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.