Filthy had passed out in the field next to my truck. He seemed comfortable enough in the grass. He is still holding his beer upright in his hand… Instincts. His friend tried to rouse him as he was ready to return to their camp. It proved to be impossible to get any response out of him. I told his friend I would take care of him. That night we wandered about the camps at the Weiser Folk and Fiddle Contest in Weiser Idaho. Filthy was carrying his bouzouki and I was with my accordion which had seen better days… but none too good as long as I have had it. It should either be retired to some museum of bad ideas or completely overhauled. We wandered into a camp of old timers playing Saint James Infirmary. Filthy stepped up and bombarded them with bouzouki. I don’t know if what he was playing was in the right key or had any relation to the song in any way. The old timers looked at him as if he had just blasted them with Tzaziki from outer space. Then it was my turn… Toot? Toot. Toot… A couple of mandolin players joined us while we played for the taco stand. The young woman tried to figure out what key we were in. “C harmonic minor something something…” she said. I said we just play music. No rules. After Filthy passed out, I overhear a woman at the next camp talking about some guy with a cigar box guitar to a group of kids. I thought to myself, I know that guy so I dug it out and brought it over. I showed them a song I was working on and then let the children take a turn at it. They could have gone on playing it for hours without getting bored of it but the woman their announced that they were already up way passed their bed time. It has begun to drizzle. Filthy is unfazed. Out cold. Beer can safely held upright. He isn’t even wearing a shirt. Just a vest. I have seen him do this before… out in the desert outside Moab… with the monsoons coming down. Elisha and I calling him to come inside the tent but no. He lays out in the sand somewhere. A dog and his banjo. I am not worried about Filthy but I am worried about his bouzouki so I brought it in the truck. Then it starts to pour. I know I am going to have to do something now and sure enough Filthy is up crying “Cold! Cold!” I am not sure if he is awake or wandering asleep in some nightmare where the sky is falling and everything is black. He tries to pull blankets out of my truck. I push him away. “That’s my fuckin’ bed!” I put him in the cab of my truck. “I got this” I tell him. “Thank you” he says. I pull out my tent and set it up in the storm. I toss in a sleeping bag and then put Filthy in it. I am not sure how my cheap tent will weather the storm but I am confident that Filthy will survive the night. I sleep for maybe an hour or two and then I am awake. Insomnia. This sucks. I have a long drive in the morning. I worry that the sun will be up all too soon baking my truck making it impossible to sleep. Bad things happen on the road when you don’t get enough sleep. Fortunately, for me at least, it is still stormy and cold in the morning. This… will… work. I spin… out of my body… over the truck… over the camp… I am a bit woozy from the spinning but I give myself up to it. Let my body be carried up. Naked. I am far above it all. I can see the White Light. When I get closer I can see that in order for me to reach it I have to crawl through a small dark tunnel… like a drainage tunnel that runs under the highway… filled with black muck… no doubt rocks, sticks, thorns and I am to crawl through naked. That is what I have to do. That is what I am doing but today is not the day to reach the Light… to surrender to the bliss and terror of oblivion… I wake to see Filthy wandering towards the honey buckets sipping that beer he protected through the night. It is still raining so I am going to have to pack up some wet gear. The joys of outdoor living. I have been through this. I have been through all sorts of weather. Rain. Snow. Sun. It’s fine. The cloud cover will make for good driving weather.

Tour Notes IV: Open Mic Quarrels

I wasn't planning on going to an open mic in New Braunfels Texas. I just happened to be there with nothing else to do that Sunday while my friend Matt was busy with his laptop at the coffee house. I grabbed my guitar from the truck and walked into the Phoenix Saloon. I was barefoot. I didn't mean to make a stir by it. I had some shoe-like things in my pocket but putting them on is a complicated operation. It is best done when there is no guitar in your hand. When I set the guitar down where other musicians were awaiting their turn in the limelight and old timer started in on my about my feet. "This is a restaurant!" he informed me. That really doesn't make much of an impression on me to tell the truth. I am often told how my feet are supposedly a "health hazard" even though literally billions of people prepare and consume food in their bare feet every day and, to my knowledge, NO ONE has ever gotten sick by it. You have better odds of getting struck by lightning in a basement on a clear day while holding a winning Power Ball ticket in your hand than getting sick because I am barefoot near where you are having lunch. "It's the law!" he insisted. "I doubt it." I hear about laws and health codes a lot. They don't exist. "Are you a lawyer?" I usually get that from the police. Somehow there is an assumption that even in this information age that no one can possibly do legal research without passing the bar exam. I told him no but I can READ. At this point, I started to get "old manned". This used to happen quite a bit when I was a young man but I was a bit taken aback by it now that I am well into middle age. You might be familiar with being "old manned". It is when you are given that John Wayne style dress down. "You have an attitude problem." "You don't have any respect." "You think you know everything and you don't know shit...." and so on. I told him, quite simply, that I am just a truth seeker. I believe this to be true. When people tell me things... like say going barefoot spreads disease.... I do some research and find out whether it is true or not.... rather than believe random strangers... who... thanks to my previous research... I have found that they quite often don't know shit... even if they are old men. "You're not a truth seeker. You're a rule breaker!" I suppose he was half right there. The existence of a stupid rule doesn't motivate me to follow it. "Let me ask you... Are you gay?" Damn. Here I was going on about being a "truth seeker" and, as such, I suppose I needed to be honest in the name of consistency. Still, I was really curious as to where lying and telling him I was gay would take this argument. I am not sure what set off his faulty gay-dar... my bare feet? The fact that I am middle age and still in decent shape? That I was relatively clean and had a nice hat? I told him "No." I still regret that. "I bet you're not married either. You can't keep a girlfriend." I am getting a little pissed here. No, I am not married but, actually, I do pretty well pretty well with the ladies for someone who lives in a truck... just sayin'. I really was getting to the point where I had enough of being "old manned"... being told I was arrogant... I was a know-it-all... and such. "So what's more arrogant than thinking you know everything about a person you met thirty seconds ago? All this time, I never once supposed that I know anything about you or what your life is about." We left it that. He got up with a friend and performed. I think his friend was at The Woodzie and knew a little about what I do. Before their last song, the "old man" publicly apologized for giving me a hard time. I accepted. He seemed a little taken aback... like he was expecting some attitude or something but I am not one for grudges or cheap shots. I just play the fucking guitar... I got up and performed a little set. I was very good and it turned heads a little on that sleepy Sunday afternoon. I was barefoot... as always. That's just how I move through this world. It won't hurt you. That's the truth.

