old bluesman by the name of R.L. Burnside. Burnside was by all accounts kind of an asshole, but a brilliant delta bluesman. The story about him that stands out most for me is about him going to jail for killing a guy (I think the dude banged his wife or something). Burnside's famous commentary on the situation was "I didn't mean to kill him. I just meant to shoot the motherfucker in the head... him dying was between him and God". Incidentally, Burnside spent less than a year in jail. The local plantation owner got him pardoned because he needed Burnside to help with the next harvest.
Sugarmama!
Remember when I told you about my plan to find a sexy sugar mama? Well learning this song is part of my plan...
All that R.L. and John Lee has me wanting to do some electrical type stuff (I'm thinking if I could pull together a sweet rhythmic electrical set it might broaden my gigging horizons too...). Too bad my electric guitar is a piece and my amp is roughly the size of a breadbox, huh? My artistic life could use a goodly infusion of cash, fo' sho'. And sex. Come ooooon, SUGAR MAMA!
Soul!
... is a genre I'm enjoying more and more. I bet most of you didn't look him up last time I linked you (shame!), so here is your booster shot of Aloe Blacc.
And I realized I never showed you any Eli 'Paperboy' Reed. Can't imagine why... white boy's got soul!
Frenchy!
Nouvelle Vague is a french band. This is my favorite song of theirs (an original). It's a little bit of a diversion from their normal schtick. You know how a lot of punk bands do mainstream songs, but sped up and rougher? Well... Nouvelle Vague does it backwards! (Guns Of Brixton is originally a Clash song, I believe).
Here's another cute french chick band- April March. You may know this tune in it's english version as the end credit song for Death Proof. I think it's more fun in french though.
Speaking of Death Proof
...here's another sweet oldie handpicked by Quentin Tarantino. It's in the lap dance scene that's was cut from the theatrical version. Quentin picks some pretty sweet jams for his movies. hadn't listened to that last one in a long time.
As my blog goes on, I start to forget what music I put up already, and sometimes I miss it when I look back over my posts. My apologies (I think I already mentioned Burnside and Dalton after all...). But for the life of me, I can't find any Martina Topley Bird. Since she's one of my favorites I have a hard time believing I didn't put her up already, but... oh well. If you heard it before, listen again! Here's my two favorites:
...and a bonus- the track that introduced me to her. I found it on a video game called Indigo Prophecy several years back, if you're interested.
Well, it's late (early), and Martina's making me snoozy, so there's your music selection for the night. Check back soon... hopefully there will be some of MY recordings 'fore long!
Keep on keepin' on, people.
-Mojoe
P.S. Shout out! Hi, Miela. Hope this keeps you busy over there in the land of 'roos and koalas for awhile...
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Lost and found
Well, this should officially wrap up the travel section of my blog for awhile. I arrived home, safe and sound, on the 15th. I've been chilling out and trying to readapt to stationary life since. I've noticed that anytime I travel for awhile and come home, things maintain a sort of fuzzy sense of unreality for awhile.
The drive to CO was relatively uneventful. We did the "hell ride" as my uncle calls it, 33 hours only stopping for gas and a sandwich. We split the driving (I drove a bit less than half), the alternate crashing out in the back seat when off the clock. I have to say, I was rather impressed at my own endurance, considering I hadn't so much as driven around the block in almost a month and a half. The train ride was boring... but mercifully short (12 hours).
Summary
Well... I guess this would be the point where I tell you what I learned, and all that. Unfortunately, that would be easier if the trip had been more defined. But that's not really where my whole life has been lately. I'd have to say that most of the important things that happened to me while I was gone are the kind of things we don't talk about. Not because they're secret, exactly, but because nobody else would understand. Based on a lifetime of accumulated personal observation, these are the subtle truths that sound stupid, crazy, or both, if spoken aloud. Maybe someday when my internal life is less chaotic I will have better stories to share... but for now, my adventures exist mostly in my own mind.
As you probably know, this trip was undertaken partly (primarily even) in search of some answers. Initially, I would have said that I didn't get the answers I was looking for. But, really, I think the deeper issue here is trust. I think I had those answers before I left, and still haven't learned to trust them in the face of the crosswise nature of my reality right now. I mostly know where I'm headed, but everything seems backwards right now, and something's gotta break before I can move. I'm starting to think that something may be the element of self-trust itself. Where I want to go from here will require a great deal of personal security, probably more than most people lay claim to, and it seems I will have to give myself that before the tipping point is reached. Contrary to popular belief, the only way to find trust is to create it yourself. See? I'm already starting to sound crazy...
So, no big overview to share. I ate a lot of tasty food, hung out with many friends and loved ones, and traveled many many miles. I am still as much at a loss as when I left, but I'm starting to think that's my own fault. But today I wrote a song. I like it... catchy melody, cool break, nice words. I'd maybe even share it on youtube, but you know... the camera thing. But I'll do the next best thing and give you the lyrics. It's kind of a traveling song, I guess. I've had the title for about a year (it's slated to be the title track on my first album), but I just haven't been able to find the song 'til now. Funny, how that works. Anyway, here you go...
Lost and Found
Passing trains
And awkward waiting lines
And the lights of this city, so much like the others, with its
Distant passing smiles
Gone in such a hurry, sheltered high
On every side, by buildings tall
So loved by the gods, for a laugh
All scattered round
Lost and found
Forgotten names
Spaces shared awhile
By these handshake strangers
Waiting for a chance to be known
Again, united in
A common cause of motion, and the
Sway, blacktop or the rails or the
Swelling sea, like the motion of the lovers we have found
Picked up, let down
Lost and found
If I had the time
I'd go back, and dig
These seeds from my mind
Bright flowers, scattered round
Choking the ground
But for now
My fingers love the sound
Of "lost and found"
If I had the time
I'd go back and find
A place to call mine
And I'd find these eyes
Never turned from mine
But my heart
Still swells to the sound
Of "lost and found"
Going home
White station lights
Or the singing of the blacktop
Hoping that the next stop brings us rest
Sleep, companions for the road ahead
"ladies and gentlemen, stand back, the doors are opening..."
The sway, the swell
The loving road beneath
Riding that line between the times
And the sound
Of "lost and found"
Those who have never attempted it may not believe this, but songwriting is not a process of contrivance. That is to say, I don't "think up" the things I write. The experience is much less like planning a building than like tuning in a static- filled radio. Consequently, you never really know what you've got 'til you hear it for yourself. When it was finished, I noticed it shares a certain musical attitude with this song, which I will leave you with.
