Snowshoe Country Lodge

Up in the north woods of Minnesota, about an hour from Two Harbors on the north shore of Lake Superior, is he Snowshoe Country lodge and log cabin building school.

We headed there from Lake Itasca and met some friends for the weekend. The plan was to build a fire, hang out , grill food and enjoy the cabins.
The cabins had electricity and the water was hand drawn from a well nearby.
Outhouses were also close by, as were the ever-present mosquitoes, who seemed to have a particular liking for my chosen brand of bug spray. We had all arrived there about 3 ish, and it was early evening, after some napping and quiet time, before the silence of the woods had really soaked in.

We lit a fire. The sun was beginning to set and the bugs all came out of the pines to feast on our juicy city skin, so we figured the smoke might keep them at bay.

We had finished a dinner of corn on the cob, potato salad and asparagus grilled on a barbeque pit outside one of our log cabins.As we sat around the fire , frogs began their evening chorus, and the wolves' call and response floated in and out of the deep blue sky around us. it seemed that they were talking to each other from miles apart, and that we were somewhere between, like accidental eavesdroppers.

We put the fire out and headed for bed. Outside the window, the frogs' lazy chirping began to fade and the occasional wolf howl would break the growing silence inside, a bug or two had found their way in, ready for seconds. Some of em got lucky. Some of em didn't.

Lake Itasca

Lake Itasca, where the mighty MIssissippi takes it's first trickling steps on it's two and a half thousand mile journey south, has surrounding it some stunning Jack Pine forest and wildlife and, thanks to the State Park and Department of Natural Resources,some fine family camping and outdoor facilities a the ready - pontoons and bicycles are ready for renting and the trails are breathtaking.

The headwaters of the Mississippi, flowing from Lake Itasca, are a great attraction, partly because it's one part of that great river that can be crossed on a few stepping stones before it gradually reaches it's massive girth many miles south.

The lake was given it's name by Henry Schoolcraft, who took the latin words "verITAS" (meaning "true")and "CAput" (meaning "head") to form Itasca - there had been many previous claims of the headwaters' discovery from many sources, including the Spaniards in the 16th century and many others, but the true head was found when Mr Schoolcraft employed an Ojibwe native as his guide - of course the Ojibwe knew where it was all along, but no one bothered to ask. Henry, however, had been a long time friend of the native peoples:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Schoolcraft

Also found in abundance along Elk Lake are Minnesota's State Flower ; Lady Slippers:

Thanks

From across the sunny street, I heard "'Scuse me, sir?". She was pretty - late 20's/early 30's maybe, blond with blue eyes, and a tanned, weather-worn complexion in old dirty clothes; an over-sized yellow sweater and raggedy jeans.
"Would you have fifty cents for the bus?" she asked as she crossed the street towards me.

As I fished in my wallet I asked "Where you headed?". "Grand and Fairview - my sister's".

I handed her a dollar; "There you go". She said "Thanks." and walked on.

The Taste of Minnesota- St Paul July 4th

The grounds of Harriet Island were packed with kids and families enjoying festival food and celebrating the birth of their nation in the warm evening sun - the choices of fatty goodies were endless, and the varieties of fairground staples like bouncy castles and cuddly toy booths went on and on.

But what brought me here was the promise of an Elvis Costello show in the open air, so after my buddy Rob and I enjoyed some fries and funnel cake, we started to gravitate along with the other music lovers towards the main stage, although I did stop along the way for a root beer float made with 1919 Rootbeer. Yum.

Elvis Costello and the Impostors

Elvis took to the stage around 8pm . With the city curfew set at 10, that gave him 2 hours to do his thing, and given the amount of "thing"s Elvis has to chose from, I wondered which one he'd bring with him tonight , being a man that wears as many musical hats as he does.

Of course , being the professional that he is, he brought the hat that fits best - not the astute, eloquent razor sharp troubador that sang to and with the Bob Dylan audience I last saw him perform to, but rather the high energy balls to the wall rock band fronman that makes the funnel cake go sown easy and lets the kids stay up late.



