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After 13 Years, TOOL's "Fear Inoculum" Doesn't Disappoint

9/21/2019

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I started the draft for this article 2 weeks ago and then took some time to digest the album without listening. Now, I'm finishing the article as I skim through some of the album's highlights and major tracks.


9/7/19

Finally...it's here.

It's hard to believe I've been squeezing as much energy as I have from the old TOOL albums. I first came to deep dive their records shortly after the release of 10,000 Days which came out when I was in high school. I fell in love. TOOL embodied so much of what I crave from my rock and metal bands. Heavy, broody guitar and bass work. Thundering drums with experimentation of dozens of other worldly percussion instruments. On one end, it's progressive (and often aggressive) songs that deal with the ridiculous and bizarre aspects of our social norms, DMT soaked alien abductions, and a whole host of other weird shit. On the other spectrum, the band in its more evolved stages (Lateralus/10,000 Days) create music that inspires feelings of ancient tribalism and transcendent experience. Long, beautiful composed tracks that invoke reflective head spaces for the listener.


Now, the band has finally settled years of time consuming legal issues and personal differences to deliver the next evolution of their collective vision. Thank the gods of metal, it is exactly what it needed to be. Each of the primary tracks spans over 10 minutes long, rewarding the listeners patience as they build to epic heights that take you on journeys of the mind and body. It's powerful stuff and hopefully marks the beginning of other future efforts from the band, who have shown they can shake off the rust and keep the machine rolling.


But is it a perfect album? Is it their best work? I think most would probably say not, although it is certainly a great TOOL album. If anything, I hope this new delivery will strengthen the band as they make the transition into the marketing and social aspect of the digital age the industry is operating now. All the musicians have grown over the decades and have successful side projects, but hopefully they can use this momentum going forward to create more as a group in the years to come. If the band does follow a path like that, I'm hoping it would be that resulting effort that will have the level of punch I'm looking for personally.


Yes, Adam Jones and Justin Chancellor's guitar work are as refined and sharp as ever, but a lot of the material can sound familiar to previous works. Analyzing Jones's work in particular, one starts to feel like some of his riffs and techniques are taken straight from works of Lateralus or AEnima and that many of the songs live in the same open D wheel house as most of their previous catalog. There's only so many riffs you can do revolving around F and D keys before they start to sound repetitive (the breakdown section of Invincible, for example, while killer in execution, is a rather simple, been-there-done-that riff). Several times after listening to the album I had the strange thought maybe they should try make an album in standard tuning to shake things up. This idea would be mostly heresy among the TOOL diehards, so we can pretend I never thought it, if it makes you feel better.


Maynard Keenan is on point with his vocals, having kept sharp with years of touring with Puscifer and A Perfect Circle. His lyrics carry the listener on to powerful resolutions and show the 55 year old can still deliver the goods.


Perhaps the most impressive musical standout to this album is the space the band gave legendary drummer Danny Carey to take the group along all the fast shifting, bizarre time signatures that populate Fear Inoculum. His unstoppable talent as a percussionist is more potent here than on any other effort. On almost every track Carey is given amble room to work off Jones and Chancellor's crunchy riffs, like on Invincible, 7empest, Pnuema, and Descending. Not to mention the far out synth and digital beat mania that occurs on interlude Chocolate Chip Trip. At every funky turn, Danny Carey proves why he is still king of the hill when it comes to powerful, progressive drumming in popular music and the percussion community world-wide. His endurance is second to none. It would be one thing to praise him for his abilities on the traditional drum kits alone, but Carey constantly reinvents himself with percussion tools from all around the world, bringing a breath of depth and culture to every track in strange and exhilarating ways.


I think Fear Inoculum will give fans years of audio greatness to digest, but hopefully the band can keep the train rolling, now that they know their fan base is still one of the most powerful in the industry and their work continues to be praised across the world. With the release of their entire catalog to streaming services, TOOL has now entered the digital age. Hopefully, they will dominate it and keep pushing forward as artists.

"Spiral down, keep going."
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Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed the article please like or share the post. I just released my photography & show notes from the recent Ty Segall performance at The Teragram Ballroom in Los Angeles. Please feel free to have a look see! Check out more of TOOL's stuff at there website. 
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-Stefan
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Ty Segall Live at The Teragram Ballroom

9/16/2019

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Road construction plagued my route from San Diego for half of the drive to LA. I had made the decision to wait to leave until after noon so that I could attend Jiu-Jitsu at twelve. Now I was close to regretting that decision. I closed out a Ty Segall album on my phone, Emotional Mugger, one of the first of the artist’s albums I had devoured several months ago since recommended to me by Abraham Partridge (who was just recently touring through California himself).   Tonight, I'll get to watch Ty Segall and the Freedom Band perform this very album, after the main course of the evening, a showcase of Segall’s latest work called First Taste, an album that had kept a place on the top of my music stack for the past month. A collection of diverse tracks that build upon an impressive catalogue that Segall has been cranking out at a rate that would make most professional recording musicians' heads spin, each proving in a unique way Segall should be on every rock purist’s radar.
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​I get into town around 4pm and pull past the Airbnb I had reserved for the night. At the time I thought it would be a steal, as it was a short walk from the venue, inexpensive, and well-reviewed. It was also... a hostel.    I've stayed in the hostels before. In places like Aspen or India, but never one that was an Airbnb... In downtown Los Angeles... In something that might be called ghetto...   This was something that might be called a ghetto...   I won't specify the area, but it seemed a little rough to say the least. I parked my car and approached the gate. I entered the code and the door swung open. A girl with a bad haircut sat on the front porch of the white house with peeling paint. A row of a dozen tattered shoes lined the wall. The girl was drinking something in a brown paper bag. When she saw me, she seemed to fidget with her drink, as if she thought she might put it out of sight somewhere else but, having nowhere to relocate it, she simply sat with it in her hand.   “This the Airbnb?” I asked. I don't know why. I knew that it was. I just put in the code to get through the gate.   “Yep,” she replied.   “Cool,” I said.   I went inside and looked around. The blinds were pulled down. It was dark. Two guys sat on sofas in the living room, cell phones in hand. A series of “Yo’s” were initiated and I cautiously made my way to my designated room where I found another person's belongings sprawled out across my bed. I return my keys to the lockbox, canceled my reservation, and walked back to my car. I drove down to the venue directly, resolving to find another place to stay or make the drive back home at the conclusion of the show.   Like at the Shakey Graves concert I photographed recently, I was one of the first of a dozen listeners at the door. The Teragram Ballroom was a near-perfect size. My tickets were waiting for me at the call booth, which had been arranged by Pitch Perfect PR in Chicago for the nights event (a big thanks to their team). I received my wristband and made my way to the front of the stage.   While waiting for the opening act to start, I spoke with someone behind me. He had come from Vancouver on several recent occasions to watch Ty Segall perform. He had worked in the music industry himself a time, mentioning a certain record company he had worked with. The room was beginning to get loud and my head gently throbbed from a low-grade sickness I was overcoming. The weather in Southern California had shifted on two occasions this week and my sinuses were busted pipes and my brain felt like an overexerted balloon. A little bundle of pressure crowded my right inner ear. In truth I forgot the gentleman's name, but he shared with me that Segall’s newly recorded, First Taste was created without the use of a single guitar. I had to stop and think on that. I knew that the album utilized a number of interesting instruments, but surely I remembered tracks with the familiar six-string involved.   “Really?” I finally said. “Are you sure.”   He said it wasn't what I thought. There were double basses, dueling drum kits, keyboards, saxophones, flutes, strings, a mandolin, and some type of Greek or Japanese instruments, but no electric guitars. I made a mental note to investigate the album's production further. Toward the end of the night, I would have to abandon my front stage post when the band's performance of Emotional Mugger caused frequent and mosh pits and the thunder of amplifiers began to take a toll on my already drumming head. For these reasons I was unable to bid safe travels to the industry man whom I had spoken with.    Should the gentleman from Vancouver be reading this now, drop me a line.   After a bizarre duo opening act who slowed down and beat to death five innocent Beatles songs, Ty Segall and the Freedom Band came to the stage.
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​It was an electric show. Segall surprised by spending the majority of the first set committed to his drum kit, feeding off the dedicated drummer who was a marvel to watch in his own right. This rolling duo of percussions was utilized not just for the album’s shorter interludes, but entire songs with Segall providing vocals on fixed kit microphones.   All the members of the Freedom Band (including Emmett Kelly, Mikal Cronin, Charles Moothart and Ben Boye, among others) showed an impressive level of talent, often switching basses for mandolins, keyboards for saxophones, and so on.   The band played hard and heavy through great album tracks like the beautifully harmonic “Ice Plant” with the refrain “Let your love rain down on me,” that drives into your head like a river side hymnal. It takes the listener down Abbey Road, and is a great example of the influences there, especially the English piano changeover recorded on the album.   “I Worship the Dog” for some reason sticks out as an album highlight for me. Here at the venue, I see the crowd jump with similar enthusiasm, as the mass of people head-bang to a song that has a reoccurring hum of what sounds like a kazoo, with a close out of space-aged flutes abruptly torn to pieces by the chords of an old church organ.   More accessible and subdued tracks like “The Arms” and the incredible catchy “I Sing Them” help break up the loud and the weird, while also showcasing Segall’s tight songwriting sensibilities. Even when he chooses to let loose an assault of off note flutes in the middle of a verse, I can't help but feel that such a decision works favorably for what the artist is going for.   “When I Met My Parents part 3” is more ambient echo chamber to take the audience to new heights. “Whatever” and “Radio” also touch on Segall's psychedelic vibes. Songs that stretch and breathe and put the listener into those far out head spaces. “Self-Esteem” is an unsteady drunken walk down a dark, spiraling staircase. The listener is going along, not sure what's coming next, and then the carpet is ripped out from under him. You regain footing for a time, but then you’re headlong down the staircase and discover it's just an infinite funnel falling into a black hole.   “Lone Cowboys” perfectly concludes the set, taking the audience on a slow ride through classic Western nostalgia, before erupting into a dance worthy tempo where Segall puts forth lyrics that connect my heart to feelings of longing to escape to a more subdued existence, which is ironic given the overall mostly fast and heavy album track list. It's a smart move the closes out the collective work and leaves the listener feeling satisfied.   No sooner does the band conclude their set do they begin the first track from Emotional Mugger. I stay to hear my favorite songs, including “California Hills”, “Emotional Mugger”, “Breakfast Eggs”, and “Diversion”, before the mosh pits become too bothersome, as my camera makes several close calls with the stage in front of me as I am shoved from behind. At this point, I am still trying to convince myself that I'm not going deaf and the sinus pressure in my head is just dopamine pulsing through my brain, but I decide to call it quits and slide out between people as the band pauses momentarily between tunes.
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​Ultimately, I decided to drive back to San Diego, even though midnight is fast approaching. There's more road construction on the LA highways leaving. I put on a podcast and wait patiently for progress. Twice on the way home, I pull over to catch a short nap, as my eyes become inevitably heavy. It was a long journey, filled with a fair share of obstacles but, in the end, Ty Segall and the Freedom Band made it all worthwhile.
 