Later!
-Mojoe
The drive to CO was relatively uneventful. We did the "hell ride" as my uncle calls it, 33 hours only stopping for gas and a sandwich. We split the driving (I drove a bit less than half), the alternate crashing out in the back seat when off the clock. I have to say, I was rather impressed at my own endurance, considering I hadn't so much as driven around the block in almost a month and a half. The train ride was boring... but mercifully short (12 hours).
Summary
Well... I guess this would be the point where I tell you what I learned, and all that. Unfortunately, that would be easier if the trip had been more defined. But that's not really where my whole life has been lately. I'd have to say that most of the important things that happened to me while I was gone are the kind of things we don't talk about. Not because they're secret, exactly, but because nobody else would understand. Based on a lifetime of accumulated personal observation, these are the subtle truths that sound stupid, crazy, or both, if spoken aloud. Maybe someday when my internal life is less chaotic I will have better stories to share... but for now, my adventures exist mostly in my own mind.
As you probably know, this trip was undertaken partly (primarily even) in search of some answers. Initially, I would have said that I didn't get the answers I was looking for. But, really, I think the deeper issue here is trust. I think I had those answers before I left, and still haven't learned to trust them in the face of the crosswise nature of my reality right now. I mostly know where I'm headed, but everything seems backwards right now, and something's gotta break before I can move. I'm starting to think that something may be the element of self-trust itself. Where I want to go from here will require a great deal of personal security, probably more than most people lay claim to, and it seems I will have to give myself that before the tipping point is reached. Contrary to popular belief, the only way to find trust is to create it yourself. See? I'm already starting to sound crazy...
So, no big overview to share. I ate a lot of tasty food, hung out with many friends and loved ones, and traveled many many miles. I am still as much at a loss as when I left, but I'm starting to think that's my own fault. But today I wrote a song. I like it... catchy melody, cool break, nice words. I'd maybe even share it on youtube, but you know... the camera thing. But I'll do the next best thing and give you the lyrics. It's kind of a traveling song, I guess. I've had the title for about a year (it's slated to be the title track on my first album), but I just haven't been able to find the song 'til now. Funny, how that works. Anyway, here you go...
Lost and Found
Passing trains
And awkward waiting lines
And the lights of this city, so much like the others, with its
Distant passing smiles
Gone in such a hurry, sheltered high
On every side, by buildings tall
So loved by the gods, for a laugh
All scattered round
Lost and found
Forgotten names
Spaces shared awhile
By these handshake strangers
Waiting for a chance to be known
Again, united in
A common cause of motion, and the
Sway, blacktop or the rails or the
Swelling sea, like the motion of the lovers we have found
Picked up, let down
Lost and found
If I had the time
I'd go back, and dig
These seeds from my mind
Bright flowers, scattered round
Choking the ground
But for now
My fingers love the sound
Of "lost and found"
If I had the time
I'd go back and find
A place to call mine
And I'd find these eyes
Never turned from mine
But my heart
Still swells to the sound
Of "lost and found"
Going home
White station lights
Or the singing of the blacktop
Hoping that the next stop brings us rest
Sleep, companions for the road ahead
"ladies and gentlemen, stand back, the doors are opening..."
The sway, the swell
The loving road beneath
Riding that line between the times
And the sound
Of "lost and found"
Those who have never attempted it may not believe this, but songwriting is not a process of contrivance. That is to say, I don't "think up" the things I write. The experience is much less like planning a building than like tuning in a static- filled radio. Consequently, you never really know what you've got 'til you hear it for yourself. When it was finished, I noticed it shares a certain musical attitude with this song, which I will leave you with.
Later!
-Mojoe
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Trains and whales and witches... oh my!
Greetings from Gloucester, MA.
Well, my trip to New England went fine, if somewhat slowly. I spent a half hour sitting in a car in downtown Crystal Falls with my mom at 1 a.m. to catch the Indian Trails (local bus line in lieu of Greyhound) bus. Crystal is a small enough (or backwards enough- take your pick) town to lack a bus stop. To catch the bus, you wait eagerly at the busiest Main St. intersection, and flag the Greyhound down when you see it. Quaint, no?
It probably goes without mentioning that I forgot something else important. This time I left my rail pass (the one that reads "must be presented to obtain tickets" or some such) on the desk in my mom's cabin. I remembered this approximately 2 minutes after boarding the bus. Since I had to pick up my tix in Milwaukee, and judging from the previously "pretty German" (as my uncle puts it) attitude of the amtrak establishment, this could have been a big problem. I could quite reasonably freaked out about it, since Milwaukee would be a shitty place to get stranded. But, rapidly improving at my zen traveler mindset, I took the "nothing I can do now" mindset, and went to sleep instead. I'm really starting to rock socks at this traveling thing, people.
I spent the next 8 hours, as bus passengers do, drifting in and out of consciousness. We stopped for an hour in Escanaba to switch buses, so I got to sit in the bus station for an hour and observe the mundane goings on through a film of semi-waking consciousness. This brought a singular revelation; all bus drivers in the U.P. look identical. No shit. Same height, same weight (male yoopers in general are of that particular beer-induced body type that makes them look, for all the world, like they're pregnant) Same voice, same haircut, same fungible Flanders-esque mustache. Of the 3 or 4 bus drivers I saw in Escanaba, the only differences were, one had brown hair, and one lacked the mandatory surly demeanor. Swear to God.
So, I made it to Milwaukee. Exhausted, I stumbled to the ticket counter where I was actually treated kindly. Either taking pity on my wearied countenance and dehydrated voice, or just because she was nice, the ticket lady used a couple quick keystrokes to circumvent my need for a rail pass, and handed off my tickets, noting that I was free to use my ticket to travel on any Chicago-bound train throughout the day. No problemo. This reinforces my belief that obnoxious corporations are mostly built on the backs of generally decent people.