Tour Notes V: Alpine Texas

There is that long stretch of nothing along the I-10 between San Antonio and El Paso. Fortunately, I had a plan to break it up as I returned from my Texas Tour. We got off the I-10 and cut Southwest to a little town called Alpine. Now to someone like myself who is traveling from the high mountains of Arizona the town of Alpine is anything but alpine. No snow or pine trees. It is high by Texas standards (4,775') but it is certainly no Telluride. The one thing you will find in Alpine is a lot of cowboy hats, boots, belt buckles, country music blaring out the bars and trucks... plenty of pickup trucks. After spending the better part of the week in the big cities of Austin and San Antonio I had finally arrived in... well... Texas. You might think that a weird artsy sort of musician would dread coming to a small redneck town like Alpine. You might imagine that my night would end being dragged behind a truck or something... but this is never the case. In truth, I actually dread the ho-hum of the hipsters in the big cities where you can never be cool unless someone cool said you are cool. In the big city I am just another Wednesday night touring band. In the small redneck towns I am the goddamn circus... and they are happy to see someone do something different. I had no idea what to expect at the Crystal Bar. It was a pretty informal booking. I wasn't even sure if they remembered booking me at all. When we got into town I stuck my head inside just to see what it was like. It was huge. They told me that people would bring their horses inside sometimes. It is that sort of place. Country music blaring. Cowboys looking at me with that "What the hell is with this barefoot guy?" They're gonna kill me... The owner was nice enough though. Jeanne had inherited the place from her husband after he died suddenly on Thanksgiving. Really. She also ran a restaurant and told Matt and I to go and have dinner on her... which we did. I ordered steak. I am not really the biggest fan of steak but when in Texas... Besides, I already had Texas barbecue in Austin. I had a green chile cheeseburger in New Mexico. It was time to sample that other cuisine the great state of Texas was known for: Steak. A New York Strip in my case... with some mash potatoes... Well... being a touring musician isn't always the healthiest thing... but I love experiencing life too much to be a vegan in a Texas steakhouse... just sayin'. Well fed, I came back and gave them a show. The place was too big and empty that night for my taste. I wish I had sent Jeanne some flyers instead of sending them to the hotel that booked me the next night (and they didn't even put them up). Still, I was treated generously and made some badly needed cash which put this tour into the black after some disastrous gigs in Austin and San Marcos (money-wise anyway...). I'll admit I did sort of fade a bit in the end... too much free beer... and I was getting a little worn out from touring. Still, Jeanne seemed to enjoy what I did and wanted me back. The rednecks didn't lynch me. They even got up and danced a little. There's a star on the wall there with Waylon Jenning's signature on it. I put my signature nearby. I had finally found Texas... and... much to my surprise. I like Texas and I think I will return someday. The next night I played the lobby of the old Holland Hotel. I had planned to play in their magnificent courtyard but then there was a storm. A real storm too. I went outside and saw a funnel cloud in the distance. It didn't quite come down but plenty of hail and lightning did. So I played an acoustic set in the lobby. It was a bit weird. Everyone was in the bar which was on the opposite end of the building. I played to myself for awhile but, eventually, some folks gathered around to hear what I was doing. I was asked to play Waylon Jennings. It was about the twentieth request for him I got since coming to Alpine. The only song I know of his is the theme to the Dukes of Hazard. I guess I have some homework to do. They dug my blues though. I even played them some of my country songs. Normally, when I play "Chain Drinker" no one pays attention but they hung on every word and laughed at all my double entendres. "Don't know how I got into this rut. I might be able to get out but not with this beer gut... cause I'm a chain drinker and problem smoker and I can't seem to get my shit together..." Yessir. I write damn good country songs. That is a well kept secret. Too well kept.... but at least, some folks in Alpine know that now. When I looked into my tip case Ulysses S Grant was looking back at me. Yeah. Don't fear for my sake in these little redneck towns. I will be fine...

