McMenamins

Two brothers from Portland, OR have done remarkably well with their brewing business - one little cafe purchased in 1975 has turned into a multi-property chain of 57 (and counting) brewpubs, theatre pubs, microbreweries, historic hotels, and music venues. There is an onsite historian whose sole job is to collect information, photos and stories about the historic buildings the chain continues to occupy as well as answer your questions; every wall and flat surface is positively decked with original artwork from various muralists and portaiteers; they have probably the coolest website I've ever wasted an hour on (www.mcmenamins.com)...and I don't mind saying that through diligent persistence and a little luck, I wedged myself into a venue I call "The Tunnel" in Edgefield's Winery: It's a space about 40 feet long and 10 feet wide at the end of which the little musicians set up their stuff in a square section I refer to as "The Living Room." As there was a more local band playing outside, I was sure I'd be by myself for those 2 hours...when lo and behold, a face peeked around the corner, disappeared, then returned with drink, purse, phone and smile (this was my first friend, and I hope someday to give her a big hug and learn her name, for though she stayed for the entire show, was interactive and completely pleasant, I wasn't able to meet her before she left - so if you're reading this right now, First Friend, many thanks). She was shortly thereafter followed by four mid-westerners who sat in the tiny Living Room right in front of me, and who later brought back 2 other couples...and in-between a whole bevvy of folk wandered in and out and seemed to enjoy my musical supplements far more than I thought I should deserve. At the end I had played for an extra hour, observed no break, had played every song I could think of and was resorting to Disney covers (which we may poo-poo, but have you ever sat down and tried to learn a Disney tune on guitar? They're challenging, interesting, encouraging and soulful - Disney may have an unfortunately cheesy reputation, but for reals, mad props to their songwriters).

Gerda's Gone

Then it was up the coast to Gerda's Valley for us.

Those who've heard the song written for her probably won't think of Solvang by any other name. The author (my Uncle Barney, 3rd of four) and his siblings grew up there, and there we pit-stopped to stay the night and say a few too-quick hello's to too few family members. But we did get to see Mason Van Valin, my cousin, and solicit him to come to the East Coast and stir things up with us at some point in the near future.

So swing me out across the valley,
and wet my feet in a mossy stream,
and listen to the wind in the eucalyptus...
Oh Lord, don't wake me from this dream...

"New Mexico" (watch for it on the next album...)

I had a dream last night that Michael Jackson faked his death to induce Johnny Depp to cut an acoustic Django-style jazz album. When that failed he hired me to create my own album so the style would become popular again.

I only mention this because last week we played in West Hollywood's Viper Room, formerly owned by the jazz-guitarist-turned-pirate. My wee niece said that if I saw Mr Depp to tell him she thinks he's cool.

Dickie B. of Sonora Recorders (also long-time-family-friend and father's-former-roommate) turned up at the gig and offered his services to us for a couple hours Saturday morning, so we stayed a bit longer in LA--much to the consternation of our wallets--shot another music video, and recorded a song I'd written the previous Thursday and of which I don't mind saying I'm quite proud...

...Massachusetts has a wonderful story,

Arizona is rugged and free,

But the sand and snow of New Mexico
Is today what's calling me...

It's more Denver than Django, but I do believe it's the song that will win Depp over to his own recordings.

MAN OF GLASS

I was going to write more about Bob Marlowe in the Coffee Gallery post, but then decided to give him his own.

To the mind of the daughter who heard the tales from her mother, the Jesus Movement of the 60's was fronted in part by a band called The Salt Company from Hollywood Presbyterian Church. They wrote original songs about God's love, played guitar and sang in three-part harmony, wore their hair long and proud, and performed free concerts on beaches and in coffeeshops. The band was comprised of Pamela Van Valin (mum), David Covington, Bob Marlowe, and a bass player who has since passed on and whose name I can't remember. David and Bob (along with my dad and another fellow named Michael McGinnis) were my earliest musical influences--long before I knew what an album was or even radio--and I do feel uniquely blessed that I was raised with good, live music by trustworthy friends in the livingroom or in church (or both simultaneously). It's fed much of my philosophy regarding art and faith.

The peak of our Coffee Gallery show, for me, was twisting Bob's arm to close us out with a song of his own called "Maranatha." I'd forgotten how well I knew it, and surprised us both while I was singing along with him on stage. I felt connected to a piece of my parents' history without them being there, which was a new experience for me and one that couldn't have happened anywhere else in the world. Thanks for humoring a young girl, Bob. It was an especially meaningful day for me.

HOME SWEET HOME

To be perfectly honest, the only show I've been worried about this whole trip was the Coffee Gallery Backstage. It was one of the two draw-based shows we booked, and while I was born in LA, have some friends and family in the area, and am confident in our talents, I was worried what our success rate was going to be at this venue. In Altadena, CA, on Lake Avenue, this small coffeeshop's back room seats 49 and hosts some of the quirkiest and most professional acts in the nation. When I called the owner (a blunt, aging, but incredibly hilarious man named Bob Stane), I mentioned that I was born in LA and could probably produce up to 20 people if he was worried about draw. At that he recommended we take the matinee on June 5 as the main attraction. Following this conversation, I asked Bob Marlowe (old family friend and great influence on me, musically and philosophically) to open for us, and then basically crossed my fingers that we'd get enough reservations.