So, I spent that day killing time. As my train out of Chicago didn't leave 'til 9:30 p.m., I had some time on my hands. I got good and sweaty hiking around Milwaukee for awhile. My final judgement on Milwaukee was, aside from a couple cool old buildings... boring. So I took off to Chicago, grabbed a too-short nap on the train, and got good and sweaty wandering around there instead. My assessment of chicago... also boring. I'm getting pretty used to carrying a backpack and a guitar around, but I suspect my pack is not a good fit. Either that, or I'm using it wrong. Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be experiencing sharp nerve pains through my upper shoulder when I wear it for more than 5 minutes. Oh, well.
I ended up in the Chicago train station with a book for about 3 hours. I must say, the Chicago train station is about as bleak and shitty as they get. Utilitarian, dirty, busy, disorganized... you name it. Fuck Chicago... I kinda knew we wouldn't get along. The conductor lady was also a piece of work. One of those "sassy black women". Effectively, she gets by on an attitude that's alternately charming and offensive, depending on whether or nor she's getting what she wants. She sat me in the wrong car (they only open the applicable car doors when they stop, so that's actually important to the conductor), and when she realized her mistake, sat me in the only one she had left- one with a wall instead of a window. Somehow she seemed to feel this was my own fault. Whatever. At least I got to sit next to a pretty (if not too chatty) Bulgarian girl, instead of a fat Texan or something.
She was a nice enough travel companion, but really hammered in a disturbing trend I've been noticing. Girls my age (esp. ones I find attractive) are always apologizing to me. For no reason. ALWAYS. As in "sorry... my blanket's all over the place" "sorry, I know my job's cliché" or inexplicably apologizing every time she moved her legs so I could get up. Are girls in my generation really this insecure? Do I only find insecure girls attractive? Is there something in my demeanor that compels girls to apologize to me? Is it perhaps even some bizarre expression of attraction? If the last is so, I do not find that flirtatious, Sam I Am. Seriously, what the fuck is it?? If you have a theory, spit it out...
Blah blah, train, blah blah, sink bath (they're even harder with the "push up to activate" sinks- I'd love to hang the bastard who invented those). Blah blah Boston, blah blah funny accents, blah blah swearing. Blah blah "Good Will Hunting". Blah blah commuter train to Gloucester, blah blah pickup at midnight, blah blah safe and sound.
Whaleses!
So, I did the quintessential Gloucester tourist thing, and went on a whale watch. Basically, you climb on a big boat, they tote you out about 30 miles to sea (2 hours or so) and you look for any big sea creatures that might happen to swing by. It's kinda like a photo safari, but on the ocean. One of the attractions is, there's no walls, no fish-finder action (all they do is take you to likely spots), and certainly no goofy animal trainers. You're going to see them in uncontrolled conditions. This has the dual attraction of "untamed nature", and of the unknown (particularly whether you will actually see any friggin' whales). I've been informed by my aunt that more than one visitor has been burned on this latter account.
Luckily, this wasn't a problem for me. I saw a veritable fuckton of humpbacks, and a shark for good measure. We came upon a very active feeding ground. We watched over a dozen whales (possibly more than 20) within a relatively tiny patch of ocean (they were basically right next to the boat) scare up a fishy meal, both by slapping the water with their tails, and corralling schools of fish with circles of bubbles. This went on for about half an hour before we had to motorize on home, taking extra special care not to run over any whales on our way out of the feeding ground. It was pretty cool.
I couldn't take pictures. But I asked a nice young woman with a telephoto-lensed camera who stood next to me if she would e-mail me some pics. So if she gets around to it, I will share them then. Also, I was informed later that the shark we saw on the way home was toothless. Apparently the sharks around here are plankton feeders. That was kind of a boner-killer. What kind of self-respecting shark eats fucking PLANKTON?
I will also note how cool it was being on the sea. This was my first time on a legit boat ride, like... where you can't see land anymore. I found the motion of the sea, far from the nauseating experience some people seem to get, quite wonderful. To me, it felt like love. From the rocking of a cradle, throughout the arts (especially musical, like singing and dancing), and of course in the love-making of adulthood, that ever present swell and fall feels like the undercurrent of everything heart-based I've done in my life. I can only surmise that those who find it nauseating must have some serious troubles navigating the seas of emotion as well. Anyway, I'm thinking maybe I should move a little closer to the water.
Witches!
Also, today, I did the other touristey thing and went to Salem. You know... with the witches and all? That was pretty cool. I was amused that the town that's best known for prosecuting witches back in the day, is now a veritable shrine to witchcraft. Albeit a pretty touristey one. I must have passed a solid dozen "witch museums", along with countless witch-related storefronts.
I, however, eschewed the sensational, and instead spent the day at the Peabody-Essex museum. I'm not much of a museum guy, but it was pretty friggin' cool. It's a 3 floor museum, and it's pretty jam-packed. They have a lot of old sian art (I guess Salem was a big stop on the asian import route)-everything from sculptures to paintings to furniture. They also have a lot of old colonial type stuff, including a well-chosen selection of maritime artifacts, and a crapload of old china and silver. On the top floor I saw an exhibit on Man Ray and Lee Miller, a surrealist dream team who had a rocky romantic relationship for a couple years, but remained good friends for life. It was pretty cool, but a little sad, since they had a lot of art and some really (overly) personal letters on display relating to their break up. That theme always tugs my heartstrings a little, I guess.
This Amtrak deal is the most regularly I've been fucked in some time...
...and that's sad on multiple levels. New Orleans, sadly, is out. Booked up. After this discovery, I decided to cough up another 66 bucks extra and go see my aunt in Omaha on the way home (esp. since the first available ticket back to alb. from Boston leaves on the 16th). But, as it turns out, she's too busy for guests right now. So, I've opted to eschew the entire fucking rail system clusterfuck, and drive back to CO with my uncle Paul, who just happens to be up here on family business. I will then leave Denver by bus at the ungodly hour of 5:35 a.m., and be home in time for dinner (and probably a 24-hour sleep marathon in my own fucking bed!). Plans are finalized, I'll enjoy my last couple days in MA (hopefully I can get some more loblob in my tummy before I go) and hopefully everything goes smoothly from here. I will likely not find an excuse to blog again before I get home, so this may well be the penultimate travel entry (!!!!). It's been fun, y'all, every step of the way ...even all the bitching was mostly just to enhance the dramatic value... but I'm ready to be home.
Wish me luck.
-Mojoe
P.S. did you think I forgot to leave you a song? Silly rabbit... here's some Billie:
I will probably learn to play this one. I especially like the "some like me" verse at the end... I really wanna sing that verse.