-Stefan 
 
Thanks for reading! If you're at Ty Segall fan please leave a comment below or on social media. Let me know what your favorite album is! If you enjoyed this post please like or share. To find out more about Ty Segall and his upcoming shows click here to visit his website.

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 Click the photos in the gallery below to view full-screen
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Lord Huron & Shakey Graves @ Humphrey's by the Bay

8/15/2019

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                              Photography and event details for
     -Lord Huron and Shakey Graves at Humphreys by the Bay-

I made it down to the Bayside parking around 4:30. The lot faced East towards Little Italy and the scenic downtown area. A number of sailboats and kayaks populated the water, many of them likely hoping to snag a spot in the harbor next to the stage at Humphrey's. I walk down to the venue, which was only one small part of what Humphrey's actually was, a quaint but elegant seaside resort with fine dining, balcony rooms overlooking the bay, and other amenities to please just about any visitor. I collected my VIP badge which I was told would give me access to the bar in the balcony that face the stage at the far end, and my pass for photo access at the stage.


I was one of the first through the venue doors and found an airy courtyard serving as the location for the night's performances.


This was a beautiful venue. Perhaps one of the finest I had ever seen. There was a harbor attached to the resort on the West side, overlooking the water and the narrow stretch of Point Loma, which gave away to the Pacific. The VIP overlook and the balconies of the top-tier resort suites boxed in the courtyard of artificial turf and the stage before it.
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I circled the area and scoped out shots from a few different angles before making my way down to the row of people standing against the barricade at the front of the stage. A half hour later, the first performer picked up her guitar.


Julia Jacklin, a lone singer-songwriter from Australia, played a sunset opener with her beautiful voice carrying across the courtyard and pouring out on the open water where kayakers and boaters lounged casually and sipped cold beverages in the fading rays of Summer's conclusion. The cool, gentle breeze, a signature of San Diego, brushed past the crowd on its way to reach the American West Coast.


Right around the time the sun was just above its point of departure, Austin City Limits Artist of the Year, Shakey Graves, a native of Austin himself, followed up Jacklin and begin a solo set with his infamous "bass case", a red travelers suitcase modified as a stompbox, complete with a tambourine pedal, that Graves played with both heels. A staple of his performance rig since the early stages of his career around 2010.
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After a few numbers, Shakey Graves was joined by his backing band, performing a mix of ambient tunes from the dreamy soundscape of his latest album "Can't Wake Up". Enthusiastic fans cheered and praised the musicians between songs, as the courtyard filled to capacity and the light effects from the stage began to take their full effect. Graves, being one of my favorite working musicians today, was a pleasure to observe in action and left the crowd in an uproar as he finished his set, once again, alone with nothing but a guitar and a suitcase to get his point across.


Lord Huron followed shortly afterwards, the band in full swing and alive with the energy of the crowd. Here I took the opportunity to really move about the venue looking for new shots and was treated to all the special angles the Humphrey's has to offer, even taking time to chat with another photographer, Collin Moore, who I had been in close proximity with all night and, like me, was also fairly new to San Diego. It was a stellar evening and I'd recommended to anyone to catch a show at Humphrey's by the Bay. You will not likely be disappointed.



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 Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more event coverage and future podcasts! Click here to see more of the latest works.

-Stefan

Lord Huron website - - - Shakey Graves webiste

(Click the gallery below to see images in full screen)

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Cotton Fields & Blood for Days Release Show

2/11/2018

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Kyle Keller performing an opening acoustic set
Stepping into the show room of Skate Mountain Records in Daphne, Alabama, I’m immediately struck by the atmosphere constructed in the long, rectangular space. Already, the rehearsal show has packed in dozens of people, friends and family of the man who’s on stage in the middle of a song both twisted and sad. It’s classic Abe Partridge material, now spiked with the talents of a full backing band, consisting of Shawn Byrne, Molly Thomas, Courtney Blackwell, and Josh and Emily Smith of Della Memoria, providing a haunting accompaniment of cello, fiddle, keys, lead guitar, and subtle bass for Partridge’s sophomore album release of Cotton Fields and Blood for Days. The lighting is dim and people, unable to find a seat, are positioned on large pillows that are spread out along the floor. Art work painted by Partridge himself hangs from almost every wall and further sets the mood for what will transpire tonight. Warped paintings that borderline on nightmarish, strike the viewer with a sense of loneliness that is not too far removed from the artist’s original musical compositions.
Who would show up to a show like this? Everyone, apparently.
Overwhelmed by the sold out show, Abe tells me on the phone the day before that he has had to arrange for two shows for the night. “I really didn’t expect this to happen,” Abe tells me. “We’re having to ask some of our friends and family to come to the first show, essentially our rehearsal, and then clear out to make room for everyone else. They are literally going to get in their car and leave after the first set.” Partridge and the group easily sold out the 80 tickets they posted online through social media to the Skate Mountain record label based event. “It’s a good problem to have, I guess,” Abe says. “It’s a learning experience but I’m so grateful people would be this interested.”


I caught up with Skate Mountain owner Scott Lumpkin on the front porch as a lite drizzle began to set in. He talked about the opening of his business and some of the artists the label had worked with. He and his wife, Kate, have always been huge fans of music and the ability to finally own the label they dreamed about for years was a new high point in their careers. The ability to operate out of the town they love is another plus for them. I ask him for food joint recommendations and he points along the not too distant highway in front of us just beyond a large church and some apartments. “They have just about any kind of food you could want down here. There’s all the usual fast food joints but then there are spots like Bangkok Thai, that place is great.”


Inside, I sit with TJ Scruggs and Dave Garrett, former members of Partridge’s side project The Psychedelic Peacocks” as Lumpkin begins pointing out different pieces in his studio collection. “That couch over there is from the movie Get Out.That one over there is from Hush.” A table, a mounted deer head, and easy chair in the corner, all with different stories. Stephen Anderson of the Southland Music Line enters and gives greetings to us as he moves to the front of the room. Already people are crowding in for the main show. My thoughts of getting dinner or even going to my car to retrieve a water bottle are dashed as I fear I will lose my seat. Robby Amonett is also among the crowd, setting up his work station near the front as he places a fresh canvas in front of him, his case of brushes and assorted colors by his side.
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Shawn Byrne of Nashville, Tennessee, stops for a moment to speak with me. It’s his recording space back home where he and Abraham Partridge began recording what would eventually become Cotton Fields and Blood for Days, a project that would span almost two years. Over the course of the night, Byrne would supply the set filled with new material with a haunting degree of ambient guitar noises, as well as crisp, clean lead work that was a joy to observe. Whether he was delivering sharp, precise notes, screeching tones, or swelling feedback, there was always something interesting coming from his amplifier.


A young man wearing a dark plaid shirt, an army green jacket, and a black cap walks in. Abe comes over and introduces me to this musician who will be Abe’s opening act for the night. His name is Kyle Keller. “This kid is going to go places,” Abe whispers to me. “I mean that.” I shake hands with Keller and strike up a conversation with the former Nashville resident.


“That’s Nashville, Georgia,” he tells me, “not Tennessee.” The now Gainesville, Florida based songwriter has made the six hour drive just to perform his acoustic based opener, complete with harp and deep bass vocals that set the mood perfectly for the heart wrenching material that everyone is expecting from Abe. When asked what Keller does outside of music: “I give guided fossil tours,” he says with a grin. It’s no joke. He gives me a business card that I’m jealous of, complete with a cool fossilized logo. “It’s just me and my buddy who run the tours. We started up shortly after I moved to Gainesville. I love doing it and it works with my music aspirations.” We talk for a half hour about music, living out of vans, traveling, and show business from the view of independent artists who rely on the internet to make moves in the space. I like Keller even more after he performs his short opening set of forty-five minutes. The tears are already being primed among the crowd.


Partridge and his band went on to perform a strong set that lasted nearly two hours, stopping in the middle of the show to deliver a long, heartfelt speech about his work, his life, his wife, and the incredible support shown by the people who his music has made an impression on. So strong was the moment for him, he often had to close his eyes and talk into the microphone as if transmitting from another place, a characteristic he likely developed from his time as a preacher, channeling some otherworldly energy that he injects into the lyrics of his songs. As always, it’s hard not to be touched by the guy’s heart and honesty. He is a text book example of how to be humble and does nothing to inflate his abilities as a musician. There are some artists who create with theory and precision technique, Abe takes the path of raw emotion and feeling and is completely uncompromising on that. He knows not everyone will gravitate towards his painful tales, his dark and dreary life stories, but he continues to pack rooms and hear the cheers of people who come to see his work in action. If anyone ever told this guy that sad doesn’t sell, he doesn’t seem to care. Neither do the dozens of people who have filled the room and resort to standing in corners, sitting on the floor, or even listening patiently from a completely different room just to be a part of the event. And for an up and coming artist, that’s about all Abe Partridge needs to call this night a success.

Check out Partridge's latest album which is now available for download at his website.
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Southland Music Line Article on Bad Luck Blues Podcast and Performances with Wes Lee

12/7/2015

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Last month, with the help of The Shed BBQ & Blues Joint in Ocean Springs, Coastal Noise made its first open to the public live recorded podcast, which featured blues guitarist 
Wes Lee. We disucssed a range of blues related topics and Wes told stories of his many years in the music business. After the podcast, Wes and I took turns playing a mix of originals and oldies for a great crowd. It was as near a perfect night as you could as for and a hell of a lot of fun. To top it all off, our friends at the Southland Music Line took some great shots and put together an article that really put the icing on the cake. You can view the article at the Southland website here. Be sure to check out the other works that their team has put together, including articles on the 2015 artist of the year, featuring the Mulligan Brothers, and a readers choice awards. I'll put a few of the photos up here, but be sure to check out that rest over at the Southland site. Thanks to Johnny Cole, Stephen Anderson, and Robbie Amonett for all their hard work. 

​Stefan

http://thesouthlandmusicline.com/the-blues/coastal-noise-goes-live-at-the-shed-with-bluesman-wes-lee/
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September 19th Weekend Blog: MS Songwriters Festival, Desoto Artists Hike, and More Music

9/22/2015

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It was set to be a busy weekend. During the week, getting in practices for the following Wednesday’s show at the Juke Joint in Ocean Springs (September 23rd) was my top priority. It would mark my band’s first original set and preparations were in full swing. Musician and current drummer Eddie Dixon was busy playing up in Chicago and would be returning down today to rejoin me for the performance. Besides this, enjoying the events of the weekend was next on the agenda, and there was no shortage of activities to be had.

 Thursday night, The Weeks of Jackson, Mississippi, who are currently signed under Kings of Leon’s record label, Serpents and Snakes, performed at The Government Street Grocery in Downtown Ocean Springs. Employees of the venue confirmed a great performance, a display of showmanship that I would hope to see that Saturday night when they would play again at the Thirsty Hippo in Hattiesburg. On the Coast, the highlight of the weekend was the annual Mississippi Songwriters Festival which ran from Thursday to Sunday night. In this event, songwriters from all over the south rotate among close to a dozen venues and take turns showcasing original music while regional judges watch from the crowd. I would get my first taste of the festival Friday night. You can see the full lineup for the festival here.

