“But what is this, what you have sought to learn from teachings and from teachers, and what they, who have taught you much, were still unable to teach you?” – Hermann Hesse
The quote above is from Siddhartha, which I read when I was a teenager. I probably ought to read it again, but one of the things I love about the books that really get you, is that you take some meaning from them, and it grows into its own thing. The book itself doesn’t matter as much as your own meaning; your own understanding that appears. I always wanted to take Siddhartha’s journey, to leave home in search of myself, and to return for the final part of the puzzle. This is one of the reasons that to this day, I love heading out on the road with a band. Every time, the music gets better. Every time something happens that changes me forever. BC and I had just played in Portland, slept the night in Beaverton, and we climbed into the car knowing this leg would be different, no friends, no family, and a new venue to play. California or bust!
It was a beautiful drive through Oregon, pausing in Ashland to take a little walk in the park, before continuing into Northern California. Roughly six hours later, BC and I arrived in Shasta with the sun still shining. Wherever we went in this gorgeous town, the mountain glared down at us. Big nature will do that, it reminds us that we are puny, unimportant, young, and arrogant.
We found our campsite for the evening first, almost by accident, we turned a corner and there it was. A friend had left the staff shed open for us at her plant nursery. Comfortable that we could navigate back after the gig, we headed out again to find the venue – the Wayside Grill. One missed turn put us back onto the freeway, but a loop around found us exactly where we were supposed to be.
The Wayside is a restaurant and bar, back deck, pizzas and burgers, wine menu, the whole bit. Outside in the parking lot, was a collection of California shiny-trucks (you can’t keep them that clean in Seattle) and a couple of Harley Davidsons. And one scooter, which was nice, as I was starting to get a little bit of an “uh oh!?” feeling. It just didn’t look like a music venue, and then even if it was, it didn’t look like the kind of place that would dig original songs. I knew it was all in my mind, but I was really not thinking we would have much fun.
We walked in, no guitars yet, just trying to get a feel of the deal. Sure enough the girl at the door station was not expecting a band, and when we asked for the booker she directed us instead at his wife Denise. She smiled and said “We were wondering if you guys were going to show up.” I wondered whether she was happy that we had, or if maybe she’d been hoping we would have bailed. Still she was smiling though. She went off to find her husband Terry. I wandered over to the little corner stage, half pacing, half just gauging the lay of the land.
There is one of those Bose PA systems, the one that looks like the base of a basketball hoop you put up in the street in the suburbs. There’s a couple of wireless mics on stands, a little board, and a guitar. There’s stuff up there like the other band is coming back later. Uh-Oh.
On the wall behind the stage, here it goes, there’s pictures see. Of musicians. Autographed no less. Bob Dylan (!), Lyle Lovett, Faith Hill, Brad Paisley. Note the general country music vibe, though Dylan always gives hope when you are a songwriter or a guy playing guitar with a songwriter. Still, I was thinking how this would feel totally different if it was a Silverhands gig, we could twang it up, maybe bust out some covers and do just fine. BC’s music is not in any way “country,” and my uh-oh was growing.
Terry came out and asked what he could do for us. “Food” said Brandt, like some sort of hungry musician. They laughed and got us set up with menus and then Terry came and sat with us, wine glass in hand. We acted like Americans and ordered burgers (mine with sweet potato fries.) The food was amazing by the way.
Terry Kincaid. The drive from Beaverton would have been worth it just to listen his stories. He is a songwriter, with gold records and movie credits. He played with Alabama. He’s opened for Waylon and Willie. He was a cop, a martial arts instructor, a motivational speaker. He plays harmonica and guitar. He once took Merle Haggard’s keys away to stop him from driving home drunk. Merle had driven his tour bus to the bar. This led to going fishing with Merle on Lake Shasta. He’s got a million more stories, and he tells them well.
It turns out Terry also has a restaurant called the Stagedoor Grill, down in Socorro, New Mexico. Musicians like to drop in and play with the band at either place. The Wayside has only been open for a few months, and he is traveling back and forth to keep both places rolling.