And here's a sad, sad song my brother turned me onto when we were hangin out ( I gotta say, he got a pretty good line on my musical preferences just from listening to me for a couple hours).
Well, my trip to New England went fine, if somewhat slowly. I spent a half hour sitting in a car in downtown Crystal Falls with my mom at 1 a.m. to catch the Indian Trails (local bus line in lieu of Greyhound) bus. Crystal is a small enough (or backwards enough- take your pick) town to lack a bus stop. To catch the bus, you wait eagerly at the busiest Main St. intersection, and flag the Greyhound down when you see it. Quaint, no?
It probably goes without mentioning that I forgot something else important. This time I left my rail pass (the one that reads "must be presented to obtain tickets" or some such) on the desk in my mom's cabin. I remembered this approximately 2 minutes after boarding the bus. Since I had to pick up my tix in Milwaukee, and judging from the previously "pretty German" (as my uncle puts it) attitude of the amtrak establishment, this could have been a big problem. I could quite reasonably freaked out about it, since Milwaukee would be a shitty place to get stranded. But, rapidly improving at my zen traveler mindset, I took the "nothing I can do now" mindset, and went to sleep instead. I'm really starting to rock socks at this traveling thing, people.
I spent the next 8 hours, as bus passengers do, drifting in and out of consciousness. We stopped for an hour in Escanaba to switch buses, so I got to sit in the bus station for an hour and observe the mundane goings on through a film of semi-waking consciousness. This brought a singular revelation; all bus drivers in the U.P. look identical. No shit. Same height, same weight (male yoopers in general are of that particular beer-induced body type that makes them look, for all the world, like they're pregnant) Same voice, same haircut, same fungible Flanders-esque mustache. Of the 3 or 4 bus drivers I saw in Escanaba, the only differences were, one had brown hair, and one lacked the mandatory surly demeanor. Swear to God.
So, I made it to Milwaukee. Exhausted, I stumbled to the ticket counter where I was actually treated kindly. Either taking pity on my wearied countenance and dehydrated voice, or just because she was nice, the ticket lady used a couple quick keystrokes to circumvent my need for a rail pass, and handed off my tickets, noting that I was free to use my ticket to travel on any Chicago-bound train throughout the day. No problemo. This reinforces my belief that obnoxious corporations are mostly built on the backs of generally decent people.
So, I spent that day killing time. As my train out of Chicago didn't leave 'til 9:30 p.m., I had some time on my hands. I got good and sweaty hiking around Milwaukee for awhile. My final judgement on Milwaukee was, aside from a couple cool old buildings... boring. So I took off to Chicago, grabbed a too-short nap on the train, and got good and sweaty wandering around there instead. My assessment of chicago... also boring. I'm getting pretty used to carrying a backpack and a guitar around, but I suspect my pack is not a good fit. Either that, or I'm using it wrong. Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be experiencing sharp nerve pains through my upper shoulder when I wear it for more than 5 minutes. Oh, well.
I ended up in the Chicago train station with a book for about 3 hours. I must say, the Chicago train station is about as bleak and shitty as they get. Utilitarian, dirty, busy, disorganized... you name it. Fuck Chicago... I kinda knew we wouldn't get along. The conductor lady was also a piece of work. One of those "sassy black women". Effectively, she gets by on an attitude that's alternately charming and offensive, depending on whether or nor she's getting what she wants. She sat me in the wrong car (they only open the applicable car doors when they stop, so that's actually important to the conductor), and when she realized her mistake, sat me in the only one she had left- one with a wall instead of a window. Somehow she seemed to feel this was my own fault. Whatever. At least I got to sit next to a pretty (if not too chatty) Bulgarian girl, instead of a fat Texan or something.
She was a nice enough travel companion, but really hammered in a disturbing trend I've been noticing. Girls my age (esp. ones I find attractive) are always apologizing to me. For no reason. ALWAYS. As in "sorry... my blanket's all over the place" "sorry, I know my job's cliché" or inexplicably apologizing every time she moved her legs so I could get up. Are girls in my generation really this insecure? Do I only find insecure girls attractive? Is there something in my demeanor that compels girls to apologize to me? Is it perhaps even some bizarre expression of attraction? If the last is so, I do not find that flirtatious, Sam I Am. Seriously, what the fuck is it?? If you have a theory, spit it out...
Blah blah, train, blah blah, sink bath (they're even harder with the "push up to activate" sinks- I'd love to hang the bastard who invented those). Blah blah Boston, blah blah funny accents, blah blah swearing. Blah blah "Good Will Hunting". Blah blah commuter train to Gloucester, blah blah pickup at midnight, blah blah safe and sound.
Whaleses!
So, I did the quintessential Gloucester tourist thing, and went on a whale watch. Basically, you climb on a big boat, they tote you out about 30 miles to sea (2 hours or so) and you look for any big sea creatures that might happen to swing by. It's kinda like a photo safari, but on the ocean. One of the attractions is, there's no walls, no fish-finder action (all they do is take you to likely spots), and certainly no goofy animal trainers. You're going to see them in uncontrolled conditions. This has the dual attraction of "untamed nature", and of the unknown (particularly whether you will actually see any friggin' whales). I've been informed by my aunt that more than one visitor has been burned on this latter account.
Luckily, this wasn't a problem for me. I saw a veritable fuckton of humpbacks, and a shark for good measure. We came upon a very active feeding ground. We watched over a dozen whales (possibly more than 20) within a relatively tiny patch of ocean (they were basically right next to the boat) scare up a fishy meal, both by slapping the water with their tails, and corralling schools of fish with circles of bubbles. This went on for about half an hour before we had to motorize on home, taking extra special care not to run over any whales on our way out of the feeding ground. It was pretty cool.
I couldn't take pictures. But I asked a nice young woman with a telephoto-lensed camera who stood next to me if she would e-mail me some pics. So if she gets around to it, I will share them then. Also, I was informed later that the shark we saw on the way home was toothless. Apparently the sharks around here are plankton feeders. That was kind of a boner-killer. What kind of self-respecting shark eats fucking PLANKTON?