I parked behind the Beer House in Ocean Springs around eight o’clock, with no plans to be anywhere specific. I had several friends coming to meet me later, but I was wandering rogue for the time being. Moonhawk, a local band I had not seen yet, was playing at the Grocery later that night, but, for now, finding the nearest venue for festival musicians was my goal. I had not even left out of the parking lot when I heard an MC introducing a group of musicians. I followed the sounds and came to stand at the east back patio of Salvetti’s, where three men with acoustic guitars were perched on stools in front of a full house of patrons and music lovers alike. I walked around the side of the building to come in from the front entrance. I was given the only remaining table toward the back, a high standing four top. I ordered a drink and waited for the first round of songs to begin.
One of the musicians, I believe it was Sean Gasaway, was ending his first number when I noticed two women standing behind me, peering over the crowd to see the performers. I offered two of my remaining seats. They said they knew two of the songwriters, one being local native Brandon Green of Ocean Springs, a young man who was currently singing his second song. As luck would have it, a group of people at the forefront table were making their exit early in the performances and we managed to move up to be directly in front of the action. An  hour later the music had conclude for the rotation at Salvetti’s. This group would go on to Boots and Spurs across the street and a new set of three would come to the restaurant to continue.

“Let us introduce you to some of the musicians,” one of the women said.

I shook hands with Brandon Green who looked to be in his mid to late twenties. I asked him a little about his roots to the coast and what he thought of Nashville, a city I have yet to visit but have been actively seeking more information on in preparation for my future travels. He gave positive testimony to his experiences and thanked us for coming out. Next, I spoke with songwriter veteran, and one of my favorite performers of the night, Greg Crowe. Crowe, a native of the Mississippi Delta, has lived in Nashville for over 25 years, producing, recording, and performing a blend of blues, rock and country music. With mileage like that, it was a clear indicator that the city was worth closer examination for an aspiring musician. I also met with a fellow promoting the 2nd annual Gulf Coast Songwriters Shootout, an organization that boasts being one of the largest of its kind in the area, and is set to feature 50 artists in competition over the course of several days in the fall. This year, the contest will take place at The Hot Spot Music & Grub at the The Wharf in Orange Beach, Alabama.

Leaving Salvetti’s, I took for the Grocery to see what was happening there. I passed the Beer House which was full, but no sign of a familiar face in passing. At the Grocery, I got insider information about some of the details for Moonhawk's performance later that night. From the street corner, I could see a group of people gathering at the entrance to Murky Water’s Blues and BBQ joint. I walked over and examined the scene. Like Salvetti’s, Murky Water’s was also apart of the festivities and three more artists were seated on the small outdoors stage. Just then I was met by my friends Eddie and Kate who joined me just in time to hear the first round of songs. We decided to then head for Boots and Spurs to hear the previous three performers again. The atmosphere was a little more “in-swing” here, as B&S is one of the larger venues on the Government strip, and provided for a different listening experience.
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A Songwriter's Round at Murky Waters
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At Boots & Spurs. From Left to Right: Sean Gasaway, Greg Crowe, & Brandon Green
Once the trio had finished, it was back to the Government Street Grocery where the three of us sat down for beer and food. We had just settled in when Moonhawk took to the stage for their second half, opening with a jam-y rendition of Jack White’s “I Fought Piranhas”. The group of three proved able and kept the crowd grooving with a series of what sounded like original tunes. If you go to their Facebook page, you might just snag the 100th like for this up and coming indie rock group from Gulfport. Be sure to check out their sweet logo while your there.

Next, we connected with Lyle Stephens and Julia Reyes, who joined me on our recent trip to Colorado. Julia was putting together an artist hike that weekend in Desoto National Forrest and I set my calendar to be a part of the action. The songwriters festival was done for the night and Lyle and Julia were looking to score some chow, so we decided to make a move for the Juke Joint where we were bound to find another band playing. Departing with Eddie and Kate, I made for the Joint and took a seat at the bar. Party At The Moon Tower was in full swing with a heavy set that showed no mercy to the late hour of one o’clock. We enjoyed the music long enough for food to be consumed and then, seeing it would be 2am before long, called it a night.

Back home, I didn’t find sleep till after five o’clock when my alarm system suddenly went on the fritz. At least, that’s what our friend, returning with my roommate from Ocean Springs also, claimed. In any case, it was only a night of about four hours of sleep for me, but that didn’t stop me from making a champions breakfast of bacon, egg and cheese burritos in the morning. Despite trying to nap several times during the day, I found no rest as darkness began to fall again and I would soon be on the road to Hattiesburg with my cousin to see The Weeks. We originally seemed to have a potential group on our hands to make the journey, but now conditions reflected just the two of us making the journey, which was fine by us. The band was set to play at 10pm. We were on the road by eight. An hour and half and many of “The Simpsons” Ralph impersonations later, we were parked outside the Thirsty Hippo.

We were super un-stoked to discover that the building was running at full capacity and we would be unable to enter to see the show. What the heck! Even after a clever scheme in which we pretended to be applying for jobs (this had no chance) we were told we could wait until others left in order to have a spot inside. All around us, others appeared to be waiting as well. Worse yet, there was no waitress to order a drink with while we sat around. Weighing our options, we decided it would be unlikely that we would get our chance to go in anytime soon. Instead, we chose to head to the Keg and Barrel, a favorite spot of mine and many other USM students who prefer a chiller social scene.

As luck would have it, we ran into some friends at the Keg and had a good time eating and drinking at our table which grew to close to a dozen people. Around midnight, we moved to The End Zone to shoot pool. I was facing off with the group veteran who gave me a pretty easy game by providing me with his insight and tips on his methods of play. In the end, I was given the chance to sink the eight for the win, and flopped with a scratch. I doubt I would have even made it that far if my opponent had really decided to play to his full ability, but I learned a lot in the match and had a good time playing the game of physics. Back home on the coast, it was already three o’clock. I climbed into bed and reached for my phone.

“No guarantee I will be making this hike tomorrow morning. It’s already three and I only got four hours last night. Setting my alarm for 9 o’clock but who knows if I’ll actually get out of bed.”

I woke up on my own that morning, but was surprised to see my phone read 9:40. I had forgotten to set my alarm for the A.M. I called Lyle to find the statues of the group. They were in route to Desoto just then, so I jumped up for a shower, threw some food in a lunch box, grabbed my notebook and guitar and headed out toward Highway 67. The group met up just off of 420 Road near Bethel. The parking area had a large, scenic lake with a trail leading into the woods. Having just come back from excellent hiking spots in Colorado, I figured this would make for a great substitute.
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We didn’t travel far before reaching a little beach clearing along a cool stream; the perfect spot for the artists to lounge and invoke the creative muse for the day. The two dogs that were accompanying us, a 120lb lab and a lab, pit-bull mix, had it made with two rubber balls and a shallow enough area to spend hours fetching. Looking over the group, I saw some drawing sketches in small notebooks, while another woman painted on a series of blank sheets. Others looked around searching for stones, arrowheads, insects, skins, multi-colored clays for potter, and all other beauties that filled the stretch of water. For the most part, I just enjoyed conversing with the group of new faces, and occasionally jotted notes down in my book about the weekend’s adventures. At the end of the day, we all parted ways, going our different directions to exit the forest, I myself taking my time to enjoy a long, slow cruise home, admiring all the beauty Desoto had to offer.
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Julia Reyes sketches the stream scene
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Lyle shows off some coral finds
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Architect and graphic design specialists Mark Talley and Madison Talley of TALL Studios swap sketches
That’s all from me this weekend. A special congratulations to Della Memoria’s Emily Sholes and Josh Smith on their engagement. Band mates for life! Be sure to check out some of the upcoming events in our area such as The Landing Festival in New Orleans this coming weekend. I’m looking into the Mighty Mississippi Festival in Greensville the weekend of 2nd of October along with Delta State’s yearly Oktoberfest which is bound to be a good time. My next out of state trip is looking to be to Charleston, North Carolina with a day trip to Savannah if all goes according to plan. Be sure to check back with me, as I will have more travelogues and photography detailing my adventures to the above mentioned.

YOLO! (pending the validity of reincarnation)

"A name is just a label for the sum of your actions"

Stefan
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Labor Day Weekend in Colorado 2015

9/16/2015

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Announcements: I’ll be playing an original set at the Juke Joint in Ocean Springs next Wednesday, the 23rd of September, @ 8pm with drum machine Eddie Dixon. Please come out if your in the area. See the Music page for new demo tracks and date information. Latest podcast with Board of Supervisors candidate John William Faulkner IV is up on the Podcast page. Please like, share, or leave a comment if you enjoyed this post!

I've inserted pictures to help this piece flow. To see all the pictures in full screen, see the bottom of the post for complete gallery.

We were in route to the New Orleans airport. We decided to enter the city from the North, going over the Lake Pontratrain Bridge, a first for me and no doubt the best entry point considering the information that was just relied to me.  Lyle Stephens and Julia Reyes were sitting up front.

“New Orleans is hosting the annual gay pride parade,” Lyle said. “We’ll probably have better luck from this route. “

We had made good time in getting to the airport, only being slowed down briefly by the parking lot that was too full to house another vehicle. We were in line with two other cars, debating whether or not we should find another lot. The woman at the booth said all the neighboring lots would be filled, and claimed even the airport parking was slammed. The convoy waited by, hoping a few returning passengers would come back to retrieve their vehicles and free up some space. Sure enough, our patience paid off just as we were about to pull away. We made it into the airport with two hours left till departure. Caring only back packs, and having already checked in online, we moved directly to TSA and made it to our gate with time to spare. We sat down for a quick bite at a Copeland’s close by to where our plane would be coming in. Just as I finished my Catfish Po-Boy, our zone was called for boarding.  As I stepped on the plane I noticed a picture of a raccoon looking down from a snow covered tree. The caption read: “You are flying with Rudy today”.

“Please don’t tell me the pilot is a raccoon,” I told the young flight attended as we boarded.

“No, that’s just a sign. We have a human pilot flying us today.”

Awesome.

The plane ride was a brief one at two and a half hours. I had just finished the book I was reading that day, “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil”, and had nothing else to read. I instead resolved to silent contemplation as the passenger next to me looked more interested in napping than conversing. About half way through the flight, I pulled out my iPod to pass the remaining time with Hendrix being my primary listen before switching to a podcast about life coaching. It was around 10pm Mountain Time when we touched down in Denver.

We were met by Ryan Vanskiver in the lobby and made for his vehicle with midnight not too far off. Crossing the Denver city, I could see many of the landmarks that were becoming increasingly familiar to me from my previous Colorado experiences. Not wasting any time, we threw our bags into the apartment where we’d be staying and made for the Lakewood downtown area. We stopped into the Baker Street Pub and Grill to grab some food and listen to some live music. Among the foods tried: Chicken Nachos and Shepherd’s Pie. Later that night, we walked out to exam the large center area of downtown, which had chairs and tables everywhere, but, in the winter season, converts to a skating rink for the residents of Lakewood to enjoy.  No doubt a great way for kids to pass the time while parents make their purchases in the surrounding shopping district.
Saturday

When we woke in the morning, everyone but me took for the shower and changed their clothes. I remained in the clothes I left New Orleans in, which was also my sleeping attire:  A pair of Express jeans and a casual blue button down. I laughed and vowed to not shower until the situation truly called for it.  Equipped with only what I could fit in my book bag, I decided I was here to rough it out. After bagels and coffee the next morning at Einstein’s, we set our course for Denver’s downtown area.  We walked about 16th street for a time, soaking in all that the city had to offer. One notices fairly quickly that there are no benches or seats along 16th, no doubt to keep pedestrian traffic flowing, and as a clever way to get people into stores to make purchases. The Coloradoans, who are some of the healthiest, most active people in the country, don’t seem to mind the extra demand to be in motion.