By this time our burgers are traveling south on gullet road, but all these stories are doing nothing for my sense that our music wasn’t going to down so smooth. But: food done, up we get and grab our gear. Up on stage, lets do what we do. People are eating with their families 5 feet away. There was big food, some big bellies, even some big hair. There are some leather vests. Nerves and all, we launch into the set, and amazingly, surprisingly, unbelievably, nobody cares. At all.
That’s right folks, no-one turns around and heckles, no-one gives us the stink-eye. Remember that scene in the Blues Brothers, at the bar where they play both kinds of music? That was what I was worried about. And I can actually play country and Western. But this, well, it was friendly is what it was. A few people smiled or tapped a foot, but no-one got really got into it. But mainly, they weren’t heading for the door either. Until they finished eating. Then they went home, because it was time to go home. Terry and Denise were listening, they moved to a closer table and hung out, talking to friends, being the king and queen of the restaurant as they should, but they clapped after every song.
We were shaky for sure, missed some changes, played some clams, but we did what we do. I started playing to BC, instead of the backs of diners and found my groove a bit. Then I suggested we throw in a cover BC does – Kris Kristofferson’s Lovin Her Was Easier (Than Anything I’ll Ever Do Again) and as soon as he hit the first chord, it was like Terry’s radar went off. He came up to the stage as we worked through the first verse and was rummaging through a box at the back of the stage. We are resisting the urge to stop and find out what is happening behind us, when Terry emerges triumphantly with the correct harmonica, we nod him in for a break and he plays beautifully, and there’s a round of applause at the end of the solo. The regulars are on our side now, and we get a few grins from the kitchen guys too. One guy is watching us through the pickup window when he can. Now it’s fun, so of course we immediately get to the end of the set, which in our case means we have basically run out of songs. We bow and start packing up fast, like the opening band on a big stage. Terry thinks we should play one more. We pull an obscure Willie Nelson cover out, that we learned for a tribute night at Conor Byrne (at which I actually was the singer, but BC has a good ear for lyrics and melody and remembered it). Shasta gets treated to Mr. Record Man and we don’t quite murder it, we just beat it up a bit and leave it to recover until someone else plays it right. End of show.
Terry thanks us, and I can tell he appreciates the music, and he likes us. We take a picture with him and Denise. They are the best! We are in love with the world, because we survived our own fear, and didn’t get punched by bikers. We get paid, which is nice, because gas is not free. (Side note – if you are in the business of building cars that run on sunlight, and you want some free advertising help, hook me up a tour van that seats 8 people and has room for a drum kit behind them, and I’ll drive it everywhere and preach the gospel of freedom from oil, and I’ll write you a jingle too.)
We head back to the nursery, and when we walk through the darkness to the shed, I now think that someone is going to materialize with a shotgun, or a large slavering dog is going to eat us. Instead we turn on the light and find only crickets and ants to deal with. Sweet! Jam session. We play a bit, and then turn in.
It turns out that the train track right next to the shed is the BNSF line. We weren’t really sleeping anyways, strange place, post show buzz and all that. Still – !whoo whooooooo! and then that choo choo was basically 20 feet east of us. It was Loud. It was awesome. Then, the strangest thing happened. You know that screeching sound a train makes when it rides over the transition from full rails to the rails going through the tarmac of a road? Well this train was going quite a bit faster than they usually are when they go through the city. That screeching from multiple cars all at the same time, at a higher rate of travel, turns out to sound like angels, actual angels from heaven.
Over the low rumble of the diesel and the sheer weight of all that steel rolling north, came seven tones alto to soprano, all slowly shifting pitch. It was as if a million wind chimes all sang at once, resonating in the hut, until I wondered if the sound was inside my head, perhaps I was asleep and this was a dream. “I don’t want to wake up,” I thought. Then the end of the train went by with one last wail of tortured steel against steel, echoing off the mountain. I was awake for sure, and absolutely present.
It brought tears to my eyes. This is why you go on the road. There are things out there waiting for you. Things your teachers cannot teach you. You have to experience it yourself to learn. Some of those things are frightening. Some of those things are your own demons in your mind - the unknown. But - some of those things are not hell-hounds, all hell breaking loose, or Hell’s angels. Sometimes good people will take care of you and listen to your songs. Sometimes there are real angels, and if you are really lucky, they will sing for you.
