March 25th
The very first day of tour finally arrived, and it began with a little tenderness and a french press. I listened to Surfer Rosa while I waited for Greg Mullen, my newest touring companion, to come scoop me up in his 1978 Toyota Chinook “Miss Lucky” for two weeks of music and adventure. My house-mates Evan and Sebi woke up and we lazed about the living room having coffee and morning times as is proper in our home. I uploaded two new(ish) EP's “MOwN GHOST SWAY HOME” a collection of sparse banjo songs and “The Grooms Street EP” by Motion Picture, a band that will be making a reappearance in Austin this summer.
Greg pulled into the driveway and we took inventory and loaded up my new Banjo*, my bags and groceries; bananas, honey crisp apples, naval oranges, bread, peanut butter (I bought smooth instead of crunchy, Blast!), nutella, granola bars, a gallon of Fiesta Drinking Water, and a pack of oreos which didn't even make it a day. I hung a bundle feathers from the rear view mirror, one of my favorite collections;The Great Horned Owl, the Raven, the Desert Sparrow, the Goose and the Duck. I stood on my porch, looking around at the familiar sights, already feeling nostalgic about coming home. Strange I know, but I have a good life in Austin, and I was a little hesitant to leave. Adventure, however, is essential and irresistible. I said my goodbyes to my roomies and the big pink and the skanky possum, put on a pair of old school welding sun glasses tossed Neil Young's Reactor on the tape deck and Mr. Mullen and I set out for the eccentric oddity that is Marfa TX.
The drive through west Texas is an old and familiar trek for me. We took I-10 past the wind farms and their giant turbine churning monsters, past ancient oil derricks, like enormous black robot grass hoppers nodding in slavery forever; freight liners, long lumbering beasts that stir up the thought of disaster in me every time. We passed shallow mountains with jagged teeth, and there was the occasional whiff of death as the roadside is littered with the maimed bodies of the lone star states unsuspecting wild life. I thought about how unforgiving this landscape is for people too. I know that if I had to cross it on foot, like most people, I would most certainly die, burning in the day, freezing at night. So I look out across the dessert with a vast measure of respect and gratitude. And the sky, Jesus, there is more blue in this world than I can relate. I think that if we do go some place when we die, to some eternity, that infinite space must be a pale shade of blue.
We stopped at quaint little gas stations, all of them the same,. At our second fill up there was a brand new VW luxury whatever hogging up both pumps while its croc fitted driver washed the windows at a painfully relaxed pace. Greg and I wait, motor idling, looking just slightly irritated and our yuppie window washer tosses us the peace sign as he finally gets into his dumb little car and Greg says “Oh! Peace bro! I didn't realize you were on the level!” and I just about peed myself. Man, that was really really funny. Gas stations are so strange. I remember I had a life altering epiphany once in a shell station bathroom just outside of Clovis NM, and forgot what it was right after I washed my hands. Makes me think of that Mount Eerie lyric from Lost Wisdom “My lost face in the mirror at the gas station”. Greg and I carried on conversation most of the way, halfway yelling over the wind, laughing and reminiscing about past loves and embarrassing moments, learning a lot about each other seemingly without reservations. The man has the most hilarious delivery of the word “Bastard” I have ever heard.
We pulled into Marfa around seven thirty and pulled into an RV park called “RV Park” that is half a rest stop and half a junkyard. We parked next to a small yacht on wheels decked out in Christmas lights. I have stayed at this funny little lot every time I've come to Marfa, for art school field trips and just to rest on travels. Greg and I were harassed by a ferocious little black and white napoleon mutt who chased the Chinook all the way up to our parking spot then retreated barking ceaselessly from a safe distance as we walked up to the main house/office to pay our hosts. We passed giant plastic roosters, rusty globes, concrete turtles, plastic emperor sunflowers, dozens of hollowed out broken down cadillacs and pick up trucks, around an outdoor kitchen and up to the front porch, everything around us screaming kitsch.
There were two older Hispanic men sitting out front, I recognized one of them from a previous stay as the owner of the property. They told us to take a seat and offered us each an ice cold natty light. Their names were Joe and Phillip, they were both about 50ish, Joe was clad in dark sunglasses and a Vietnam vet cap with a wispy ponytail sticking out the back. Phillip had a mouthful of gold teeth and gnarled hands from decades of hard manual labor. They took us for musicians right off the bat and asked if we wanted to play some songs, and before we could answer Joe said “I'll go get the acoustic guitar”. In between songs they told us about their kids all grown and gone and we played old classics like “House of the Rising Sun” and a butchered kind of “Credence” medley. After a few songs Greg and I thanked the men for their hospitality and went back to the Chinook. We grabbed our stuff and walked over to our first gig of the tour at El Cosmico, a large lot full of refurbished retro trailers from the 60's and 70's. It was just a five minute stroll away. (as we hopped a fence into the lot we saw that damn little napoleon dog chasing an Oldsmobile, crazy little shit.)