Julia suggested we stop into some local galleries to see some art. We visited several establishments, including the Denver Museum of Contemporary Art. Here are a few pics. Check out the cool egg huts we found on the roof level of the DMCA. Lined with grass on the interior, these bubbles are designed to block out sound and create a sense of isolation. Perfect for reading or napping in the city. Reminds me a little bit of isolation tanks!
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We took back for our home base in Lakewood to revitalize ourselves. We ate and rested for an hour or two while planning our course for the night. Back in Denver, A Taste of Colorado was in full swing. This is a yearly festival that showcases great music, food, craft beers, artwork and more. It was a highly recommended event, both in the press and among residents, so we decided to go back later that night to take part in the festivities. But first, I suggested a sun down walk through a nearby park that I had discovered in my last visit. We gathered a few supplies for a quick trek and got out the door around six. Leaving the grounds from the appartments, we followed a dedicated path made for pedestrans, dogs, and even the occasional horse rider. We followed the path as it lead us under a bridge and out into the opening of the park. The wind was blowing pleasantly and a slight overcast made for a peaceful setting. We enjoyed conversing and taking pictures in the evening of our first Colorado sun set. Near the entrance of the park, we observed some of the old historic buildings and pieces that were dedicated to the park. One of these buildings was a small diner with a neon sign that read: “The White Way”.
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Taking an alternative route to exit, we came across a small enclosed garden that was full of vegetation, located just a little ways from a library. I looked among the plants, identifying what I could. Radishes, cucumbers, carrots, and lettuce were among the harvest. An older woman seemed to come out of nowhere and stood next to me.

“Do you like carrots?” She asked.

“I love carrots.”

She waved me aside from the gate I had been positioned next to, opened the latch, and stepped inside. I followed behind her.

“I’m one of the volunteers who helps with the park, particularly this garden. We plant all kinds of things here as the seasons change.” She pointed out all of the vegetables and told me what each one was. Bending over, she pulled out a small carrot from the ground and handed it to me. I thanked her, admiring my new ediable souvenior. She produced another three more. “For your friends,” she said. I thanked her again and we stepped out of the garden. I had just been considering a day trip to either Colorado Springs or Fort Collins in my brief stay, both locations being a little over an hour away, Colorado Springs due south of Denver, and Fort Collins to the north. I questioned the woman as to which she would recommend. Colorado Springs being a more conservative, military based town, and the woman being a little older in her years, I expected her to suggest this location. When I put the question to her, she gave me a look and said, “Well, you know Fort Collins is a college town right?” I confirmed I did know. She nodded and simply said, “That’s where I’d go.”
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Back at the apartment, I cleaned my carrots best I could and set them aside for later. Julia had picked an assortment of flowers in the park and, having no vase to put them in, resorted to an empty Coors bottle and placed it on the fireplace mantel. We relaxed for a short time and then began preparing to return to Denver’s downtown. Some of the party wanted to shower up before going out. Despite the hours of walking, the pleasant Colorado weather had not taken a toll on my sanitary factor…in my opinion. I sat by in the living room in my jeans and blue shirt, waiting for the rest of the group.

We decided to experience the Light Rail Service, which ran from Lakewood to Union Station downtown. A short drive put us in the Lakewood parking station for pick up. We became confused trying to make out the train’s maps, and resorted to asking a passerby what we should do. He appeared to be of Sicilian decent, his lively manner of communicating seemed to reflect the assumption. He wore a book bag and a black hat, appearing to be an accustomed pedestrian of the Denver area. He showed us the ticket vendor and instructed us on where to get off and what bus to take once we arrived to get to the festival. We later caught up with him while waiting around for the train on the upper platform. He stated he was from Chicago and had moved to the Denver area a few years ago. When the train pulled up we piled in and I could see the man taking a seat not far behind us. A few minutes later, when a man sitting across from us exited the Light Rail, the Sicilian man moved up to take his place as he finished up a phone conversation. When he was done I turned to him once again to confirm our route, as we were still struggling to remember the details.

He waved his hand and explained it was easy, repeating the steps once more. We talked for a few more minutes and shared our experiences thus far in the city. He agreed that Colorado was a place like nowhere else and expressed his content in being there. At one point, he stopped mid-sentence and looked at me directly.

“You smoke bud,” he asked.

He held up a finger and then plunged it into his book bag. He produced a small green container and handed it to me.  An ink pen marked a white label as “Chemical Cookies”. I opened the lid to find a perfectly pre-rolled stick inside.

“That’s the highest strain of THC you can get here. It’s the only thing I buy. Really good stuff.”

“You don’t say. Interesting.”

I began to hand the green tube back to him.

“Nah, you keep that,” he said shaking his head. “I got another one for myself.”

“Oh. Well that’s very kind of you.” Within another minute he stepped off the train and disappeared into the night, his book bag over his shoulders.

We made the next stop at Union Station.  We followed the crowd and began walking toward were we thought the buses would shuttle us to the festival. I stopped along the way to take a picture of a water pad that dozens of people were playing around. However, when I began taking shots, the result became a jumble of multi-colored lights across each picture that suggested my phone’s sensors were faulty. This bothered me, as I still had two more days for taking pictures, and my phone was a crucial device for getting the job done. Luckily, I had a secondary Canon Powershot, which I kept in my pocket. It would be my primary for the rest of the night…or so I thought.

We eventually found our way into the festival which had only an hour left. We began walking the street lined with vendors. A diverse crowd of children, teenagers, and adults moved lesiruely along the various pathways, taking in the last of the night’s major atractions. Not far off, on one of the larger green spaces, a band was playing their closer.

At one point, I hiked up some stairs that overlooked the area, stopping short of the top where a group of almost a dozen people stood around. I snapped a few shots with my Powershot and turned to go up the rest of the way. I bound up the dimly lit stairs with a spring in my step to cut through the middle of the group that was standing around chatting…not realizing that there was in fact one more step to take notice of. In my sandals, I slammed my right toe directly into the hard concrete of the final, slightly smaller step. My camera dropped from my hands and I took several unbalanced, half jog steps forward as I tried to recover from a near face plant. I could hear the group of men silent behind me. The pain was instantanoues and I swore aloud as I turned to face them.

“Man, that shit stings,” I said as casually as I could.

“You alright there,” one of the men asked with his hands tucked away in his pockets.

“Ya,” I said coming back to them and bending over to pick up my camera. “You think you got’em all and then that last one comes out of nowhere.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Ya, it’s all good man.” I can feel a warm, sticky sensation running down between my toes and my sandals.  “I can guarantee you that won’t happen next time.”

I made my way back down, not sure whether I should be focusing on my toe now covered in blood or my camera that was now no longer functional. My attention went to the camera. When I realized it would no longer be serving me for the remainder of the trip, I began to look over my foot.  Under a vendor’s street light, I could see my toe nail didn’t look so much bent back as it did shattered at the tip. A dark purple patch had formed under the very center of the nail. Blood was seaping from the front and all down the right side.I felt a slight pressure when I used the foot to step with. A vendor produced two napkins and I pressed it against my toe. The rest of the group was grabbing food, so we agreed to sit down under a tent with benches for a while. Lyle graciously gave me two tacos, which I ate with one hand while the other remained pressed against my toe. After eating, I looked around for something to wipe my hand with.

“Does anyone have a napkin,” I began to ask before remembering my situation. “Oh wait, never mind.” I wiped my hand on the exposed ends of the two napkins at the end of my right foot and said no more. Standing up from the table, I could feel that walking on the foot proved to be easy enough, as long as I took my time.  I left it to the group to find a bar. Somehow we ended up diverging from 16th street which had buses shuttling back and forth; to a bar that was several blocks away. It was a slow, somewhat demanding walk but the blood seemed to have stopped, so I had little to be bothered by besides an occasional soar pressure sensation.
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We eventually took rest at Scruffy Murphy’s where a music and beer was abondent . I took a water and a seat, happy to be sitting down somewhere. After a few minutes we agreed pizza was a good idea and Lyle disappeared into the streets, coming back shortly with four large slices of thin, greasy pizza that we quickly devoured. At just around midnight, we made our way back to 16th street where we hoped to catch one of the many buses shuttling people to Union Station. I was not entirely shocked to discover that the many buses had now become one lone bus that was causually moving down the street in the opposite direction, making rounds for every block. It would likely be over a half hour before we got back to the station.

As if sensing our predicament, a man on a bike pulling a two seater cart stopped next to us, facing the direction of our destination.

“Need a ride?”

We explained our situation and he confirmed my thoughts on the bus. At this point he looked to be our fastest extraction. He quoted us a price and the group agreed to board with him. The only problem was the seating arrangement. Julia had no problems sitting in Lyle’s lap. That just left me and Ryan.

“There’s gotta be a way we can make this work without looking ridiculous,” I said from the side walk as Ryan climbed up and took his seat next to them, leaving no room for anyone else. He gave his knee a slap and began to sing, “People let me tell you bout my beeest friend.” Before I knew it, we were riding through downtown Denver, Julia and I perched up high over Ryan and Lyle. One by one we took turns commenting on how stupid this spectacule must appear. Our joking was only cut short when a car from our three o’clock suddenly pulled out at an intersection, heading directly at us. Being on the high side of cart it was bound to collide with, I had a front row seat at our potential demise. Our voices rose up in unisen as we saw the car coming closer with no intention of stopping. Without a word or air of concern, our driver made a sharp turn that spun us to the left in a large 360 degree, the car just going past our right side. We all continued laughing, though with a more nervous air. We were safe within another minute as the cart pulled up just outside Union Station. We would live to walk the city streets another day.

Sunday

I woke up in a particularly unattractive state. My clothes, still on from Friday’s departure, were in noticeably bad shape. The hair on the right side of my head was sticking up wildly in the air while the other side showed it had undoubtedly been under a hat for many hours. I smelled. I rubbed the hair on my face as I stirred and gave a low grumble at the thought of going another day like this. Lyle, Julia, and Ryan came into the living room where I was getting up.

“We’re probably gonna take a quick shower and then head downtown to meet some friends for brunch,” Lyle said. I intentionally slurred my words while coming out of sleep, sounding a little like a drunken person when I jokingly shamed them for their practical hygiene rituals.

 “You tourists and your damn showers!”

“Stefan man, what are you trying to prove?”

I turned to Ryan with still waking eyes. “I’m starting to think I should ride this train out just so I can keep this cool new hairdo.”

Ryan looked at me a little dumbfounded. “Stefan…take a shower.”

We laughed but my condition was getting pretty serious considering these people had to share a temporary space with me. I hung my head in mock sorrow.

“Okay you guys.”

Fifteen minutes later I was standing in the living room again with a new shirt and a pair of jeans.

“See, now doesn’t that feel better,” Lyle asked.