I will also note how cool it was being on the sea. This was my first time on a legit boat ride, like... where you can't see land anymore. I found the motion of the sea, far from the nauseating experience some people seem to get, quite wonderful. To me, it felt like love. From the rocking of a cradle, throughout the arts (especially musical, like singing and dancing), and of course in the love-making of adulthood, that ever present swell and fall feels like the undercurrent of everything heart-based I've done in my life. I can only surmise that those who find it nauseating must have some serious troubles navigating the seas of emotion as well. Anyway, I'm thinking maybe I should move a little closer to the water.
Witches!
Also, today, I did the other touristey thing and went to Salem. You know... with the witches and all? That was pretty cool. I was amused that the town that's best known for prosecuting witches back in the day, is now a veritable shrine to witchcraft. Albeit a pretty touristey one. I must have passed a solid dozen "witch museums", along with countless witch-related storefronts.
I, however, eschewed the sensational, and instead spent the day at the Peabody-Essex museum. I'm not much of a museum guy, but it was pretty friggin' cool. It's a 3 floor museum, and it's pretty jam-packed. They have a lot of old sian art (I guess Salem was a big stop on the asian import route)-everything from sculptures to paintings to furniture. They also have a lot of old colonial type stuff, including a well-chosen selection of maritime artifacts, and a crapload of old china and silver. On the top floor I saw an exhibit on Man Ray and Lee Miller, a surrealist dream team who had a rocky romantic relationship for a couple years, but remained good friends for life. It was pretty cool, but a little sad, since they had a lot of art and some really (overly) personal letters on display relating to their break up. That theme always tugs my heartstrings a little, I guess.
This Amtrak deal is the most regularly I've been fucked in some time...
...and that's sad on multiple levels. New Orleans, sadly, is out. Booked up. After this discovery, I decided to cough up another 66 bucks extra and go see my aunt in Omaha on the way home (esp. since the first available ticket back to alb. from Boston leaves on the 16th). But, as it turns out, she's too busy for guests right now. So, I've opted to eschew the entire fucking rail system clusterfuck, and drive back to CO with my uncle Paul, who just happens to be up here on family business. I will then leave Denver by bus at the ungodly hour of 5:35 a.m., and be home in time for dinner (and probably a 24-hour sleep marathon in my own fucking bed!). Plans are finalized, I'll enjoy my last couple days in MA (hopefully I can get some more loblob in my tummy before I go) and hopefully everything goes smoothly from here. I will likely not find an excuse to blog again before I get home, so this may well be the penultimate travel entry (!!!!). It's been fun, y'all, every step of the way ...even all the bitching was mostly just to enhance the dramatic value... but I'm ready to be home.
Wish me luck.
-Mojoe
P.S. did you think I forgot to leave you a song? Silly rabbit... here's some Billie:
I will probably learn to play this one. I especially like the "some like me" verse at the end... I really wanna sing that verse.
And here's a sad, sad song my brother turned me onto when we were hangin out ( I gotta say, he got a pretty good line on my musical preferences just from listening to me for a couple hours).
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
WTF is a Yooper?
I'll answer that in a second. Predictably, it's been awhile since my last post- and the last one wasn't even a full update. Since Portland, I've been to WA and MI. I leave MI tonight, striking out for Gloucester, MA. Since I've mostly just been hanging out with family and whatnot, I should be able to bring you up to speed pretty quickly before I leave.
Washington
So when I left Portland, I went to Washington. I have a friend who lives in Port Orchard, so I rolled into Tacoma. It was the work of but a few hours to get there, and the train was on time for a fucking wonder. That was nice, but it didn't make up for what happened next. Remember the "foreshadowing" thing? Yeah... so about halfway to Port Orchard I realized I left my fucking camera on the train. That's right, I took my brand new 300 dollar Nikon out of my backpack with the intention of being a good little tourist and taking some pictures for you, got bored (turns out everything looks pretty much the same from a train window), fell asleep, woke up for my stop, and completely forgot the fucker. FUCK!
I called Amtrak, gave them my seat number and everything, and was told they'd look for it, and call me if they found it. I called them back a couple times, but no go so far. I'm thinking it's gone. I feel like I should say I've been kicking myself ever since, but it's not really true. As much as that sucks, it was an honest mistake, and I'm too Taoist to waste a lot of time over spilled milk. Frankly, as much as I had designs for a youtube channel and all that, I've lived without a camera for 21 years- if I really need one in the future, I guess I'll find a way to get one. The only thing that really still stings is that it was a gift. I always have a harder time letting go of things someone got me out of the goodness of their hearts than shit I got for myself. Funny, huh?
The rest of WA was fairly uneventful. I hung out with my friend for a couple days (one full day and two halves in fact). I had some tasty food, fucked around in Seattle for awhile, did some redneck target practice (20 gauge shotgun + old microwave in the back yard). I rode the ferry across to Seattle, where I jammed with a hobo, and hopped on my 48-hour train ride (plus 5 hour layover in Milwaukee, and 9 hour bus ride) to Crystal Falls, MI.
Yoopers!
So, what's a Yooper? Well, Michigan is divided into 2 parts. There's Lower Michigan, which is where all the stuff you know about (Detroit) is, and then there's another part- separated from the rest of the state by a large portion of lake Michigan (it's a big-ass lake). This little bit at the top is inhabited mostly by descendants of immigrants from super cold places like Finland (lots of the towns have street names that are mostly in Finnish). They are generally poor by today's standards, and have silly accents much like a watered-down version of the Minnesotan/Dakotan accents in Fargo.This area is referred to as the Upper Peninsula- U.P. for short. From there, especially with the accents here, it's a short step to calling all the natives here Yoopers. So now you know, and when I wear my Yooper Chopper Co. shirt with the picture of a chainsaw on it, you don't have to ask.
The reason I'm here is I have family here. My Grandfather has lived here for years and years, so has my Great-Great Aunt, and my Mom moved here a year or so ago when life in California didn't pan out. My trip coincided (purposely) with my brother/sister-in-law/nephew's visit, so mostly what I've been doing for the last week or so is hang out with my family. Consequent to that, I have very little to report. Most of the newsworthy info is as follows:
-I played at a bar in a town @ an hour away- Bennet's Roadhouse Saloon. I was well received there, and the owner (a very nice guy) filmed and posted my House Of The Rising Sun. The sound quality's a little iffy, but it's certainly nice to get outside promotion!