Tour Notes I: Bisbee (Part One)

Kicking it at The Grand Hotel in Bisbee Arizona. Day Three. I threw myself out here on this tour knowing anything could happen and so it has. My friend Matt decided he would like to join me on this leg. After all, it begins and ends in Northern Arizona where he lives and this is a good season for him to take a trip. Whipple’s Vagabond Adventures has a new client. I was stoked because my journey into Texas was, for me, a high risk and low rewards. No solid guarantees and a lot of miles. If my truck decided to give out in the vast wasteland of West Texas I would be fucked. I was leaning towards canceling the whole lot of them in the interest of saving my skin but now Matt was offering to drive his newer, more comfortable and reliable truck. Texas is on. Or is it? Launch day. Matt’s son is having severe abdominal pains. It sounds like appendicitis. He is headed to the hospital. For whatever reason, Matt has decided that he needs to stay with his family as his son goes through surgery rather than fuck around with me on the road. I plead with him to get his priorities straight. Well… No. I don’t. Boys needs his father and Matt is a good one. Boy goes into surgery. He is recovering now. I head to Phoenix alone in my trusty little Toyota. We make it. I play an acoustic gig. I am rusty and it is a bit rough. Something only I would really notice. I had been focused on moving out of my great little space in Flag and trying to get some work in at the last minute. I hadn’t touched my guitars in weeks. The next morning me and the Toyota hit the freeway. Neither of us like it much. The truck doesn’t really do the 75 MPH superhighway well. It’s a little shaky. No cruise control. No reclining bucket seats. It coughs and sputters a little. Southern Arizona is dull and monotonous. It is pure mercy when we finally reach our exit leading to Tombstone and Bisbee. I am a lover of the divided highway myself. Give me a road that slows down for the little towns on the way. I love the little offerings of the places on the way. The burger joints. The quirky cafes. The antique shops. The churches. I like to think about the lives I am passing by. It gives me hope. It gets me down the road. I arrive in the quirky town of Bisbee in the early afternoon. I am trying to scrounge up some more gigs. Matt is talking about joining me here in a couple of days. I have to improvise. Find a place to stay or least a shower or something. I busk out on Main for a little while. I make one dollar. I stop. I need to save my strength. I am playing at a hotel but they offered me a choice between money and a room. I took the money. I need the money… any money… desperately. Some folks offer me a space down the street. I get a shower and try to wash off the high desert sun. I am worn out from the drive… the sun… the stress… the lack of sleep the night before… I want to take a nap but there is no time. I have work to do. I play and because I don’t know any better, I kill myself doing it. I always do. I know I am going to pay for it after the endorphins wear off. I know I am going to be sore in the morning. I am going to be a wreck but, like I said, I don’t know any better. When I perform I give you fucking everything. You should really appreciate that more than you do. My performance changes things. I get the room upstairs and the money. I make some new friends and get closer to connecting to more gigs in town. In the morning the owners of The Grand Hotel come out to greet their guests personally while we are treated with a “made from scratch” breakfast. The owners heard good things about my performance. They offer to put me up the rest of the weekend. It pays to be good… sort of anyway. So for the rest of the weekend I am going to wing it. Sing for my meals wherever I can. It’s going to work out. Somehow. I’m just putting this out there to Great Goddess of Fate. If my truck is to break down let it be in a quirky artist colony like Bisbee. I could live here. for awhile anyway….

Tour Notes II: Bisbee

I meet up with a writer for breakfast. She lives like I do. Another post-Millennial gypsy. Drifting from one friendly town to the next with the weather. Bisbee is one of those “friendly towns”. Her dog is sick and needs an operation. Her fridge is broke. Life is expensive. She just found out her book was nominated for an award. That could be a bit of a game changer for her. That’s how it is for us gypsy-artists. It seems our lives are hopelessly adrift but there is always that faint hope of a friendly wind to carry us towards home. Maybe that friendly wind is going to fill her sails now. I hope so. It has been a long road for her. She is in her sixties now. Decades ago, she walked away from a default career because she didn’t want to be part of the war machine. That is a bold and courageous move. I can believe she is a strong writer. There is no turning back from these self imposed exiles. I know this is true for myself as well. I pick her brain for awhile. People tell me I am a good writer. You are reading something I wrote right now. I believe you all but I know from my experiences as a musician that being “good” doesn’t mean much. There is no telling how many masterpieces of literature are sitting in closets buried under dust and rejection letters from publishers. I have already collected enough rejection in my life but, for better or worse, we have less need of the gatekeepers today. We can put out our own music and literature. Getting people to listen or read it… well… that’s a trick I hope to figure out soon. I know it really has more to do with you than me. The hotel is full tonight but I have backup. A spare room above Va Voom. The hotel owners offer to put me up Sunday and Monday though. This place is like Burning Man. Put your mind to what you need it will manifest itself. I belong here. Anyone can see that. It will have to wait though. I am just starting this journey. At the saloon I open up the old piano. It’s pretty broken down. You almost need a hammer to play it. I love it. We will make some music tonight. There is lots to do here but I don’t want to do any of it. I wander into The Copper Queen and sit with a beer listening to Terry Wolf. This works. I can sit and listen to Terry’s songs about unruly Western characters all afternoon. “All I know about men I learned from my dog” she sings while her fiddle player companion, John, cries out “Oh no!” This is good. All I need now is another beer. Someone who saw me perform last night buys me one. Solved. People have told me that I should take some medication for depression. I don’t agree. I do get depressed… sometimes it’s intense… but I think it is quite natural. My life can be very fucking rough. I am impressed that I actually get up out of bed sometimes. Still, I find something wrong with the idea that I should try to make myself artificially happy in a shit storm. But if, while sitting on the balcony at the Copper Queen sipping a good free beer listening to good musicians play their hearts out on a beautiful day in Bisbee Arizona… if I was depressed at this moment… THEN there would be a problem… but I am not depressed. I am quite happy here. This is perfect. Any happier I would cry. I feel happiness just as deeply as sadness. If anything, I feel too much and I am sure the pharmaceutical companies would be more than happy to give me something to take the edges out… take away the blissful light and the terrifying darkness… but no thanks… and fuck you. I only get one shot at this shit… just like all of you. I am going to live it.