“I don’t like it! I feel like a poser!” I retorted. In secret, since I am very much a cleanly person, I did appreciate that fact that I no longer smelled funny.

I had decided Sunday would be a day of solo hiking for me. I had been scanning over various trails that lay to the west of Lakewood near the Rockies. I picked a point on the map: Morrison. It appeared to be the closest and would surely have a number of trails to keep me occupied for the day. Ryan was due for work from noon till after sun down. I figured I could stick it out around the mountains until he returned for me. Lyle and Julie, on the other hand, took for the city to meet up with friends for brunch. Just as I was about to walk out the apartment I decided I should take a weapon of some kind. Ryan appeared to have no practical blade, so I went to the kitchen and opened the first utility drawer I saw. Among the tools inside, I found half a handle and the blade to a pair of scissors. Who knows why it was still there, but I supposed it would do nicely for a temporary shank. I pocketed it and walked out into the late morning.

As we pulled into Morrison, I was not entirely shocked to see Red Rocks Amphitheatre was right in the area where I had planned to begin my journey. I had visited the spot once before, two years ago when I had done my first bit of real traveling around the city of Denver. I checked my backpack. I had three apples, two bananas, a few granola bars, my canteen, and a few miscallneous items. I had hoped to bring some water bottles but this was all I had for the time being. This I would have to make last for the whole day. We pulled into the south end parking lot. Dozens of other people could be seen getting out of cars to hike the trails and go up into Red Rocks themselves. I opened the door and took note of the growing heat as I scanned the high grounds. It was 10:30.

“I imagine I will be around this area most of the day,” I told Ryan. “If I do go any further, it will most likely be north of Morrison, toward Golden. I will try to keep you posted as best I can.” We talked for a minute more and then he pulled away. I made my way up the stairs to the theatre’s main stage. It was a lively scene with many people there to run the stairs and see the legendary grounds. A cleanup crew was near the stage preparing for the show that would take place that night. Only a few hours ago, comedian Brian Regan had been here for a Saturday night showing. I pulled out my camera and took some shots. I began to consider my battery life as my phone would be my only means of communicating, navigating and taking pictures. My current reading was 80%, but I knew it would drain quickly if not used conservatively. Sure would be nice if my Powershot was still working, I thought.  I made my way down the other end of the main stage and found the Trading Post. This was a merchandise spot with restrooms and a water fountain. I used both, taking care to drink more water than I wanted at the water fountain and cleaning all three of my apples in the bathroom sink, since I had neglected to do so earlier before heading out. When I was ready, I began walking north along the road to the trail openings.
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Photo By Julia Reyes
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Red Rocks Theatre
One would think following the trails would be an easy affair if there is only a few options to choose from, but the mountain side proved confusing to me at first as I took down one path only to turn around to find my true course. Then I had to stand atop a rock near the road side to locate the start of a path that I could clearly see running through the brush, but no entry point. Twice already I had to turn my GPS on to investigate my map. Again, to take a video and a few pictures. My battery was a little over 60% and I had barely started my hike. 

About a half hour later I was looking at a distant view of Golden. The path then cut into a small valley into the mountains where I temporarly lost sight of the road, the mountains closer than ever on both sides. I became acutely more aware to the fewer number of people around me as I got further from Rock Rocks Amphitheatre. The trail became hushed between the landforms that rose up around me and the brush became more prominent. I removed the one scissor blade from my backpack, loosened the strap on my left shoulder, tucked the blade between it, and fastened it tight so the handle faced me. The broken tool’s edge was barely visible from the other side of the strap. At first I had positioned it downward, but when I realized the blade was in direct line with the basilic vein of my bicep, I quickly adjusted it to avoid an unfortunate accident. I took a few more pictures and continued on until a found a split in the path. I took to the right on Morrison Trail which came up sharply to a more elevated plateau. From here, I found a diveriging path that went around the side of the mountain face to look back over the town of Morrison. That’s where I found these left behind man made markers.
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My lunch spot on Morrison Trail
I continued along the east side of the trail. I had been sipping water here and there the whole way but hadn’t snacked since I left the Red Rocks area. I could feel the noon heat picking up to its worst and my exposed neck and arms were beginning to burn without sunscreen. My lips were becoming parched from the wind and dry air. I decided I had put off lunch long enough and began to seek a viewpoint. I found it at the edge of a large, somewhat flat rock which slanted down over the mountain’s edge. I sat down just as 1 o’clock was ticking by and ate a granola bar and an apple. I then helped myself to more water, as I was starting to feel the effects of dehydration. Behind me, the occasional hikers would pass by, sometimes with their dogs following behind.

I figured if I was getting tired it would be best to continue on so that I would not be caught on the mountain side without any supplies. I still had two apples left, which would suffice if I ran out of water, which was fast approaching as my canteen had only about a quarter left. In the back of my mind, I was hoping I might find a rest area up ahead and a water fountain. I kept going, the path was turning inward and edging toward the northern most point of the mountain. As I understand it, I was now close to the beginning of what was known as Matthew’s Winter Park. At one point, the trail became very tight with chest high brush that closed in on the path. Visibility became tough and I slowed my pace to listen to the environment around me. I heard no people, but there was a great deal of rustling among the growth. As I walked, I practiced drawing my shank a few times to make sure I had the motion down. I would reach my right hand up and rest it over my left pectorial, the middle finger looped inside the handle, with the rest of my fingers slightly spread like a spider. With one swift movement I could flick the blade from its holding and have it tucked under my palm in reverse grip with little effort. The thick brush subsided quickly and the path came out to look over the same trail further down, running north, deeper into Matthew’s Park. I was about to come to the spot where Red Rocks Trail meets Morrison and runs back south, up the mountain to its peak, and back down the other side to head back in the direction of the Amphitheatre. Two men were about to pass me by going the direction I had just come. I asked them if it was far to the top. They told me it was not. I was feeling tired and my water was down to just a few sips to keep my mouth wet.  I ate another apple but it didn’t do as much for me as I’d hoped. The day was at its hottest and there was very few places to hide from the sun. Taking the mountain’s peak would be a fair and final challenge, as the trail elevated quickly. I examined it once more from the bottom, then looked at the trail running into Matthew’s Park. Just a short time ago, I had thought I would spend a few hours exploring this trail as well to pass the time. Now, I was standing at rest, panting slightly, wondering how I would ever manage such a walk at this time of day with what little supplies I still had. Even with the mountain peak so close, I was beginning to contemplate turning around the way I came to backtrack, where I knew the path would be easier.

After thinking it over a few minutes, I started up the steep side of the trail to the top. Within the first couple minutes I was out of breath and twice my hand wanted to reach for my water, but I knew I would be out if I did so. I tried to recall what my map looked like when I viewed the aerial shot from before, but couldn’t recall. I had no idea how many times this trail would wind back and forth to make its way to the peak. A few minutes later, I came to a stop and looked back down the way I came, then again to the path running deeper into Matthew’s. I wondered if there was a parking lot and rest area in that direction. I looked back up to the mountain’s top, in the direction where the sun was currently positioned, a giant foe that sought to deny me its seat. Its rays seemed unfiltered as they beamed down from me with the intensity of a broiling oven. I was out of my element in this kind of dry heat. In Mississippi, I imagined what I would be experiencing in similar a situation. Dying of dehydration or exhaustion in the south’s unforgiving humidity, covered in sweet as it is pulled from the body. Here, I envisioned it feeling much more like an extreme hangover in which I would be found dried up and baked out. If I keep going like this, we’re going to have a problem, I thought. I came to the mountains to be at the mercy of mother nature, and I would honor its many faces. I turned my gaze away from the peek I would not see on this particular trek and made my way back down the path I had come.

When I got back to the split path, I observed the northern path into Matthew’s. Just then, the two men I had just spoke to were coming back from the trail I had come in on.

“Second thoughts,” the first man said.

“I think I’ve gone far enough for one day. I’m not use to the terrain and I’m out of water. I still have a long way to go and I don’t want to get caught out here without supplies.” I pointed to the northern path which had a few hikers going around its bend. “Does that trial lead to a parking lot or a rest area? Maybe a water fountain?” The man shook his head. “There’s a lot, but no water.” I made a small noise of acknowledgement. I would have to take my original path back all the way to the Trading Post for water.

“Here, why don’t you take mine,” the man said removing his backpack bladder. I put up my hand in protest, “No, no, that’s okay, I don’t want to leave you in a rough position.” He shook his head, “It’s nothing. We are actually over prepared and have more than we will need. Our hike is almost done for the day. I’d rather it go to good use.” This was a gesture I greatly appreciated. The man was juggling his own canteen and trying to remove his backpack at the same time. He reached out with his bottle to the other man who was standing just behind me. “Can you hold this for me babe?” The other man, who I had not looked at directly till just now, was certainly not the man’s son as I had thought might be the case before. This other man now spoke to me for the first time as the other began pouring water into my canteen.

“You’ve come a long way for a Mississippi boy.”

“Oh yes,” I said, keeping my attention on the flowing water in front of me, not wanting a single drop to go wasted from missing its target, “this is all new territory to me.”

When the first man finished pouring, he slung his pack over his shoulders again. “Well, at least now you won’t die of dehydration.”  I thanked them again and took off back down my path. As we parted, the man commented on the hours left till sundown, no doubt to make sure I didn’t find myself in another equally bad position in which cold, frigid winds from the Rockies would likely find me, showing me yet another dangerous face of the mountains character.

My battery was showing about 25%. I had left it on for a time in between taking pictures. It had drained considerably, especially from use of the GPS which I had been using earlier to find my exact location and route. I hiked back with my canteen in hand for the first fifteen minutes, drinking regularly. I was not even half way back before I had almost emptied it again. I drank it to the bottom, not worried about running out at this point. I would be at the Trading Post in a little over an hour if I did not stop. This required a little will power to press forward, as previous hiking around the city from the last two nights and most of yesterday had taken its toll. When I finally arrived back at the North end parking lot, I had about 15% and my water was depleted. I recalled the woman at the register in the store saying the show tonight would call for a shut off of the roads around Red Rocks. Only concert goers would have access. I made my way down to the trading post, where, in the back yard behind the building, a wedding was in progress. Bystanders peered on as the bride and groom made their commitments in the heart of Red Rocks.
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I looked at my clock. It was a little after three. I knew Ryan had a second shift at 4:30, but I thought it might be worth a shot to see if he was free at the moment. I sent him a text saying I was done for the day and if he happened to have any free time, I would be ready to go. “I’m on my way,” came the response. I put my phone away and sat by. After a minute, I remembered the situation of access and called Ryan directly. I asked him if he wanted to pick me up at the Trading Post or down in the south end lot where he dropped me off. He said he didn’t know where the trading post was, so I told him I would go down to the south end. After I hung up, I realized the trail I had taken up this morning to the south end was closed off. There was another trail and I hoped that it would connect to the same path that led to the parking area. I text Ryan again saying I would try to get down. He would be arriving in approximately twenty minutes.