-One of my most impressed audience members was my brother, Dave, who took pains to inform me that it "wasn't just because he's my brother". That was the first time he had seen me perform, and he was apparently taken enough that he wants to try and help me orchestrate a little southern tour sometime soon, having made connects in the Virginia/Carolina area for some years. As the original family pro (he trained as a concert pianist for years, til his second year of college, when he decided a Classics major was more his style- he has his doctorate in that now), among other things, that recognition really means a lot to me.
-Dave, having taken up distance running in the last few years, also ran a trail marathon while he was here (made 3:50 or so, I might add). In a fit of brotherly love, he decided to dedicate it to me. That almost made me cry.
-I played another gig at an awesome venue called the Honey House. It's owned by beekeepers. They bought an abandoned church- that's where I played. Except for the shitty sound equipment ( i borrowed 2 practice amps-one turned out to be a bass amp- and a lousy microphone from my mom's friends), it was pretty awesome. I've always wanted to play in a church... and I'd like to again. Also, they are trying to start a meadery via a Kickstarter project. Everyone likes delicious honey wine (especially me), so kick them some money if you can. If you do, I'll buy you a bottle when I get rich and famous.
-I ate lots of tasty food and had lots of fun
-Amtrak apparently only lets us privileged rail pass customers get our tickets physically AT the station, and since the nearest station is in MILWAUKEE, they effectively bussed me up here and left me high and dry. I had to pay for a bus ticket out of my own pocket (70 bucks) to get me back down. This brings my ticket expenses, on top of the $750 pass that was supposed to keep my ass covered, up to about $200. Not to mention the 300 dollar camera they couldn't find, even though I gave them its exact location before the train even stopped again. Fuck you, Amtrak, I hope you die.
Anyway, that's about it for now. I roll out by bus at 1 a.m. tonight, and should get into Boston at @ 9 on the 5th. keep your fingers crossed that it's not in too late, as I have to catch a train to North Station, then to Gloucester after that, all before they finish running for the night.
Here's a song I like.
Bye!
-Mojoe
Washington
So when I left Portland, I went to Washington. I have a friend who lives in Port Orchard, so I rolled into Tacoma. It was the work of but a few hours to get there, and the train was on time for a fucking wonder. That was nice, but it didn't make up for what happened next. Remember the "foreshadowing" thing? Yeah... so about halfway to Port Orchard I realized I left my fucking camera on the train. That's right, I took my brand new 300 dollar Nikon out of my backpack with the intention of being a good little tourist and taking some pictures for you, got bored (turns out everything looks pretty much the same from a train window), fell asleep, woke up for my stop, and completely forgot the fucker. FUCK!
I called Amtrak, gave them my seat number and everything, and was told they'd look for it, and call me if they found it. I called them back a couple times, but no go so far. I'm thinking it's gone. I feel like I should say I've been kicking myself ever since, but it's not really true. As much as that sucks, it was an honest mistake, and I'm too Taoist to waste a lot of time over spilled milk. Frankly, as much as I had designs for a youtube channel and all that, I've lived without a camera for 21 years- if I really need one in the future, I guess I'll find a way to get one. The only thing that really still stings is that it was a gift. I always have a harder time letting go of things someone got me out of the goodness of their hearts than shit I got for myself. Funny, huh?
The rest of WA was fairly uneventful. I hung out with my friend for a couple days (one full day and two halves in fact). I had some tasty food, fucked around in Seattle for awhile, did some redneck target practice (20 gauge shotgun + old microwave in the back yard). I rode the ferry across to Seattle, where I jammed with a hobo, and hopped on my 48-hour train ride (plus 5 hour layover in Milwaukee, and 9 hour bus ride) to Crystal Falls, MI.
Yoopers!
So, what's a Yooper? Well, Michigan is divided into 2 parts. There's Lower Michigan, which is where all the stuff you know about (Detroit) is, and then there's another part- separated from the rest of the state by a large portion of lake Michigan (it's a big-ass lake). This little bit at the top is inhabited mostly by descendants of immigrants from super cold places like Finland (lots of the towns have street names that are mostly in Finnish). They are generally poor by today's standards, and have silly accents much like a watered-down version of the Minnesotan/Dakotan accents in Fargo.This area is referred to as the Upper Peninsula- U.P. for short. From there, especially with the accents here, it's a short step to calling all the natives here Yoopers. So now you know, and when I wear my Yooper Chopper Co. shirt with the picture of a chainsaw on it, you don't have to ask.
The reason I'm here is I have family here. My Grandfather has lived here for years and years, so has my Great-Great Aunt, and my Mom moved here a year or so ago when life in California didn't pan out. My trip coincided (purposely) with my brother/sister-in-law/nephew's visit, so mostly what I've been doing for the last week or so is hang out with my family. Consequent to that, I have very little to report. Most of the newsworthy info is as follows:
-I played at a bar in a town @ an hour away- Bennet's Roadhouse Saloon. I was well received there, and the owner (a very nice guy) filmed and posted my House Of The Rising Sun. The sound quality's a little iffy, but it's certainly nice to get outside promotion!
-One of my most impressed audience members was my brother, Dave, who took pains to inform me that it "wasn't just because he's my brother". That was the first time he had seen me perform, and he was apparently taken enough that he wants to try and help me orchestrate a little southern tour sometime soon, having made connects in the Virginia/Carolina area for some years. As the original family pro (he trained as a concert pianist for years, til his second year of college, when he decided a Classics major was more his style- he has his doctorate in that now), among other things, that recognition really means a lot to me.
-Dave, having taken up distance running in the last few years, also ran a trail marathon while he was here (made 3:50 or so, I might add). In a fit of brotherly love, he decided to dedicate it to me. That almost made me cry.
-I played another gig at an awesome venue called the Honey House. It's owned by beekeepers. They bought an abandoned church- that's where I played. Except for the shitty sound equipment ( i borrowed 2 practice amps-one turned out to be a bass amp- and a lousy microphone from my mom's friends), it was pretty awesome. I've always wanted to play in a church... and I'd like to again. Also, they are trying to start a meadery via a Kickstarter project. Everyone likes delicious honey wine (especially me), so kick them some money if you can. If you do, I'll buy you a bottle when I get rich and famous.