Tour Notes III: The Woodzie

I reckon good people are not too hard to find if you know where to look and it is easy to find bad people if you don’t. I thought The Woodzie would be a good place to find good people and I was right about that. It is a small, family style, folk music festival between San Antonio and Austin that takes place every spring on John and Jimmie Bell Whipple’s land. That’s right. It is run by John Whipple. John Whipple isn’t the most uncommon name in the world. The first John Whipple I ran into was on the internet. He is a photographer and he grabbed “johnwhipple.com” before I could. Bastard. Another John Whipple came to one of my shows in Portland. He seemed a good sort too. I haven’t met a John Whipple I didn’t like. I encountered John Whipple, the folk musician from New Braunfels Texas, on the internet as well. It was inevitable that we run into each other having the same name and both of us playing music. I learned about the Woodzie a few years back and had been meaning to go but Texas is so very far. This would be the year. My friend Matt was traveling with me and driving his much more comfortable truck. It is a long long barren haul across the I-10 from El Paso to… well… anywhere. It took the entire day and it was dark by the time we entered “Whippleworld”. (yes, that is what this place is called). There was a song circle going around a fire so I picked up my guitar and joined in. I always find it is best to introduce myself through music. I was explaining to Matt that life gets better after I play. Before I perform I am just another stranger… another tourist… another barefoot jerk. After I perform things are very different. People bring me food and drink. Some even welcome me into their home and give me a nice place to lie down for a night. People smile and wave as I pass. Life gets better. So I introduced myself as “John Whipple”… which startled everyone. I actually go by “J.P.Whipple” now but I couldn’t resist having fun with this situation. Though I play a lot of acoustic music I don’t play like most of the pickers there. I am self taught… guided by instincts… good and bad… when it comes to my guitar playing. I lean heavily towards jazz, blues and funk. It is an odd and somewhat idiosyncratic style but that is what happens when you pick up the guitar for one purpose only: To write songs. The folks around the fire appreciated it though. I had performed. Things would get better. John Whipple came and sat down nearby. “Hello John Whipple” he said and I replied “Howdy John Whipple”. He played a song with his wife Jimmie Bell joining in. I would later hear his son sing a song and I would see his sister perform some gypsy jazz the next day. We are a musical bunch, the Whipples. I heard there were two brothers Whipple who got off the boat in the Colonial Days. Each started a family and their descendents went forth and multiplied. John Whipple’s son theorized that we both descended from the same brother who was known throughout the colonies for his musical prowess… or something. My mother traced most of our ancestors to the Old World but, as far as I know, the Whipple’s are still a mystery. I can only go back to Park Whipple, my great grandfather, who I have taken my middle name from. I have no idea where he came from. One thing we modern Whipple’s all do share is the bane of Mister Whipple, a fictional character played by Dick Wilson who was featured in toilet paper commercials for something like forty years. Any Whipple growing up in those years heard this catch phrase over and over: “Mister Whipple, please don’t squeeze the Charmin!” In the morning, I took a walk around Whippleworld. At most every campground I was invited to sit ad hear someone perform a song. Then I would be asked to play one myself. Then I would be offered food, drink and maybe something else. This is the way of The Woodzie. Hear a song. Play a song. Enjoy some Texas hospitality. Repeat. There was an official stage with great sound brought in, set up and ran for the entire festival by a generous local engineer. With so many singer-guitarists performing I decided it would be best to give them a taste of the one man band. A little something different… So I did a quick set… changing instruments every song. I think they enjoyed that. People brought in Barbeque, deserts, salads and exotic dishes of all sorts. Everything I tried was good. I went a little crazy for the BBQ myself. When I went back to the communal table for thirds… or fourths… or whatever it was by then (there were some kegs flowing too…) an exasperated woman said “You are welcome to try the salad.” Apparently it wasn’t the favorite dish there but for me, it was a terrific idea. It was all family style. I walked by as a father held his son’s beer so his son could light his bowl. That’s family values I can get behind. Children were playing. Beer was flowing. The food was great. Musicians were sharing. As an introduction to that foreign land that is Texas I could not have possibly done better. At sunset, Jimmie Bell Whipple brought us all to an open field and we gathered in a circle to introduce ourselves. When my turn came I shouted: “I am John Whipple!” And proud of it, dammit.