And in spite of all my nail-chewing, we actually went over very well. Afterward, Bob Stane even said that he was "satisfied with how things went," which to us from him was like receiving a B+ on a trigonometry test. We even made a profit out of which we were able to pay our awesome opening act. The family friends (who trudged all the way up the hill expecting to look at their watches halfway through the afternoon then convince themselves to stay in support of Scott & Pam's daughter) were positively effusive, saying how engaged they were throughout the performance, how touched they were, and what fun they had. My mom's old roommate made me cry telling me how she's been praying for me and my brother our whole lives. I got to see one of my mom's fellow doo-op singers who I've literally not seen in nearly 20 years. My childhood playmate showed up. We were able to stop for an In-N-Out Burger on the way to the gig. All in all, it was an Exhale kind of day.

ONLY TO FIND GIDEON'S BIBLE

The view from our Bungalow

After we thought things couldn't get any better, we got to the 29 Palms Inn in 29 Palms, CA. I think it only fair to warn my literalist friends out there that there are more than 29 Palm trees at the resort alone. Be that as it may, our stay there was just as well-hosted and warmly received as in the Hualapai's. Our friend and employer, Adrian French, saw to our every comfort, fed us, beered us and set us up in "The Hermitage," a bungalow on the edge of the natural oasis there (a real live oasis!). When we rolled into port here, we half expected to be met with the "air of indifference" for which the resort is supposedly famed...but as we traded songs and stories for our three-hour set, we noticed heads turning, smiles, toes tapping, mouths lip syncing to covers, and even requests! I did a rendition of "Ragtime Cowboy Joe," and was promptly thereafter beset with a request for "Ghostriders," which I happily obliged.

If you're looking for an unusual getaway in a remote location with a zany but friendly personality meshed with a respect for privacy, look into the 29 Palms Inn.

DAY BY DAY & SHOE BY SHOE

In the middle of Nowhere, Desert, between Arizona and California, Southwest of Havasu Lake and Northwest of the Salton Sea, there's a railroad junction, a burnt-out gas station, and a bonafide shoe fence. Some of you may already know about the Shoe Fence in Waihola, New Zealand that my friend Mary Rose and I visited in 2007, but we had no idea that America had one of its own.

While exploring this phenomenon, Jay turns to me and says, "I really want to shoot a music video here."
"Right now?"
"Right now."
"What song?"
"I dunno...'Away To You'?"
"Why that one?"
"Well, it's kinda all about doing your thing no matter what..."
"...Like whether it's in front of 10,000 fans or in the middle of nowhere?"
"Yeah."
"Let's put on sunscreen and charge the camera."

I shot it, Jay's spent the last 24 hours editing it, and here it is:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWAqyguy6zc

HUALAPAI MOUNTAINS

Should you ever wend your way toward Kingman, AZ, you may think of taking a side trip around the Hualapai Mountains (exit 59 off I-40). And if you do that, you may consider having a drink (or heck, stop for a whole lunch) at the Hualapai Mountain Resort. And then, once you've found how congenial and genuine your hosts are, how earthy and pleasant your neighbors are, and how soft and unconcerned the local dog is, you may just say to yourself, "Heck, why don't we check into a room for the night?"

Jay and I booked at gig here for a date that turned out to be three days after the owners let the place go to a new manager: Miss Kathy, who (although she didn't know us from Adam) trusted our agreement with the previously mentioned previous owners, let us play, then took such good care of us that we felt almost sad we had a different commitment for the following night. While Jay played the first set, I made friends with Sean, Matthew and Olivia (!), three children who were having dinner there with their grandparents. They watched me change my strings and accepted the bracelets I made for them from the discards. The folks who comprised our audience bought CD's and download cards, tipped us generously, sang along to singalongs, danced exuberantly, and generally made us feel we were doing what we were born to do. The following morning Kathy had to ask me for another set of albums since she'd given hers to a couple who had been listening from their room.

Five stars for love. Thank you, Hualapai.

GRAND CANYON

Anyone who has been to the Grand Canyon can tell you how tiny and insignificant it makes you feel. Sometimes this sensation is received with pleased surprise and relief, and gaining the new perspective lets your spirit loose like an inside-out hug…other times, the feeling of smallness exacerbates an already existing feeling of smallness, making you feel smaller.

Few things are more obnoxious to me than indulging self-pity, especially artistically. I am among the first to jump up and admit that I have written many songs and drawn many pictures about What It’s Like To Be Me—some of them are even not terrible—but they’re all personal explorations which I’d like to think I’ve outgrown and gotten to the point where I can write about more important things, like shag carpet or war. The problem with ignoring these impulses to explore yourself, however, is that it makes you very anxious, uncreative, and subject to burst at the slightest provocation, sometimes in hapless company.

The good news is that sometimes your hapless company is solid and wise, and will sincerely explain that the impulse, albeit annoying, is honest, and deserves an honest nod. I think that most artists will acknowledge the wisdom in giving in to the impulse to expressing whatever it is that wants out of you.