This lady, along with many others , enjoyed Elvis very much.

Elvis and the Impostors played through an hour and a half of Costello classics like "Watching the Detectives" and the occasional cover. The Impostors swung like a big Swingy thing on the planet Swingy, and being a rock show , they indulged in a little extended noodlings on their respective instruments.

Elvis himself was cheerful and upbeat with the crowd, and by the end of the show, I was left with a feeling that I've always experienced at a Costello show, and that is that the dynamic of one large group of people watching four people make a noise had disappeared, and that we were really just all standing in a field together, and four of us were playing some kick ass rock n roll.

The band encored with "what's so funny about peace, love and understanding' which segued gracefully into "the tracks of my tears" and "suspicious minds".

At the top of the show, St Paul's mayor, Chris Coleman, offered: "It's the Fourth of July -what could be better than having Elvis Costello play at your birthday party?"

As Rob and I headed homeward under a canopy of red. white and blue fireworks over the MIssissippi. I had to concur.



America celebrated her 233rd birthday with Elvis Costello, and on July 5th , at 233 and one day, she celebrated in St Paul with..........

The Bret MIcheals Rock of Love Bus Tour!!!!!!!

i got there a little early - I wanted to check out...

Adler's Appetite

- the band built around Guns 'n' Roses drummer Steve Adler. I missed the start of their set, and got their in time to here the singer's last chorus of "So Fuckin' EEEZZAYY!! " come to it's crashing finale. Unfortunately I nissed out on what it was he was having such "EEEZE!" with . If it's that easy, I thought, maybe I should have a go. I'd been toying with the idea of planting a victory garden. Maybe that's what he was referring to.

I watched a few numbers, waiting for the pounding RRAWWWKK rhythms to re-awaken the obnoxious 14 year old metal head that I was sure still slumbered within, but it wasn't to be. I headed back to the root beer float stand, ordered a double, and, thinking I'd be sharing it with the 14 year old within, was left with the 38 year old without, wondering if Heavy Metal was ever what it used to be, and where had I left my early AC/DC records?

I faced into the crowd once more - a crowd made up mostly of teenagers and their parents. The lady in front of me was rather excited about her purchase of some Sham WOW!s ( hey- it's the best shammy in the world ok?)

"MINN'SOTA _ YOU RAAAAWWWWWKK!!!!"

Steve Adler and his Appetites were leaving the stage. It was about 7ish and the crowd was starting to thicken; some of the more serious punters were doing there damnedest to get as close as they could to the barrier that kept us all about a hundred yards from the stage. Anything inside the barrier was 50 bucks .

Bret's stage needed a little more set-up time of course; the mic stand needed red white and blue scarves hangng from it, and of course they had their own back line of speakers , all emblazoned with BMB (Bret Micheals Band? Bret Micheals' Babes? Bret Micheals' Bus? Bret Micheals is Bald?), and then came the inevitable hanging around, at least for the crowd.
All told, the band weren't ready to hit the stage 'til just after 9. But wait- curfew's at 10. Dang. Y'think they didn't know?

"Awesome awesomeness. Awseome Pawrdy. Y'guyz're awesome..."

BMB tore though a bunch of Poison hits. The band were full on, and Bret is the consummate front man. The crowd was eating out of his hand and by the time he got 'em singing with him on "wunna my fav'rit sawngs", namely "Sweet Home Alabama", he could do no wrong, and he only had about 35 minutes left not to do it in. Sweet gig.

Time for me to wander around the fairground..........



- pretty much says it all.


- guess she's fresh out......


"Cmaan...it'sa Titanic...'s fun..."