Tour Notes VI: Austin

Austin. I am not sure if I’m actually in Texas anymore. No cowboy hats. No boots. No spurs. No Texas drawl. There is a lot of music. It seems every place that is open has live music. Every bar. Every coffee house. I wouldn’t be surprised if a laundry mat there has a house band. “Live Music While We Change Your Oil!” We walk down into the Elephant Room for happy hour and some jazz. There is an old guitarist I recognize from Asylum Street Spankers playing with a clarinetist named Jon Doyle. They are great. The sort of act you would expect to be bringing in a crowd but not here. There is just a half dozen or so hanging out. I have heard so many times from old timers and even not so old timers about Austin’s “glory days”. Sure, Austin today is as young and hip as any American city. It feels more like Portland or Seattle than anywhere Texas. Quirky shops line the famous streets… lots of bicycles… plenty of homegrown character… but I can tell that the thousands of people bringing their song-dreams here are just winding up at open mics or dead bars and coffee houses playing for tips just like my friends here at the Elephant. There used to be money in this game. There used to be room to grow. Yeah. The glory days of the self proclaimed “Live Music Capital of the World” are fading… but not just for Austin. It is everywhere. All the DJ’s… Karaoke machines… big screen TVs… home theaters… cable TV… DUI gauntlets… the yuppies buying up condos in hip neighborhoods and then complaining about the noise… it all takes a toll. It just gets harder for some barefoot song-poet to find a place to beat out the rhythms of his heart on six strings, wood and voice hoping to get just enough out of it to keep going. I played for four people in Austin. Only one of them actually came to see me play. Michelle Stewart, another gypsy songstress, with a fire in her eyes who I met the previous night at an open mic. We hit it off from the start. The sort of connection I wish I wasn’t going to put several hundred miles behind me the next day. That’s how it goes when you’re a gypsy. Someday, I hope and pray (in my way) that I will have room for more than one in my caravan but it’s tough out here for a barefoot song-poet… and it seems to be getting tougher.

Tour Notes VII: Home

Bisbee. Again. My truck was safe and sound where I left it two weeks ago. I unloaded my gear from Matt’s truck back into mine. This is where Matt and I part ways. He is continuing on to Flagstaff. He has kids to see. A bed to sleep in. A wife to have sex with. I have none of those things waiting there except a place to stay for a week so I am taking my time getting back. I am a bit worn out. Three gigs in as many days. All said I played nine gigs over the last two weeks… plus a couple of open mics and all those songs around the fires and such at the Woodzie. “That ain’t working!” as the old Dire Straits song goes but it is, for me anyway. For every J.P.Whipple Show I bring two guitars (usually my Guild and my Dobro), plus a banjo, my lap steel, accordion, amp and my trash drum set… with all sorts of accompanying equipment. I don’t have to. Most one man bands usually stick to one guitar and drums but I like to give the audience something more than what most others do. That’s just how I roll. I respect my audience and want to entertain the hell out of them. It is a lot of work. Booking all these gigs. Traveling. Carrying all my shit in and out of places. Playing my ass off for three hours every night. . I hope someday it works for me and I get something back. I sit down and start my computer at The Grand Saloon. I look up at the TV that has everyone else transfixed. Someone bombed the Boston Marathon. Really? I can never understand the madness of this world. Killing random people. For what? I drive my old Toyota north rather than taking the obvious route through Tucson and Phoenix. I am too tired to drive all the way to Flagstaff like Matt. My truck is not as comfortable as Matt’s… with cruise control and air conditioning and nice seats. My truck is hot and shaky. The spring winds are fierce. I battle my way a couple hundred miles and stop in Saffron where there are some hot springs. There is a little place there called “Essence of Tranquility”. They have some cheap campsites and private pools. Sounds perfect. I stop for the night, strip naked and let the miles float away in the warm water. For a tour that almost didn’t happen. My first adventure into Texas went as well as I could expect. A few of the shows were duds but everyone treated me well. I met some great people. I met many talented musicians from Michelle Stewart in Austin to Jack Pledge and all the folks at the Woodzie… including the other “John Whipple”. I seem to have a few doppelgangers down there too. Not just the other John Whipple who people confused me for (even though I now perform as “J.P.Whipple”). I learned in Alpine that someone is going around as “Barefoot John” too. I had to convince someone that the “Barefoot John” who sent them a CD was not me. I am just a John that goes barefoot. I do have the domain “barefootjohn.com” but that is only because I think it is much easier to remember than “jpwhipple.com”… which I also own. I considered using “Barefoot John” as a stage name before but I think that is the sort of name that leads one to draw certain conclusions about my music… which would almost certainly be wrong. Besides, someone else is apparently using that name. I take the back roads back to Flagstaff. I avoid Phoenix and I-17. I try to avoid the superhighways any chance I get. I like to slow down for the little towns. I like to see the Main Streets… the little shops and cafes… I like to see where people live… what makes them proud to be where they are. I will take that over blurring past a fucking Pilot truck stop every fifty miles any day. I got time to get to where I am going. The road is my home. I will spend a few days in Flag. I have to paint another house. Get a little extra cash for the next trip. Summer is coming so I am heading North. Taos. Colorado. Utah. Idaho. Washington. Oregon. Montana. Minnesota. This is a long one. I have no idea how things will go or where I will end up. I don’t know where I am staying or how I will get by between gigs. I am just going to check the oil, put some air in my tires and go… and go. That’s how I roll.