-I ate lots of tasty food and had lots of fun
-Amtrak apparently only lets us privileged rail pass customers get our tickets physically AT the station, and since the nearest station is in MILWAUKEE, they effectively bussed me up here and left me high and dry. I had to pay for a bus ticket out of my own pocket (70 bucks) to get me back down. This brings my ticket expenses, on top of the $750 pass that was supposed to keep my ass covered, up to about $200. Not to mention the 300 dollar camera they couldn't find, even though I gave them its exact location before the train even stopped again. Fuck you, Amtrak, I hope you die.
Anyway, that's about it for now. I roll out by bus at 1 a.m. tonight, and should get into Boston at @ 9 on the 5th. keep your fingers crossed that it's not in too late, as I have to catch a train to North Station, then to Gloucester after that, all before they finish running for the night.
Here's a song I like.
Bye!
-Mojoe
Portlandia
Hullo, again!
I wrote this in a hurry, and my computer was gonna die right before I posted it, so I put it up, then took it down at the next waypoint of my journey, since I hadn't gotten the chance to edit it. It's been a minute since I've had a chance to write, so the news is a little dated, but hopefully I can catch up before too long. Sorry to all the confuzzled (I know there's at least one) loyal readers that read my post in the 24 hours before I took it down and wondered where it went.
Portlandia
Today I'm sitting in the Marquette, WI Amtrak/Greyhound station. It's 7:30 now, and the bus leaves at 10:00. This station has free wireless, so now seems like the perfect time to update you on my latest goings on.
Last time we spoke, I was stranded in an overpriced coffee shop in Portland. Feeling disheartened and miserly, I exercised my God-given right to bitch about my life. Howsomever, being as far into the Taoist way of life as I am, I don't think I was even as discouraged as I played myself to be. When you really start listening to it, that little voice in the back of your mind that urges you to keep going starts to be pretty reassuring. So here's the rest of the Portland story.
When I left the coffee shop, I started walking. I walked for the next five hours or so. First I went to the post office to (finally) offload the books I had been stupidly toting around. When I arrived at the post office, I was surprised to discover that the mailing office was closed (turns out it was Sunday. I did, however, find some provision for drop-boxing prepayed packages. Eager to be free of my burden, I purchased one by credit card and boxed up my shit. Pleased to dispose of my burden, I tossed it in the mailbox, bidding a not-so-fond sayanora. After the mail chute was closed, I noticed a cryptic label indicating that my package may be too weighty to travel by that means. This was reinforced by the box-contraption's failure to return to a ready position following the deposit- it seemed, in fact, to be locked closed. At this moment I realized that I had (as I am wont to do) forgotten to write a return address. Oh, joy. Go with God, little books... you may well be the second casualty from my poorly packed luggage.
*I will note that the books did indeed arrive at their destination some days before I did. So they weren't the second casualty... but I would gladly trade them for the 3d. The literary folks call this "foreshadowing"*
Increasingly flustered, I left the post office and repacked my knapsack. I decided my laptop bag was another unnecessarily bulky accoutrement, it's sole purpose to protect my laptop in an environ already reinforced. Left leaning against a tree in hopes that some hungry-hungry-hobo might find a use for it (that seemed more reasonable at the time), my laptop case became another companion fallen by the wayside. Load lightened, guided by a (poorly conceived) tourist map of Portland, I set off in search of the free streetcar I had heard so much about.
Brain... somewhere else, I promptly overshot the mark by a good 10 blocks. I walked back and hopped the streetcar, intending to ride it as far as I could for free, then proceed for what seemed a hop, skip and a jump to the southernmost bridge, which I would walk across. From there it would be, according to the map's heretofore unchallenged scale, another hop, etc., to Hawthorne Hostel at 30th and Hawthorne on the East side. Anyone who's actually been to Portland might be able to find a couple flaws in this.
According to plan, I disembarked and marched merrily down Moody, peepers peeled for the river. Suffice it to say, my map failed me. The bridge I intended to cross turned out to be a hundred or so feet over my head, and I had to return from whence I came- a 3 + mile detour, with (still heavy) backpack on, and guitar in hand. Oddly unperturbed, and in true bluesman fashion, I hiked along- footsore, guitar in hand, all my worldly possessions (for the moment) on my back. Setting out for the promised land of Southeast Portland.
Crossing the bridge (Hawthorne bridge-the only one that actually has a path across), I discovered the map (apparently intended only as a map of downtown) was not to scale. Pretty much the entirety of East Portland had been crammed into the sidelines. Somehow, I had suspected as much.
So, I hiked some more. Although tiring (did I mention I was wearing engineer boots?), this unexpected hike (it turned out to be about 6 miles and change from the streetcar) was rather a blessing. After a few sort of ghetto blocks (random Sunday-evening-shift stripper sitting on the sidewalk, entirely bottomless, smoking a cigarette, was rather a startling east-side greeting), I started to see what Sweete was talking about. Food carts, cute cafes, organic produce stores started popping up. The town began to show a sort of green indie charm. After being hailed by a random group of street musicians inquiring as to my wellbeing from across the street, my hope for the town was well on the rise.
I arrived at Hawthorne Hostel as the sun was setting. I was immediately greeted as a friend by four people standing in the kitchen. After dropping my things, I returned and a conversation started. Shortly thereafter, we were friends. A well-traveled feller who volunteered at the hostel instantly guided me and a fellow traveler to a good local restaurant, and proceeded to buy me a tasty venison burger and a delicious beer. These were greedily consumed over a discussion of hatch chile and posole- culinary affinities I never expected to discuss with anyone north of Arizona. The rest of the evening at the hostel was spent jamming (3 of the 4 people I fell in with are musicians) and talking about spiritual stuff. This interaction also brought me further into a newly discovered and embraced life role of mine- Spiritual Teacher. Definitely not a hat I was expecting to wear at the age of 21.
The next day was pretty mellow. Hanging out with new friends and returning to the West side in time to catch my train, where I grabbed some fucking delicious food cart food and arrived at the station, guided by Paul (the volunteer), who made the trip over just to see me off safe.
Overall, I would say the trip to Portland was indeed as important as I had projected. It's almost as difficult to explain why it mattered as it is to explain the whole Charlie Brown dynamic of mine and Sweete's relationship. But the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Suffice it to say that (particularly in light of other people's attempts to help me that also mysteriously fell through-there were several) Sweete is still family, and Portland is still high on my list of potential new homes.