Corrales, NM

Rolling into Corrales on a sun-baked spring morning, the quiet, rural landscape quickly put all thoughts of airports, bag-checks and shuttles completely out of our minds. So intoxicating is the gentle beauty of this place that it's hard to imagine being any place else while walking the winding roads; we walked the short distance from the venue to our director's house, who treated us to a lunch from the Flying Star, and the best Veggie Burger I have EVER tasted. The digestion of said burger was greatly enhanced by a short sit by the pool with Rosie, the chocolate Lab who hung out with me for a little bit. NIce girl. Kinda quiet.

We played at The old San Ysidro Church, no longer functioning as a church but a venue, it dates back to the 1800's, and was restored to it's present adobe and hardwood grandeur in the 80s. With fabulous natural acoustics and an idyllic setting the program of events here draws folks from all over, and we played to an audience that spilled out the doors into the afternoon sunshine .
The arts community here is rock solid and over the years has cultivated an eclectic schedule of musical events. I shared a beer or two with opera nuts, multilinguists , folkies, jazzers, wine aficianados, very friendly dogs and folks who were just plain ol' nice.
Quite a diverse crowd for a town of only 7,000 or so.

As I relaxed in the evening with some locals, I spotted the mountain range that sat in the distance, noticeable at once for the fact that it sits on an otherwise flat landscape, and inquired to know more. "Oh" came the reply, 'the Sandias". When I asked what that meant, I expected something grand and devotional, evoking the romance of early Spanish culture.


"Watermelon", came the response. Maybe it was the beer, or the altitude(same as Denver) or both, but I could have sworn they said "Watermelon", which indeed they had. My new friends must have sensed my confusion because they quickly offered an explanation; at a certain time in the evening, for no more than a minute during sundown, the mountain turns a shade of pink, reminiscent of the meat in a watermelon . The locals refer to this as the "pink moment" . "Pink" for obvious reasons, and "moment" because it really is that fleeting. Apparently, I just missed it. No matter, the beer was good. Our post-gig-reception host, John , kept a good cellar, and was adamant that I try the Northern Cap Winter. I'm glad he made me do it.
My other beer discovery of the evening was the Marble Brewing Company's IPA, and the two adjectives that come to mind are the same that were once used to describe a punk rock band I was in many many years ago - weird but good . It was like no other IPA I 've tasted. the hoppy bite was met in the middle by the citrus tang, and they jostled for first place while i sat back and enjoyed the show that was going on in my taste buds

A short hop from there was our lodgings for the night. Judith and George Newby run the stellar Sandhill Crane B and B in the community. I stayed in The Cowboy Room, a testament to the Western Art indigenous to the area, and also home to a Red Ryder BB Gun as seen in the movie " A Christmas Story ", carefully mounted over a portrait of Red Ryder himself in later life, and not surprisingly to anybody that knows me, that's all it took to send me reelng in childish reverie, re-running in my mind's eye boyhood stories of masked adventures and cowboy hereoes of the ol' west. Hi Ho, Patsy - Wake Up.

Speaking of wake up, breakfast started with a hot cup of eye-opener, followed by a poached pear, fresh muffins, scrambled eggs, locally grown arugula and roasted asparagus, all cooked by Judith's deft hand as we chatted about whatever- everything from baseball ( we're both Cubs fans) to the roadrunner that appeared on the garden wall as we ate .

This wouldn't be the first time, and probably won't be the last time that I wished I had more time to hang around in a place before the airport beckoned, but suffice to say that although I might not make it back as soon as I'd like to , you , dear reader, should pack a bag as soon as you can. You won't regret it.

Ojai, CA

Sitting in an orange grove in the april sun, the scents of lilac, honeysuckle and lavender danced around each other in the morning air. Woodpeckers nested with their young high over head, and the air seemed to teem with life - bees dashed from blossom to blossom. Ladybugs rested on their spot. A butterfly wafted by as lizards(geckos? salamanders? lizardry is not my area) chased each other playfully around the tree trunks.

This was my morning off in Ojai, CA, a couple of hours north of L.A. . "Ojai" is a Native American word fro "nest", and, breathing in all that it has to offer, the logic of the name is clear - with the rolling hills of the Los Padres National Forest keeping a watchful eye, it seems that all life abounds in the valley below.