Tour VIII: Land of the Free

If the cops catch wind of this they'll throw my ass in jail. I was told never to return here... because I am a "transient"... because I am homeless... therefore I have no right to camp in the National Forest or on BLM land. I am a treaspasser on private property. A treaspasser on public property. I have no right to occupy space. This is America. Land of the Free as long as you can pay for it. I came here to the same spot where I was confronted by the Forest cops... so determined to arrest me... who went through the contents of my truck convinced that there was pot in there somewhere... because their dog smelled "something". It was all in vain. There was no pot but they wrote me a ticket with an egregious fine I could not pay for being homeless on public lands. That was the end of the road for me in 2011 but I am back here... because I have a gig the next day just a few miles down the road at a winery... and because... fuck you. I should have the same rights as the rich old farts in that RV across the road. I suppose I should have learned my lesson. They had already tried to teach me before... that povery is a crime. The only night I spent in jail was in Sarasota Florida. I was staying with my brother in his studio which was near a housing project. Nearly every night I walked through the neighborhood the cops would stop and frisk me. Being from a Middle Class family I wasn't used to being treated like a criminal... especially when there was no clear evidence of a crime being committed nearby... so I resisted. I argued. Things got heated. The last time they chased me into the local bar. Bad idea. I had an audience now and there was no stopping me. I am skilled at debate. They gave me a scholarship for it. It is best not to argue with me in a public space... especially a bar... if you are a cop. "I smell bacon..." "Oink!" Clearly the audience is on my side. There is only way this could have ended: With my face slammed into the wall and my body dragged out in handcuffs. A night in a cage certainly wasn't enough to break me but inside jail I could see how the system could wear me down systematically. Those projects are prisons. The cops that swept me up nightly and put me against the wall are the guards... making sure no one gets out. If I grew up in those projects... with a different skin tone... headstrong as I am... where would I be? There are really only three options: Jail. Death. or Escape. Would I be The Lucky One somehow using my intellect to excel through school, get a scholarship, a degree and leave the project behind? Or would I pick I fight with the authorities who already had it in for me... like I did that night... and lose... and waste a lifetime in and out prisons? I think the latter is more likely. The cops didn't catch me this time. In the morning I walked barefoot through the desert gathering wood for a breakfast fire. I put a can of corn beef hash and some eggs in the Dutch oven. Delicious. Before the fire died I burned the rest of a sage bundle I bought from the Hopis just before I was "busted". It was probably the reason the dog "indicated". They say burning sage cleanses the area of negativity. Perhaps it can cleanse the negativity of what happened here that night two years ago. Perhaps it can cleanse the negativity in my truck... my faithful steed... who I know I am pushing now never having the money to properly maintain it. Perhaps it will cleanse the negativity within myself... the negative roles I have taken on. "John the Homeless." "John the quasi-criminal." "John the Poor." I travel lighter than anyone and yet there is still baggage. There's always baggage... even for John the Musician... Traveler... Artist... Writer. "Get behind me! Get behind me Poverty! Get behind me Failure! Get behind me Desperation... Depression... Homelessness... Obscurity. Sweet sage take these screams into the loneliest canyons of this desert... where its echoes can go on forever and not be heard!" Now is the time for my Song.