I started off down the new trail, my legs feeling a little sore to walk again after having rested for a while. About five minutes into the walk, I realized if this path didn’t lead to the south end, I would have to back track all this way, a situation I did not want to find myself in, as this would undoubtedly put Ryan late for work. I began to jog down the path and could feel my shoulders becoming tired from carrying my book bag all these days. A few minutes later, it became evident that this new trail was not leading to the south parking lot. I had asked two other hikers along the way, but neither seemed to know what I meant when I inquired about the lot. Okay, I thought, they must not be locals. Now, I realized I was the one who looked like a tourist. I gave a grunt, spun around, and started jogging in the opposite direction, my pace quickening. I pulled out my phone and squinted under my cap to see the screen. Less than 10% battery. I called Ryan again while still running. “Listen, your going to have to locate the Trading Post on your GPS or something. This path doesn’t go to the parking lot and I have to back track to get to where I was originally. How are we on time? Are you okay with work?” I could hear the uncertainty in Ryan’s voice. He was very close by and commented on the traffic coming from the mountain.  Just as I was about to tell Ryan to leave me and come back after his shift at nine, he pulled up to blocked gate with a posted attendant. “Hold on, let me talk to this guy.” I slowed my pace for a moment to catch my breath. Ryan came back on, “Okay, he’s letting me through. I’m getting closer.”

“Good, I’m gonna let you go because I gotta keep running. It’s gonna take me another five minutes to get back there.”

I hung up and started running again. I passed one of the hikers I had spoken to earlier. “Not the right way,” she asked. “Not for me,” I said without stopping. The trail went up and I began to climb a set of stairs. When I reached the top, the trail cut across the road briefly to continue on to the Trading Post. Preparing to cross the road, I was almost hit by Ryan’s car as he came around the corner. I threw my hands up and he pulled over to the side, traffic still behind him. I climbed in and we backtracked down the mountain. My adventure for the day was complete.

Monday

Our last day in Colorado would be spent in Boulder.  The plan was to go down to a breakfast and lunch restuarnat called Dot’s Diner On The Hill that I had been exposed to the last time I was in Colorado almost a year ago.  After that, we would make a brief visit in with Will Lammons (see Coastal Noise Podcast #50 ) who had just moved to the Boulder area a month ago. Just the day before, I had called Will to see if he’d be interested in going on a hike with us up into one of the nearby mountains. I was shocked to discover that since I had last talked to him that Saturday, Will had been in an accident involving a motorist while riding his bike. A woman at an intersection hit him from the side, sending him flying, with his bike going under the vehicle completely. Boulder is notorious for a higher number of cyclist accidents, as the town has a very active community. From the looks of his condition, Will was fortunate to have walked away sustaining only what injuries he had.

We drove up the western side of Denver, making our way through Morrison and Golden. We reached Boulder in under an hour and seated ourselves in Dot’s before ten o’clock.  Most everyone ordered some form of eggs, biscuits, meats, and hashbrowns, with Julie opting for a bowl of delicious looking granola cereal and Ryan upping the ante with banana pancakes on top of his main order, which he shared among the group. Organic coffee and crème was served to all. We happily ate with the rest of the patrons who filled most of the diner’s inside and outside seating. Business had not slowed down for Dot’s since I had last visited.
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Dot's Diner On The Hill
Stepping outside, we witnessed a flock of sorority girls running down the street, no doubt engaged in some sorority silliness. I was reminded of one of my favorite aspects of Boulder. No matter where you go, you will never find a shortage of stunning looking chicks in this town. On a pricey, nationally revered college campus known for its active lifestyle with tons of surrounding outdoors appeal, you can be hard pressed finding an out of shape girl. Boulder is like heaven for a boy out of Mississippi, but with an average median home price of close to half a million dollars, you pay for the sights.

We stopped in with Will to see how he was fairing and to talk about his experiences in town. He had made a big jump in coming out here and seemed to be rushing to catch up with school, housing, and social affairs, but overall was in good, positive spirits as always. From his living room, a large window facing out to the south displayed a scenic view of the mountains. He wore two casts on both forearms from his collision yesterday, but seemed to be in functional shape otherwise. He was reading through various texts when we arrived. Lite music played from a speaker on the floor next to his sofa. We talked for half an hour or so and then bid him farewell so we would have plenty of time to take to the mountains and see more of the area.

Our main attraction for the day was Mt. Sanitas on the lower west side of Boulder, recommended to us by a local Denver transplant and home state connection, Kenton Norris. As we made our way up to the parking lot, we passed a gated pathway that looked very familiar to me. After parking and looking at the area map, I realized that the mountain we were about to ascend was the first mountain I had ever ventured up in Colorado almost four years ago. I was excited to revisit it, reconnect with old memories, and share the mountains tucked away views with my friends. The hike was much more pleasant at first than my expereicne yesterday, mostly due to the calm, breezy weather and abundant shade coverage, thanks to the many trees that lined the trail. We weren’t without our difficulties however. Ryan was forcing himself to work extra hard having only brought one 12oz bottle of water and no additional supplies. Julia on the other hand, was attempting to climb the mountain with the only shoes she had, a pair of Converse All Stars. In the end, the mountain would make us all pay our dues in some form. We began hiking up before noon, sharing the trail with a good number of people. At first, the way was a series of high step ups, then a period of smoother, steady inclines. Before long we were met with the mountain’s most difficult part. A section which was a particularly steep ascent with less footing on the smooth, red rock surface. It’s areas like this that often forced us to use our hands against the ground to balance and make the climb more manageable. A wrong misstep could have you sliding or create a scenario for a twisted ankle. We made several stops along the way up, but it was after this section in particular that we were most grateful for the shade and a fallen tree for sitting, pointed out to us by a seasoned local. From this angle, we could see off into the western mountain line a little better. Clouds gathered around their distant tips and an advancing breeze cooled us down as we worked to regain our breath. After a few pictures of our progress, we continued on with the peek not far away. Within another twenty minutes we had reached the top. A small crowd, dogs, and the occasional wild chipmunk crowded the small clearing. From this vantage point, we could see clearly down over all of Boulder, its distant northeastern neighbor Gunbarrel, and all the way to the barely visible outline of the city. It was a grand sight, just as I had remembered it four years ago in the slightly colder conditions of October, but it was the view from behind us that stole our attention. Gathering like an ominous sign, dark rain clouds blocked out the blue skies from the west as the wind picked up to its strongest gust yet. A forbidding breeze that seemed to single us out as it rushed passed us on Sanitas secluded peek. We would have no time to enjoy our victory up there on the Mt. Sanitas secluded clearing.
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We began out descent in haste. All around us people were moving up and down the mountain, those in flow of our direction moving with a greater since of urgency. Many trail goers were equipped with rain coats and other useful accessories to fair the weather. We had nothing to make the trip more bareable in that regards. Going down was a great deal easier for all of us besides Julia, who had to take extra care going down the steeper sections with her grip-less, flat bottomed shoes. At one point she took a spill that left one of her knees badly scraped. Half way down, the rains started on us. Despite what was coming, we were shocked to see a steady stream of people hiking up toward the top. I took comfort in thinking they surely must have investigated the weather before coming out and deemed the conditions manageable. Still a ways from the bottom, the wind and rain continued to pick up noticeable. Ryan and I huddled against a large boulder, which blocked the downpour sufficiently, while we waited for Julia and Lyle to catch up. Out of humor, I snuck around the face of the boulder and peered in the direction of the coming storm. I was hit by a fierce gust and my glasses were sprayed with hard rain. I yelled back into the beast and then ran back to Ryan so he could hear me over the noise.

“Don’t stare directly into it!”

This made for two days in a row I had gone seeking adventure and had gotten a bit more than I bargained for, but I felt no desire to wish for a lesser experience. 
Before long we had reached the bottom…just in time for the storm to cease completely. At the base of the trail we found a gazebo where we took a moment to rest and stretch are tired legs. We made our way back down to the car with the sun finding its way through the clouds, beginning to drink up the soiled Earth. On the road back to town, I made the motion for a celbratory lunch at the best Mexican restaurant we could find. Boulder, aside from its stellar women, is also well regarded for its fantastic food selection, with many ingredients being sourced locally to the wide variety of independent businesses.

 A made a quick call to Will for his opinion, and he pointed us in the direction of Sancho’s, a small eatery inside one of Boulder’s malls that boasts fresh from scratch authentic Mexican style food. I went with two traditional tacos, one steak and the other a vegetarian style wrap. Lyle and Julia split an entrée of beans, rice, and selfmade tacos with their choice of meat. Ryan won this round with his discovery of a New York buritto that was stuffed with beans, meats, fillings and, the most impressive feature, French fries. Well played Sancho’s.
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Glacier Ice Cream
After the Mexican food, I insisted on treating ourselves to some well deserved ice cream. Last year, due to time, we had missed out on an opportunity to score some of the great ice cream that I knew was bound to exist in Boulder. A quick Google search showed me the Glacier Homemade Ice Cream was one of the top dogs in the area and fairly close by to our current location. I am convienced this was the highlight of my eating explorations on this trip. I generally don’t keep ice cream at home, but the trip to Glacier has tempted me every day after to make a special trip to the grocery story to purchase any number of flavors for personal consumption. Upon entering, ice cream fiends have their choice of dozen flavors, several which were created by the members who run the store. Julia went with the first sample we tried, a Jamaican white chocolate blend.  I came close to picking this flavor too, but I had only had three scoops to choose for my ice cream cup and unfortunately the Jamaican chocolate, as incredible as it was, was down the line of so many other fantastic options. In the end I went with a base of traiditional, loaded cookie dough (my personal favorite), with a scoop of salted caramel cookies and crème (Lyle took three scoopes of this), topped with chocolate fudge, caramel cookie dough swirl (this blew my mind). We sat contentedly eating our desserts while making small talk with the owner. He had moved from his home in one of the states to the east, in love with Boulder’s abundant selection of independent businesses and small town, community feel. He abandoned his old job and started up his own ice cream store with his family, never once looking back. He gave some great advice for potential movers as well, citing particular areas that were less expensive but fairly accessible to both city life and Boulder itself.

We left Boulder the way we came in and, for the third time in my life, I watched one of my favorite places in the country fade from view, quietly nestled against the foothills of the Colorado Rockies.
Departure

The night after our travels through Boulder, we spent the evening relaxing at the apartment, watching a show that we were all sufficiently hooked on called Narcos. After the second episode, I deemed it the programming that would fill the whole in my heart that Breaking Bad left behind. As I am finishing up this travelogue on the 14th of September, I am already eight episodes deep and still watching. The next morning we made for our 12:20 flight out of DIA. Driving closer to the airport, we all took special care to observe the unusual facility. I am now conveinced more than ever that DIA is a preimer location for the conversion of a military complex. I could rant on and on about why I think this is, but all the information is already avalible online for those who seek it. It is the second largest airport in the world, it contains huge underground complexes, miles of open roads to cover before accessing the building itself, large man-made geographical structures and mounds for strategic positioning, international accessibility to and from, a large natural barrier in the form of the Rockies themselves to protect from nuclear blasts or invasion from our unprotected western coast, a large number of solar panels for plenty of backup power, apocalyptic artwork and free mason symbols in the terminals, the red eyed horse of revelations out front…the list goes on and on.  Seriously, go check it out. I’ve looked into it here and there over the course of several years. The more one looks, the more it all makes sense. Fortunately, we got on our plane without any sign of empending nuclear distruction. We would arrive back in the south with little issue.

