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.

It Takes a Busload of Faith to Get By

What’s Your Story? (It Takes a Busload of Faith to Get By) Ross Douthat has been on a book tour with his book Bad Religion: How We Became a Nation of Heretics. He argues that even though people have been abandoning traditional churches in droves we are just as “religious” as ever. We have just moved away from the old churches to what he calls “heresies” whether it is one of those “Churches of Prosperity” where the Good Lord has some cash waiting for you or some version of a New Age Spirituality where we can learn to harness the great energies of Cosmic Love. Truth is it is pretty likely people will always be believers in something. We need a story to believe in. We are storytelling creatures. We need a story because we think in language. Thinking in language is a double edged sword. There is little doubt that if we suddenly lost our language skills depression would all but disappear. If someone out there has not seen Jill Bolte Taylor’s Ted Talk about her journey, thanks to a stroke, into the blissful realm of experience without language I cannot think of a more worthy twenty minute video on the web (http://www.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight.html). Blissful as it might be, if we didn’t have language skills we would still be naked and living brief and savage lives. That is a bit of a trade off. I am not sure which life I would prefer but I guess I am stuck with my storytelling brain for now. So what’s your story? Just the facts, mam’. That’s one approach. We can try to see the world for what it is as best we can. We certainly need to do this to some extent. If you don’t you are going to end up on the roof with a cape believing you are a flying super hero. That is unlikely to go well for you. Seeing the world for what it is can be troubling too. To quote from the scene at Elvis’ grave in the movie Spinal Tap there is such a thing as “too much perspective”. Taken as “objectively” as possible the world can be seen as a pretty terrible and, at best, indifferent place. Even those “real life” Hollywood Ending stories are only triumphant if you stop following them when they reach that “happily ever after” moment. Keep reading and things often don’t go so well. “Yes Johnny was a big star at last but then he got older, beauty faded and fashions changed. Now the money is gone and he is doing Reality TV’s Has Been Circuit.” Many a great mind has been lost trying to come up with a way of dealing with the overwhelming tragedy of our brief lives in an indifferent universe. This is not a great story to tell yourself in the morning if you want to get out of bed. According to your story, you have already lost. Lying for the Win! It has been said many times that the trouble with the world is that the stupid people are certain and intelligent people are full of doubts. The fact that you can find very similar quotes on this very topic from Yeats, H.L. Menken and Bertrand Russell suggests this is hardly a new phenomenon in the world and is unlikely to change anytime soon. The rub is that even though the world really is terribly complex and usually way beyond our comprehension those that “delude” themselves into thinking otherwise usually win. This, of course, has had disastrous results in politics as practical solutions that try to address the very real complexities of an issue are, more times than not, swept aside in favor of the simple program built out of idiotic certitude. There can be little doubt why the black and white worldview of Fox News annihilates MSNBC’s more nuanced “liberal” view in the ratings. This isn’t just a numbers game that backs that common conceit of the intellectual that there are simply a lot more “stupid” people. On a more personal level, people guided by certainty and a good dose of self deception tend to triumph over realists and doubters. Psychologist Joanna Starek did a study of competitive swimmers that showed that swimmers that lied to themselves swam faster than those who did not. There is a great episode of WNYC’s Radiolab that highlights that story as well as many other fascinating aspects of lying and how lying can make people happier and more successful (http://www.radiolab.org/2008/mar/10/lying-to-ourselves/). So perhaps the story we should tell ourselves shouldn’t necessarily be “true”. There have been plenty of studies to suggest that people who involve a personal god or spirituality in their story tend to do better in life as well. Many great battles were won because the soldiers on one side had a compelling story that allowed them to cast aside their doubts and fears and throw themselves completely into the task at hand. Belief in a higher purpose is an essential ingredient of self sacrifice. Perhaps having a god or some sort of “spirituality” on your side can not only give you some direction but also confidence to move forward in an often frightening and dreadful world. I see nothing wrong with that in itself. The problems arise when people fashion tyrannical gods imbued with our basest and most petty qualities. There are two religious or spiritual paths. The High Road and the Low Road. On the Low Road, the gods are there to serve you. Because of your devotion to them they will champion your causes. They will bring money and love into your life. If you remain faithful enough they will even deliver you from death. Sadly, this is the road “more traveled”. It is a veritable superhighway compared to the High Road. On the High Road, you know you are sacrificed. Still, on the High Road instead of retreating to the empty promises of the Low Road you accept the sacrifice even if puts nails through your wrists (or, in our slightly more civilized age, plastic handcuffs). Of course, not everyone is meant to be a political or religious martyr. The High Road is all about following the journey of the heart. You know this path already. It is the deepest and truest story of all the stories you tell yourself. It is much deeper than our selfishness. It is a story that is open to the world… that involves the world and seeks to elevate it even if only in a small way. You might say, “Wait a minute! Where’s the reward? By starting out admitting that you are sacrificed and then giving yourself up, are you not just telling yourself that dreadful ‘realist’ story?” That is the beauty of it. It is a “true” story. Where is the reward? It is in the life that is really lived. When you admit you are lost you can throw yourself into your life completely. You have nothing to lose by living as full as you can. You are free to “follow your bliss” as Joseph Campbell would often say. By completely immersing yourself in your life you can experience the fullness of it: the ecstasy, bliss and terror. You are no longer down here on earth contemplating the sacred. You are sacred and every moment of your life is sacred (though, no doubt, some moments will be more sacred than others…). It’s a beautiful story but remember life is a pretty epic and complicated novel. There is plenty of room for subplots. So, go ahead, write the rest your own way. Give yourself plenty of room for happy endings. Write in gods and goddesses too if you like. Just make them Higher Gods and Goddesses that embody beauty, justice and love. Leave some room for the rest of us and our stories as well. That is all I ask. Maybe we will even write a chapter or two together. And remember: “It takes a busload of faith to get by”.