Tour Notes IX: Drought

"Where's the water?" Matt asked as we crossed the ditch that was supposed to be the Rio Grande just south of Las Cruces. Apparently, the orchards of New Mexico are taking the last of it. El Paso Texas? Fuck El Paso. Not that Texas is going to take this lying down. They have been known to cut off gas heading up to New Mexico in retaliation. Water Wars have always been a part of the politics of the American Southwest. Arizona and California fighting over the Colorado... which often dries up before reaching the Sea of Cortez. Colorado, New Mexico and Texas fighting over the Rio Grande... which has also disappeared into the sand a few years back. This is only going to get worse. I cannot understand climate change "debate". There was no "debate" all those years ago in grade school when I first learned about the "greenhouse effect". It's fucking science. There isn't any debate in the Southwest. I am a fly on the wall in the bars and cafes as I tour through this country. Take a seat in any bar or cafe in New Mexico... Southwest Texas... Colorado... Arizona... chances are you will overhear some folks talking about drought. It doesn't matter whether you are in the liberal or conservative parts of those states. They are all talking about how the rivers are low... the snowpack down... the chances of another catastrophic fire season high. Nearly every year it is the same. You might overhear some of the old timers talk about the way things were. The epic snowstorms. The wet monsoons. The floods. Those days are long gone and they know it. I spent a few days with a lovely cowgirl in Arroyo Seco New Mexico. By "cowgirl", I mean it in the real sense. I watched her with her still wild horses. If they kick at her she kicks back. She put me on one of her more gentle horses, Charlotte. "The Unicorn" she calls it. I suppose that it is fitting I should ride the unicorn... or rather... try to ride her. It has been many years since I have been on a horse. Just a few miles north, Colorado has cut the Rio Grande down to a mere trickle. My new friend here wonders when the Great Migrations will begin. I think everyone hear senses deep down that this drought could last generations. "Follow our barefooted friend" said our guide. I had somehow gotten ahead of the rest of the group touring "The Grand Palace" in Mesa Verde National Park. There was once a large thriving community up here. Then, many centuries ago, they suddenly disappeared. No one knows why for certain. Their descendants only say: "It was time to leave." The Hopi people continue to this day to look for the Center of the World... where they belong. Almost all the old stories speak of a "Promised Land". I believe we found it. It is just that we broke our end of the bargain. Throughout America you can hear the warnings... the canaries in the coal mine... their ominous songs fill the air if you are willing to listen. And we should listen. It might not be too long before this drought that the farmers and ranchers have been dealing with for decades starts to threaten the big cities too... Tucson... Albuquerque... Phoenix... Los Angeles. And what about the drought that hit the Midwest last summer? Our bread basket. The Song of Drought is one of many ominous songs in America today. What about the Song of Detroit? All those songs from the ruins of our Great Industrial Past... warning us that we are being left behind... that our American Way of Life is obsolete. As our fields turn to dust and our industry fades to rust, how long before we listen? Forget what they tell you. That climate change is a hoax. That we can save ourselves by drilling the seas and fracturing the land. That the market is up. How are you?

Tour Notes XIII: End This

“Where are all the people?” Not the question you want to hear after driving three hours to play a gig somewhere. This is going to be another long night… “This place was packed last night.” Two hundred miles… rattled… sleepless… to perform at this place. I know I am not well known and had never been to this town. I am trying to build an audience but there’s not much you can build out of the two town drunks and the bartender. Someone said I was the hardest working musician he knew… probably the most masochistic too. One man bands are enough trouble but mine is especially burdensome with four different guitars, a banjo, accordion, trash drum kit and all the miscellaneous pieces that put it all together. When discussing my rates I will usually say I will play for free but I charge at least a hundred dollars to carry all my shit in and out of the venue. Like most people who haven’t found success, my instinct is always to work harder… practice more… add more to my act to make it more unique and entertaining. All that work is surely evident to the people who witness my act. The problem is no one does. Where are all the people? It’s Friday night at one of the few waterholes in town and just about the only one with any live music but it is still empty. The bar I played last night was slow too. Unusually so, they said… as if I am some sort of curse… I feel cursed. I’ve been doing this for years. Getting better. Getting great even… and I am still playing these same gigs… for no one. Every gig is my tenth birthday party all over again. The one nobody showed up for. The one that made me cry to find I had no one to share my toys with. End this. End this. That becomes a mantra in my head. End this. I think I have learned my lessons from failure well enough. I know what it is like to be broke… unwanted… I know what it is like to have no one come to my gigs. Those experiences have played over and over again like a fucking broken record. I’ve heard that song already. I wrote that goddamn song already. Over the years of my repeated failure I have grown… gotten better than I ever imagined becoming… I even impress my relentlessly self-critical self at times… I got it all going now. The material. The chops. The act. I am ready for something different now but where the fuck is everyone? End this.