We stepped into the El Cosmico lobby where we met a nice girl at the front desk named Ketzia. She told us we could set up and play anywhere, and there wasn't anyone else around, so we just sat out front on their patio which was really very charming. It had a nice open viny cover done up with Christmas lights, the patio itself set in a thin gravel plot much like a zen garden with three tables. As we were getting warmed up a trio of campers came and took seats to listen and Ketzia placed candles on each of the tables and set us up with a few free beers. A fat cat came around the corner to investigate and sat placidly and listened for awhile. The atmosphere was relaxed and I did my best to pluck a little banjo along with Greg while he played. The stars were bright and beautiful. The night grew chilly quick, so we shook hands with the campers, thanked Ketzia for the hospitality, then climbed into the Chinook and passed out eating prepackaged Indian food while watching king of the hill. First day, complete success.
*I bought a Rogue starter banjo from a woman in Oak Hill Texas off of Craigslist for 90 dollars specifically for this tour. If I've learned anything from the road its that you pack plenty of peanut butter and bad things happen to nice instruments. To make this banjo my own I buffed the lacquer off of the face of the head stock, used a soldering iron to impress a charry Zia for cosmic luck and put on a new coat of finish. I'm calling her “Dee Dee the Moon Banjo”.
March 26th
We woke up with the sun and wandered out into town to snap a few pictures and get some breakfast. We ate burritos at a little mod restaurant next to a cowboy the spitting image of a young Sam Elliot. There was a really cute little dog scouring the grounds robotically searching for scraps and morsels making little pig sounding grumbles as he went. He was completely uninterested in our cooing baby talk until we got our food, then stood sentinel demanding hand outs with a crippled bark that sounded more like a cat coughing up a hair ball. “Poor bastard” Greg said, I laughed sipping on my coffee. When we got back to the Chinook we struck up a conversation with the man staying on the land- locked yacht. He invited us on board and fed us bread and butter. His name was John, he was demure and thoughtful, early thirties and he had just moved into town, into the yacht, in an attempt to escape the noise and hurry of Brooklyn. He had a tattoo of the word “Blessed” on his right fore arm in an old school 90's kind of graffiti font, all chrome blue and green. He gave us a tour of the boats secret compartments which included a little hidden bath tub.
As we were about to leave a photographer on a motorcycle, (looking to be in his early 40's) pulled up and asked if he could take some photos. He had us act out a bunch of silly poses on board the boat, this made John a little uncomfortable I think. The photographer was on tour taking pictures of the country, he started in Austin and was headed up to New York. Later when we climbed back into the Chinook to leave Greg said “I'm convinced more and more that whole 'you can't trust anyone over thirty thing' is a bunch of bullshit”. I couldn't agree more. Marfa was full of slow thoughtful people of all ages, seeming to seek peace in America's most isolated high art small town hybrid.
We headed out on the road for Albuquerque around 11, I dozed a bit in the Chinook’s little bed and made us some peanut butter nutella sandwiches. I thought a lot about my own mortality and about how dying on the road would suit me just fine. I'd like to die moving forward, chasing something wonderful. Greg sang to himself as he drove. I have infinite respect for those who sing to themselves.
We pulled into Albuquerque around 6:30 mountain time and met up with my good friend David Keeling, the brains and nervous system of the “Apple Miner Colony”. We ate burritos from “Frontier” and settled into “Winnings coffee” for our second show of the tour. My Friend Bryce Hample opened the show playing delicate and sometimes anxious songs on a classical guitar tuned variously throughout his set.
Then Greg played and won the heart of every single person in the room, which by this time was a really great turn out. He played shaky, excited and nervous, and it was obvious to us all that we were listening to a man in love with music, wrought with feelings lovely and terrible.
Then a fella named Tom Filardo played a jovial and whimsical set, crooning and tickling the audience with mid song banter and insider commentary.
Then I played a set of mostly motion picture songs, belting and throat singing, and I had Dave join in on the coffee houses piano in a sing along rendition of an old Apple Miner Colony song titled the Heat Haunted Fever.
After that two young ladies named Yohuna and Adelyn Rose sang mostly in unison over soft but strong complicated acoustic chord changes that flowed easily and fluently with the support of a warm quiet Casio keyboard. I was very impressed.
Topping the bill was a trio of young women called the Albuquerque Boys Choir! They sang three part harmony like bluegrass angels, belting over accordion, banjo, charango, uke, all manner of miscellaneous percussive objects, and they even had home made horns fashioned out of diced up hula hoops. Bravo! What a good time!
When the show was over it was hugs and handshakes all around, compliments and curiosity and we all traded records, Greg even got a pointy bright orange hat out of a swap. We sold a few records too! So with a little jingle in our pockets and all manner of music in our hearts we bid our new friends adieu to go drink whiskey at Dave’s.
After a glass of shitty bourbon at seven thousand feet you get to feeling pretty loose and free so we took an invitation extended earlier and went out to a backyard bonfire, drinking wine and passing a guitar around. Dave and I exercised our repertoire of Magnetic Fields songs and there was a point when we all tried to play the first song all of us had written. I cheated and played what I think of as the best song I've ever written, a tune called Red River and when I finished Greg called me a fucking liar, “no way that’s your first song” to which I replied “It's the first song I 'really' wrote.” and I could tell from Greg and Dave's smiles that they thought I was a real sonofabitch.