Once back in New Orleans, we made east for Mississippi. It was close to rush hour, so we made quick to get out of the city. Once across the bridge and into Slidell, we began considering options for dinner. Our time in Colorado had passed, but that didn’t mean we had to slump back into the mondane of typical fast foods. Another Google search showed all the restaurants in the area with ratings. I found a spot called The Southside Café with favorable reviews. We pulled in to the parking lot, only a five minute detour from our original path. Inside we were treated to an elaborate atmosphere of WWII memorobila and snappy bar accessories (A sign above the center bar read simply: Shut up and eat). We spotted an M1 Garand and an AK47 hanging from the rafters, as well as two individual newspaper clippings, signaling the beginning and end of the war. Model planes and pictures of military personal hang all around. A look over the menu proved making a dinner deicison would be difficult.
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I’ve never been one for Reubens, but this one claimed to be “famous”, so I thought, what the heck, I’m here for the unordianary. As a failsafe, I also order a cup of Southside Café’s French Onion Soup with crutons and mozerlla cheese. As an additional failsafe, I also order an Oktoberfest speciality beer from Abita. The French onion soup was the top dish in my book and made the Reuben, which I was only partial to, that much better when dipped. The fact that the soup came with a tray of four different kinds of assorted crackers gave flair to a dish that could have otherwise be seen as typical. We polished off our beers, took some pictures to document the encounter, and piled into Lyle’s car to make the last stretch home to Mississippi.

This concludes my travelogue to Colorado. Thanks for reading. I hope my accounts have provided you with a glimpse into places you have yet to visit or given you insight into new possibilities for the familiar. Follow me online and lets continue discovering together.
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Photo by Julia Reyes

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Weekend at Birdie's, Double Nights at the Irish Coast Pub

8/7/2015

4 Comments

 
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The weekend looked to be an eventful one. Early in the week, friend and fellow musician Eddie Dixon asked me to help out setting up for his Friday night set at Ben Kaufmen’s Irish Coast Pub in Gulfport. I gave an affirmative response and asked for the start time and inquired as to who he was opening for.

“Poclock is when the show starts,” the message read. I spent some time trying to decode this. Was he pulling my leg? Was this a reference to something? Was I thinking too much into this? I got so wrapped up in those few seconds trying to figure out his meaning that I completely missed who he said he was opening for.  I’m not sure at what point we agreed on this next plan, but Eddie stated he wanted to get together on Sunday to do some finishing work on a 5 track EP we’d been working on for the last few months.


 A day or so later, I received another message online, this one from Southland Music Line’s Johnny Cole. He said he and longtime photographer and friend, Stephen Anderson, were heading to Louisiana that Saturday night to a joint I had never heard before to see some rootsy blues music in the form of The Jericho Road Show.  He asked if I would like to join in on the travels to which I enthusiastically agreed. I had never heard The Jericho Road Show in action, but a reputation had been established in my mind from previous discussions I’d had with Johnny and Andy. I was most certainly ready to hear them out.  Still better yet, we would go on to discuss making a stop at the Irish Coast Pub again that Saturday night around midnight to catch the end of Rosco Bandana who was set to play with Moonhawk.

Between Eddie’s set Friday, our travels for Saturday night, and the recording work on Sunday afternoon, my weekend was pleasantly packed for an array of musical endeavors. I was still jazzed from my first ever trip to the Delta, where I explored the Cleveland area around Delta State University, looking for blues music, photography and good food. What better way to chronicle this coming weekend’s activities than with another photography blog.

I took some time mid-week to look over some of the most recent posts at The Southland Music Line to see what my comrades in journalistic affairs had been up to since we last spoke. Some of the articles I read included groups Delta Reign, Rosco Bandana, and a man labeled a “blues traditionalist” named Wes Lee (see article link below). This is the article that most caught my attention, as I am always looking for local musicians in tuned with the more fundamental elements of this genre. I made a mental note to inquire about these readings with Johnny later that weekend.

 Friday night. I sling my camera over my shoulder and head down the road listening to SOAD’s double album which I had just discovered had been sitting on my external hard drive instead of in my music library. For shame.  At the show, I sit at the currently uncrowded bar, order a beer, and make small talk with Ben Kaufmen. I don’t believe I’ve been to the Irish Coast Pub in almost two months, since I last played with the guys at the weekly Monday night jam.

 I ask Ben who the headliner is for tonight.

“Wes Lee,” he replies.  I am both surprised and tickled. It is funny how quickly the universe will bring such occurrences to your door without your knowing.

Eddie arrives and we tote his equipment and artwork to the front of the building. I’m tasked with taping up a display board and arranging an assortment of pictures and albums. The music begins and I hover about getting some shots and speaking to familiar faces here and there. About half way through the set, I am standing in the back where the music and scope of the bar is optimal. I see Wes Lee come around to the bar’s end. I introduce myself and we spark up a conversation about blues music. It takes me very little time to deduce Wes’s connection to one of the oldest forms of American music. It was a discussion worthy of a podcast, which lead us to look into future possibilities in the fall for a dedicated recording. I will post more details on this as it develops.
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Just after nine, Wes Lee took to the stage with his own stomp box style floor board and a series of resonator guitars. His opening tracks confirmed my previous belief that he was a true disciple of traditional blues music. His slide work was most notable, as he tapped away in his boots atop the wooden floor board before him. Belting out a variety of originals and classics by greats such as Son House, he proved he had thoroughly developed his skills as a seasoned guitarist, making the complexities of such a powerful art form look effortless as he transitioned from one song to another. I took a series of shots, faster than usual, and took a seat at one of the front row tables to observe an impressive display of old school blues. 
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Ben Kaufmen peers through the looking glass as Eddie Dixon plays on in the background
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Open Mic Monday host Diggs Darcey freezes in the headlights of my camera
In our conversation prior, Wes had made mention that is always interesting how individuals of like-minded interest and intentions find one another in their respective journeys to know more about any one given subject. The statement was no more self-evident than when I sat by watching this set, a performance that showed years of attention to detail in understanding some of the oldest principles of American blues music.
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Little did I know are paths would be more entwined than I expected. I had told Wes I would be travelling into Louisiana tomorrow night to experience more blues music in the company of the Southland Music Line. He asked the name of the joint I was going to. I confessed I did not know for sure. “Is it Birdie’s Roadhouse?” He asked, but I couldn’t recall, admitting that I had pretty much just jumped at the chance to go somewhere interesting. After his first set, Wes stepped out to break and talk to patrons. Just as I was about to retire for the night, Johnny Cole arrived on the scene. I found him talking to Wes out back and approached him to say hello and get details for our trip out of town the following day. I asked him what the name of the establishment we were going to was called. Birdie’s Roadhouse was the reply.

I turned to Wes Lee. “Isn’t that the place you said earlier?”

“Maybe,” he returned with a grin.

                                        ******
Saturday evening came quickly. I had all the needed travel essentials on hand and was looking forward to another night of music. At four thirty me, Johnny, and Andy were on the road for an area just north from Bogalusa, Louisiana, between the towns of Varnado and Angie. This is where we found this lovely sign.
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Only a few minutes later did we arrive at Birdie’s Roadhouse. A bar that appeared to be a house at one time, sitting along the side of the road not far off from the thick of the woods. The outside’s simple design of white walls with a medium size work of art painted on the buildings west side gave little hint as to what to expect of its interior. I took a few shots and then followed Johnny and Andy up the old steps and entered through the main door.
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Once you step into Birdie’s itself, you feel like an old, handed down secret is being reviled to you. Whereas the outside is plain and unassuming, the inside is rich with history, preserved through the many pictures and artworks that adorn the walls. The framed pictures were the most noticeable. On both sides of the wall, the pictures were positioned from floor to ceiling at some points. On the right, musicians took up all the space. On the left, an assortment of random pictures. I couldn’t help but notice among the predominately faded or all together colorless photos was an exceptionally beautiful young girl in purple, smiling to all those in passing. This photo would prove relevant in the future. Gazing up to the ceiling, one can see names engraved into the wood with various colors of chalk. I’m told a ladder is required to do so. Besides this, all kinds of décor filled the bar, as can be seen in the included photos.

On top of all this, Wes Lee smiles from the stage as he sets up his equipment for the night’s performance in The Jericho Road Show.

“You did say Birdie’s Roadhouse didn’t you?” I asked in jest.

“Yeah, I guess I did.”
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In our first few minutes of being there, I was introduced to the additional two musicians who would be performing tonight, both of whom I had been told about in past conversations with Johnny Cole. Libby Rae Watson and Rambling Steve Gardner were beaming as they prepared their own equipment alongside Lee, as the three converged to make the Jericho Road Show outfit. 

While the band prepared, we decided to step into the back room, just passed the narrow bar, to a small dining area where food from the back kitchen was served. Fried green tomatoes topped with gulf shrimp and house sauce appeared to be the top seller, but I had my eye on the baked potato soup with cracker toast (a term I made up) and fruit on the side (a pineapple slice with cherries on top). I placed my order in with Mrs. Sandy, the daughter of the original Birdie. She proclaimed the soup was indeed worth the order and sold me with its description.  Within minutes, we were dinning in the main room next to the stage and all very happy about it.
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The show began and so did the stories, friendly banter, and comical exchanges.  Combined, the three put out an array of old timey blues and folk numbers, switching instruments between tunes, along with roles as to who would take lead or sing on the next song. The small crowd attentively watched as Andy and I moved about looking for shots. I had a particularly difficult time working out the lighting in the building, which was on the dimmer side, making shots without a flash more challenging. The windows are blocked off, no doubt to keep the old house cooler, and what light does exist emits from multi colored Christmas lights, neon signs, and the like.
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From left to right-Libby Rae Watson, Wes Lee, and Rambling Steve Gardner
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Johnny Cole listens as Steve Gardner recounts a comical story in between sets
As we sat listening, Johnny pointed out a young woman behind the bar who had not been around until just recently it seemed. He told me she was Mrs. Sandy’s daughter, the granddaughter of Birdie, who carried on the same nickname. After a few songs, I approached Birdie to pick her brain on the history of the establishment. She told me a little bit about her family’s history and how she now helps her mother run the bar following a temporary shutdown a few years previously. She claimed Birdie’s Roadhouse was a New Orleans style bar for the Angie and Varnado areas. A place where people can come to be themselves and enjoy good music, friends, and food.  The music, a major staple here, goes from Thursday to Saturday nights with the opening mic kicking off on Thursday. This has been talked about as a special night as famous musicians in the past have dropped in unannounced to perform in this special bar.


She pointed to the two separate walls covered with photography. “That’s the wall of fame and the other one is the wall of shame,” she stated with a laugh. The famed wall was the one consisting of all the musicians, many of which had performed at Birdie’s themselves. A large picture of Buddy Guy in particular caught my attention.  My mind went back to the girl in purple on the opposite wall. Now talking to Birdie face-to-face, I realized it could only be her. I pointed to the picture and asked if it was her. She confirmed my assumption. “You’re on the wall of shame?” I asked jokingly. “What’s up with that?”