Some years before, while playing in the Napa Valley region of California, also known for it's natural beauty, a local I befriended made the comment; " Y'know if the pilgrims had landed here in the west, they wouldn'ta bothered goin' East". Again, the logic was clear, and I couldn't help but be reminded of that comment as i strolled around the sun-soaked community of adobe-style, shops, restaurants and coffeehouses that cater to a population of around 8,000 or so, made up of retirees, locals and the extremely well-to-do.

Just before last night's gig in the area, I asked our host if this balmy cloudless weather was a typical spring day in these parts. "Oh yes", he nodded, and predicting my next question he added, " and a typical winter one too."

Yup, it's pretty easy to see why some would come here and make it their business never to leave - it became a haven for those who heard the words of Jiddu Krishnamurti in the first half of the 20th century, who had a retreat here and was visited by the then creme de la creme of the social scene; Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, Aldous Huxley, Jackson Pollock, The Beatles, to name a few.
But as both Mr. Krishnamurti knew well and George Harrison wrote about, all things must pass
and soon we too would leave. With our songs sung and our mission accomplished and an outbound flight itinerary in hand, it was time for us to pass through airport security, bringing the memory of the place with us . I reckon Mr Harrison probably liked it here.

Airports

I'm catching a red eye out of Newark NJ. In my ears I have some field recordings of Son House , Willy Brown and Leroy Williams - a soundtrack of such raw and brutal honesty that it has the effect of making every body in the strip-lit forced air of the terminal look naked.

A friend of mine once voiced the opinion that if God had meant us to fly, he would have provided more legroom. Havng clocked up a considerable pile of airmiles since then, I would have to offer the addendum that he would also have made airports enjoyable, but that's just me being grumpy, sitting as I am with a growing flu, jetlag, and a missing guitar, thanks to my expert airt travel providers who shall remain nameless. Althought the idea of a missing guitar might seem to warrant some alarm as a professional guitarist, I'm feeling eerily calm, due mainly to the fact that this isn't the first or indeed the second time this has happened.

On one occasion, a reluctant delivery guy who's job it was to re unite me with the main tool of my trade, suggested that I wait til the morning - "How will I recognise you?" he offered as a reason to go home early rather than deliver. "I'll be the one onstage without the guitar" I suggested. "How" he queried "will you recognise me?" "Won't you be the one holding my guitar?" I politely offered, to which my worthy opponent succumbed. and shortly after arrived at the venue where, like a silver screen romance, our eyes met and we knew at once we had found each other. He should never have doubted our bond. Kiss me, you fool.



I've always felt that the word 'Terminal' should never be used in any association with an airport, serving as it does only to reinforce the purgatorial aspect of the waiting experience, and one can only wonder if purgatory offers little battery powered sudoku games, bags of over priced trail mix and a wide variety of inflatable neck rests to browse through as the minutes turn to hours.

But we are incredibly adaptable creatures, and there are always games of our own invention- like guessing if the airline representative's visage is a study in consummate professionalism, or they are genuinely interested in helping . Bless 'em - their task is not an easy one, and many times have I watched the hapless traveler , unable to curb their ire, burn mercilessly at the hands of the all powerful flight attendant who , with a well practiced "we'll re-route you, sir", dooms the poor unwitting victim to an extra leg on their journey, who then slowly loses energy and succumbs, like an insect gradually drowning in the deadly ooze of a venus fly trap, struggling in vain to free it's legs and quietly wondering to themselves "wha' happened?"

Primarily of course , airports are not as much about the arriving as the leaving, which may well be what lends them a sort of character-less-ness (?), and the waiting does make for some great people watching, and even the delays serve to bring us all to one common level - the delayed. Oil man, fireman, musician, kid, drunk, mom, monk, gambler; we can all be late, lose our luggage, or find ourselves in a hotel we thought we'd never see. I'm going to sign off because it appears my flight's on time. I guess you never can tell.