I had hoped to update you entirely on my travels, but my battery is in danger of dying, and I can't find an outlet. The Portland segment will have to do for now. The next update will fill in the rest of what I lost on the way to WA, just as soon as I'm nestled safely in MI tomorrow. I can't really think of a very original musical selection to leave you, so I will just give you a couple goodies I've been listening to on my 3-day trip to MI.
Jack Neilson was a late-great musician friend of my family. More on him some other time...
CCR!
Peace out!
-Mojoe
I wrote this in a hurry, and my computer was gonna die right before I posted it, so I put it up, then took it down at the next waypoint of my journey, since I hadn't gotten the chance to edit it. It's been a minute since I've had a chance to write, so the news is a little dated, but hopefully I can catch up before too long. Sorry to all the confuzzled (I know there's at least one) loyal readers that read my post in the 24 hours before I took it down and wondered where it went.
Portlandia
Today I'm sitting in the Marquette, WI Amtrak/Greyhound station. It's 7:30 now, and the bus leaves at 10:00. This station has free wireless, so now seems like the perfect time to update you on my latest goings on.
Last time we spoke, I was stranded in an overpriced coffee shop in Portland. Feeling disheartened and miserly, I exercised my God-given right to bitch about my life. Howsomever, being as far into the Taoist way of life as I am, I don't think I was even as discouraged as I played myself to be. When you really start listening to it, that little voice in the back of your mind that urges you to keep going starts to be pretty reassuring. So here's the rest of the Portland story.
When I left the coffee shop, I started walking. I walked for the next five hours or so. First I went to the post office to (finally) offload the books I had been stupidly toting around. When I arrived at the post office, I was surprised to discover that the mailing office was closed (turns out it was Sunday. I did, however, find some provision for drop-boxing prepayed packages. Eager to be free of my burden, I purchased one by credit card and boxed up my shit. Pleased to dispose of my burden, I tossed it in the mailbox, bidding a not-so-fond sayanora. After the mail chute was closed, I noticed a cryptic label indicating that my package may be too weighty to travel by that means. This was reinforced by the box-contraption's failure to return to a ready position following the deposit- it seemed, in fact, to be locked closed. At this moment I realized that I had (as I am wont to do) forgotten to write a return address. Oh, joy. Go with God, little books... you may well be the second casualty from my poorly packed luggage.
*I will note that the books did indeed arrive at their destination some days before I did. So they weren't the second casualty... but I would gladly trade them for the 3d. The literary folks call this "foreshadowing"*
Increasingly flustered, I left the post office and repacked my knapsack. I decided my laptop bag was another unnecessarily bulky accoutrement, it's sole purpose to protect my laptop in an environ already reinforced. Left leaning against a tree in hopes that some hungry-hungry-hobo might find a use for it (that seemed more reasonable at the time), my laptop case became another companion fallen by the wayside. Load lightened, guided by a (poorly conceived) tourist map of Portland, I set off in search of the free streetcar I had heard so much about.
Brain... somewhere else, I promptly overshot the mark by a good 10 blocks. I walked back and hopped the streetcar, intending to ride it as far as I could for free, then proceed for what seemed a hop, skip and a jump to the southernmost bridge, which I would walk across. From there it would be, according to the map's heretofore unchallenged scale, another hop, etc., to Hawthorne Hostel at 30th and Hawthorne on the East side. Anyone who's actually been to Portland might be able to find a couple flaws in this.
According to plan, I disembarked and marched merrily down Moody, peepers peeled for the river. Suffice it to say, my map failed me. The bridge I intended to cross turned out to be a hundred or so feet over my head, and I had to return from whence I came- a 3 + mile detour, with (still heavy) backpack on, and guitar in hand. Oddly unperturbed, and in true bluesman fashion, I hiked along- footsore, guitar in hand, all my worldly possessions (for the moment) on my back. Setting out for the promised land of Southeast Portland.
Crossing the bridge (Hawthorne bridge-the only one that actually has a path across), I discovered the map (apparently intended only as a map of downtown) was not to scale. Pretty much the entirety of East Portland had been crammed into the sidelines. Somehow, I had suspected as much.
So, I hiked some more. Although tiring (did I mention I was wearing engineer boots?), this unexpected hike (it turned out to be about 6 miles and change from the streetcar) was rather a blessing. After a few sort of ghetto blocks (random Sunday-evening-shift stripper sitting on the sidewalk, entirely bottomless, smoking a cigarette, was rather a startling east-side greeting), I started to see what Sweete was talking about. Food carts, cute cafes, organic produce stores started popping up. The town began to show a sort of green indie charm. After being hailed by a random group of street musicians inquiring as to my wellbeing from across the street, my hope for the town was well on the rise.
I arrived at Hawthorne Hostel as the sun was setting. I was immediately greeted as a friend by four people standing in the kitchen. After dropping my things, I returned and a conversation started. Shortly thereafter, we were friends. A well-traveled feller who volunteered at the hostel instantly guided me and a fellow traveler to a good local restaurant, and proceeded to buy me a tasty venison burger and a delicious beer. These were greedily consumed over a discussion of hatch chile and posole- culinary affinities I never expected to discuss with anyone north of Arizona. The rest of the evening at the hostel was spent jamming (3 of the 4 people I fell in with are musicians) and talking about spiritual stuff. This interaction also brought me further into a newly discovered and embraced life role of mine- Spiritual Teacher. Definitely not a hat I was expecting to wear at the age of 21.
The next day was pretty mellow. Hanging out with new friends and returning to the West side in time to catch my train, where I grabbed some fucking delicious food cart food and arrived at the station, guided by Paul (the volunteer), who made the trip over just to see me off safe.
Overall, I would say the trip to Portland was indeed as important as I had projected. It's almost as difficult to explain why it mattered as it is to explain the whole Charlie Brown dynamic of mine and Sweete's relationship. But the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Suffice it to say that (particularly in light of other people's attempts to help me that also mysteriously fell through-there were several) Sweete is still family, and Portland is still high on my list of potential new homes.
I had hoped to update you entirely on my travels, but my battery is in danger of dying, and I can't find an outlet. The Portland segment will have to do for now. The next update will fill in the rest of what I lost on the way to WA, just as soon as I'm nestled safely in MI tomorrow. I can't really think of a very original musical selection to leave you, so I will just give you a couple goodies I've been listening to on my 3-day trip to MI.
Jack Neilson was a late-great musician friend of my family. More on him some other time...
CCR!
Peace out!
-Mojoe
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