Tour Notes XI: American Dreams Lost and Found

We were on our way back from the parts store. For whatever reason, my five speed truck has a four speed’s universal joint. Maybe that is why it was about to give out after a measly 180 thousand miles. “Uncle Dave” talks nonstop about cars he is putting together and cars he plans on getting. I speak just enough Gearhead to fake an understanding. He tells me in his thick Alabama manner about his plan to dig up some gold in Eastern Oregon. He has got it all figured out. If his calculations are right he will soon be able to take care of all his kin and all those who are close to him. None of them will have to trouble over money anymore. I am not much help as he crawls back under my truck. I just find some shade and drink some of the PBR’s I bought for him. He doesn’t have a garage. My car is up on a neighbor’s ramp out on a side street in Southeast Portland. I can’t afford to take it into a shop. I have to get everything through Adventure. A tiny old lady comes by to collect our empty cans. They are worth a nickel a piece here in Oregon. She is distraught. Members of her family have been dropping faster than major characters in a Game of Thrones episode. Her mother. Her sister. Her sister’s son. Gone. Gone. Gone. Of her nephew she says in her thick Eastern European accent “He have no money. He have no job. He have no food. He kill self.” She puts her hand over head to grab an invisible rope. We get the picture. I know that jazz. Being unemployed and feeling worthless… unable to take care of yourself… that hopelessness knowing there is no help for you. It sounds like a typical American Tragedy but given her accent I had to ask her where this happened. Perhaps this disease is spreading throughout the world now. “In Atlanta” she answers. I had just read that the Atlanta Metro has seen their poverty rate rise 160% during the last decade. Stocks are up, right? “No money. No job. No food…” … I sit at a table just off Mississippi in NoPo having coffee with my friend Jen. Years ago, we made a ritual of having lunch together when we both had “real” jobs downtown. Our lunches together were pretty much the highlight of our day. I kept that job for almost two years. It was okay work. My boss treated us like individuals. He played to our strengths. Like everyone else there, I was good at some things and not so good at others. He tried to keep me busy doing what I was good at. Then the economy dropped out. Rome was burning, banks were imploding and yet somehow the heads upstairs decided it was our fault that no business was coming in. The replaced my boss with someone they brought in from California. He was full of Big Talk. There would be no more treating us like individuals… no more playing to our strengths. We were just machines now. When I was assigned something I was not only bad at but aggravated my tendonitis I decided I was not a machine and walked out. They told me to think about it over the weekend. By all their metrics, I was one of their most productive employees. I had been there long enough to see all the inefficiencies. The older workers were all set in their ways and resisted innovation. I decided I would express my observations on how things were run in an email. I thought I was doing them a favor but when I came in to talk about my decision I was treated as if I had called in a bomb threat. Even after all these years I guess I never learned. This is a culture of Big Talk. We are all supposed to get into line as chest puffing paper tigers. Keep your head down. Don’t ever question what you are doing, how you are doing it or what it all leads to. Honesty is a bomb in that room. Call security! Just like that I went from being offered a management position to being a “rotten apple”. Don’t hire John Whipple. He is a troublemaker. No one has hired me since. On my way home that day I threw my shoes in the garbage. This is done. … Jen wasn’t too far behind. She had been making and giving away art for years but now she was having a go at an artist’s life. It hasn’t been easy. Every month is a scramble to get just enough to keep going… keep that roof over her head. It has been an adventure. A leap of faith. That afternoon we both agreed it had been hard but we are both happier now. Unlike the doomed soul of that old lady’s nephew in Atlanta the job market no longer tells us what we are worth. As scary and insecure as our lives have become there is value in every step of this journey… because this journey is ours. My American Dream was never about things. You can keep your big houses, Xboxes and televisions. I don’t give a shit about any of it. I dream of a life worth living. Shit. When someone asks what my goals are I reply it is to play in places where people come to see me. I want to sell tickets. I want to be able to put on my rider “No fucking televisions” and “Don’t hassle me about my bare feet”. Yeah… a bigger RV would be nice but mostly I just want to be honest. Dream on Uncle Dave: May that gold be there waiting for you. Dream on Jen Berry: May you continue to find salvation through creation. Dream on J.P.Whipple: May you find your audience. Dream on all my great friends who chase the life that is meant for them… who follow their path… their bliss. I don’t meet people with those old corporate dreams anymore… the ones who dream of promotions and mortgages. They are the ones who stay home. The road is for the living.

Tour Notes XII : The Godforsaken House of Love

In Portland I found myself in the home of a good friend. She happens to live in a nice old Victorian home just off Mississippi in NoPo and has a furnished bedroom open up the stairs. Stylin’. I have known her for many years through more than a few ups and face down in the dirts. Perhaps these are the “ups”… at least for her. She has a man living with her now and that is a new thing. She is an intelligent and strong woman… a force of nature all to herself. Not too many guys can hang with that. Apparently, Troy is doing just that. When they left town for an event up in the Cascades last weekend, I stayed behind to hang out with the cat, Inu. The home is a Turn of the Century Victorian with high ceilings and wood floors. It is the sort of space that just loves an acoustic musician. I can sit on the couch in the living room with a guitar and the sound opens up all the way into the kitchen and up the stairs before returning back to my ears. Beautiful. Having the whole place to myself I felt it would be a good time to write some songs. Usually when I am in the mood to write I just start playing my instruments and let them sing back to me. If something sounds good I will see if I can build something with it. That weekend, everything that came back was beautiful… too beautiful. The songs my instruments wanted to sing were all soft and tender. Too sweet for my tastes. I feel that a good song should have both dark and light. A full spectrum. If you let the song get too soft you wind up with Air Supply or Paul McCartney without John Lennon to cut down on all that awful sickening sweetness. Still, every time I tried to put an edge on a groove I was working on it was as if I was playing music into a cloud. Sweet… soft… tender…. Blech. The next morning I realized what was happening. This house was full of love. I could feel it. The walls were full of it. The wood of my guitars were soaking in it. I was drenched in it. I don’t know if I believe in things like ghosts or spirits as actual things… like the restless soul of a long dead person… but reverberation… that is a real thing. When something emotional happens in a space the walls just soak it up. Some things can reverberate for generations… for centuries. I spend my life as something of a professional guest. I am always staying in different homes usually for just a day or two. I am always aware of the energy… the reverberation. Most of the time it is warm and welcoming. On rare occasions, it can be edgy and I can’t wait to leave. In this home it was love… pure and simple. It was no surprise at all when Tiffany returned and announced that she was engaged. So I wasted a perfectly good weekend with my guitars puking Air Supply all over this godforsaken House of Love. I am okay with that.