As we talked, a crowd seemed to develop out of nowhere. Suddenly, the small house seemed even smaller as the narrow walkway between the wall and the bar became swamped with patrons, some sitting, others standing. I was told later that this was a golf group of some kind, all piling in from the day’s outdoor activities. From my view point, I could see my seat up near the front by Johnny was being eyed by newcomers, my equipment still resting on the table. I decided it was time to make my way back. Though it was only ten feet away, it took me almost a minute to get there. Seated comfortably again, I watched the remainder of the set before the group took another break. Our trio decided to move along to catch the Rosco Bandana midnight showing at the Irish Coast Pub. It was already past eleven, so we would only be able to catch the last few minutes with any luck. We all collected together to talk for a time before saying our farewells and departing. Johnny, Andy, and I made our way back to the bar register to square away or tabs. Me being last, I thanked Mrs. Sandy for the soup recommendation and the chance to experience such an interesting place. I told her I looked forward to coming back someday and Mrs. Sandy, sweetheart that she was, kissed me on the cheek, gave a warm hug and bid me safe travels.
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Within no time at all, we were back in Gulfport at The Irish Coast Pub. Rosco Bandana was nearing the end of their set, so Stephen Anderson and I began shooting away. After the set, I caught up with a few members of the band, including Zach Fellman, Jackson Weldon, and Jason Sanford. It was already after one in the morning, so we decided to call it quits for the night. Back home, I fell asleep in no time.
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Zech Fellman alternates between keys and sax as the night reaches its peak. On left, Robby Amonett paints the scene over the course of the entire show.
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Frontman Jason Sanford embraces blues guitarist and Monday open mic regular Tim Murphy as the night closes.
The next day proved to be an equally good one. I spent time catching up with family and friends before heading out to meet up with Eddie Dixon. Over the course of several hours, we worked out some final touches to tracks “Keep Me Outta Touch” and “Baby You Gotta Be” before breaking for the evening. While I was there, he gave me a listen to a song he had produced in collaboration with Jason Sanford only a few days ago. A soulful tune that felt like a nice departure from other works I’d heard by Sanford, but still retaining key elements that make his songs unique to him.

Meanwhile, in Ocean Springs, the second annual “Feed the Need Fish Fry” was taking place at the Government Street Grocery, featuring music by Grayson Capps and Corky Hughes, Cary Hudson, Blackwater Brass, Jason Sanford and Jackson Weldon, and Paul Kirkland. This was an all-day charity event to raise money for local soup kitchens in the area. Johnny Cole reported Feed the Need as success, with a strong turnout and solid performances by all artists present. Hopefully, the event will see continued success in the years to come and be afforded the chance to help more of those in need. Will definitely try to make it out next year!

This concludes my Weekend Music Roundup for July 31. I have a lot of gratitude to give for my activities these last few days. Thanks to Johnny Cole and Stephen Anderson for including me in the trip to Birdies. Thanks to Birdies for keeping great music alive and being such a nice group of people to hang with. 

Thanks to Wes Lee for talking blues with me and performing, along with Libby Raw Watson and Rambling Steve Gardner, who also deserve praise for preserving blues heritage. Special thanks to my pal Eddie Dixon, who is as talented as a musician as he is a producer, and has always made our work together enjoyable and fun. Most importantly, he is a hell of a good friend. Lastly, thanks to everyone who helped out or performed at the Feed the Need event. Although I was not present at the time, I commend the positive actions that undoubtedly lead to a great deal of good being produced.

A new podcast is coming soon. In fact, plans are being worked out for a recording this weekend of August 7th. In the meantime, feel free to give CNP #50 with Will Lammons a listen if you haven’t already. It was a great recording and made for the perfect two year anniversary of The Coastal Noise Podcast. If you enjoyed this article, consider checking out my first delta trip photography blog. Please support the show by giving a like or sharing with others. If you have a travel suggestion for me, I’m always looking for somewhere else to take pictures and write about. The tracks me and Eddie have been working on will most likely be posted in the music page soon. Its almost time to get rid of those old, raw home recordings that have been hanging around for a year now. Feedback of these would be hugely appreciated, and if we get some shows rolling in the near future, we would love to have you. To stay up to date on all things new at Coastal Noise, be sure to follow along with me or the website on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Youtube. Until next time.

 Stefan


Related Links: 

The Southland Music Line 
Wes Lee: A True Disciple of the Blues – A Homecoming to a Listening Crowd
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Journey to The Delta: Blues Music, Photography, and Good Eats

7/24/2015

2 Comments

 
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My afternoon departure, a solo drive to my friends place at Delta State University in Cleveland, Mississippi, was off to a slow start. A stomach bug had been creeping on me all day. I barely ate anything for the morning and skipped lunch altogether, instead, opting out for a combination of cold kombucha ginger tea and a Bing vitamin drink (which are produced in Colorado and are pretty fantastic).

If you ever read my 2013 Denver Travel Blog, you can guess what is about to go down next. I hit the road only to discover the first 15 steps in my printed directions were AWOL. Not a problem I thought. I’ll just check my GPS later when I get to Exit 59 where I turn off. As I approach the destination, I then decide that the use of GPS is silly for such an easy drive and I probably don’t need to check it. As I’m going around the western outskirts of the city, traffic is so bad that I have at least two "holy shit" moments, brought on by congested lanes and bad driving. By the time I break out of the chaos, I am so relieved and happy to be on open road that I completely forget about checking my navigation.

Engage autopilot.

An hour later I am in Meridian about two hours off course to the east. My life man.

But, before that, there was a particularly cool scene that I came across. It was a few miles outside the Burg. Fields opened up on both sides of the highway. To the left, a strong population of lush, green trees with dark trunks dotted the area. All save for one that had a dull, white trunk that stood alone amongst all the others, but positioned just in the middle of the other two dozen or so trees. It was a powerful scene, made even more so by the next observation: On the field floor, right near the base of the dull tree, lay another tree with the same colored trunk as its isolated brother, compromised by an entanglement of vines and moss. I have a thing for some trees, especially the tree of life, which I see in different places. I never know where it will be but I always recognize it when I see it, so this scene made a particular impression on me. I’m thinking it might make for a good painting one day. Of course, I lack in the art department, so will have to work it out with the local talent.

Back to Meridian. I’m slapping my forehead and calling myself all kinds of dumb things when I do check my GPS and see how far off course I am. Total road fail. I have a laugh, get my bearings, touch base with my connection, and take off on a new route. I’ve got the sun going down. That’s not good. I’ve got four tires that are way overdue for a change out and I need to do close to 90 to make up for lost time. That’s not good. I’m jacked on kombucha and Bing on a still relatively empty stomach...which isn't so bad.

Where it does start getting sketchy is when I realize I have only 25% battery and no back, which means I won’t have any GPS (which obviously I need because I'm incompetent) and I won’t be able to communicate with my one connection at the University. Fun fact, my friend's phone is having its own problems and we can’t actually talk, only text. When you’re speeding down the highway at 85, texting is usually not an option.

Usually.

A good two hours later, the sun is down and I have switched from total silence to the chatter of a Joe Rogan Experience  (#663-Dominic Monaghan of Lord of the Rings and Lost, check it out). I turn my phone on and off at least three times to gather as much intel as I can. Phone numbers, directions, locations, names, and trying to get it memorized. The road is getting stark and lonely. Three weeks ago I refilled my empty wind shield wiper fluid. I’ve used it a handful of times since then,  but when I go to clear up my line of sight, only a short stream hits the glass before dying off completely.

Okay, I think, of all that could occur, this is probably the absolute least terrible thing that could happen.

I am moving through Greenwood with no plans to stop for food or anything else. I pull onto 49E going north. The small town of Greenwood fades away almost at once as darkness consumes what appears to be miles of empty land. Within a mile of the turn off, my windshield is bombarded with one large insect after another. What are the odds of this right now? Ten minutes later, my tired eyes force me to lean forward to see through the darkness and insect goo.

Finally, I arrive at my destination and sleep soundly till 8:14am sharp. We talk about doing a cross fit class to start the day but decide for breakfast at a local coffee joint instead.

Me and our crew, three in total, take for the Mississippi Grinder, where I score a fantastic hot chai spiced tea served at the perfect temperature for immediate consumption and a half English muffin covered in a creamy blend of cheese, bacon and egg pieces. One thing that really stands out here is the decor which you can see in the pics below. It’s a cozy spot with plenty of comfy coughs sofas and easy chairs.

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After breakfast we move through the downtown area, seeing the sites and taking notice of that other worldly vibe you get in places that are just "out there". Back in podcast #46 with Chris Hartfield, I talked about the power nature can have over you when your deep out in places of nature and that feeling was alive most of the day as we roamed around the towns quant shops and beautiful school buildings. You really get that sense that this whole town has no barriers just beyond its outskirts. The "air" around us doesn’t feel cluttered with jumbled energy, sounds of people or technology.

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A farmers market held every Saturday morning for locals in downtown Cleveland

One of the more interesting places we stop in at, after chatting with some vendors at a small farmer's market, is Bill Perry's Pawn Shop, which had a huge selection of goods, as well as an assortment of exotic animals. Yes, exotic animals. Lemurs, chinchillas, bunnies, an anaconda, a variety of parrots, and a baby kangaroo, hanging out in a baby's crib rigged with a small, hammock like bag.

Oh ya. Shit was cute.

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The lemur and I got along pretty well. He enjoyed licking and nibbling my fingers, jumping rhythmically back and forth across his cage, and chasing my hand as I slowly moved it about. I ran my index across his toes and hands to feel the dark black skin there. It felt a lot like the bottoms of my Vibram toe shoes, which are still one of the best foot investments I’ve made when it comes to active on the go throw ons. I wonder if they made those things by studying lemur feet...

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I browsed some old guitars, books, and movies. "I come here sometimes and treat it like a Redbox," my friend said. "Its two dollars for a dvd but you just keep it afterwards." I questioned their playability but she said it was never an issue for her. Cute animals and good movies? What a spot.

A little while later, we sat down at Hey Joe's, a great restaurant where blues, rock, and pop culture memorabilia abound. Table tops have music news clippings and pictures from various sources under the glass table tops. A stage seats customers during the day and converts to a performance space for musicians at night. Double multicolored chalk boards display daily events and activities. Vinyl records from all eras are for sale on the walls. Even the menu is designed to resemble an album cover.  Inside, special items are named with pop culture references like, the Kevin Bacon and the Nirvana, which is what I went with. The burger, which contends with the house’s top seller, the Joe Burger (comes with fried egg on it), is just about what I'd call a perfect burger. Loaded with sautéed onions, mushrooms, bacon, cheese, pickles, fresh tomatoes and lettuce, with the special Hey Joe sauce and even a "fighting" okra, pinned with a toothpick, to the top of the bun. It even came with a generous side salad that I dressed with an Italian-Sriracha mix.

A big factor in what made this meal so enjoyable was the perfect size of the portion. Normally when I order a burger or other meat entrees at a restaurant, I get a huge portion that stuffs me but still leaves some left for a take home box, which I generally don’t want to deal with. I was able to chow down hard on this meal without hesitation (remember my lack of food from the day before?) and only felt full right at the end as I finished, but never feeling so loaded that I didn’t want to go walking around afterwards.

We were able to sit around casually and talk about the place a little more. The group told me about Terrible Tuesdays where exceptionally bad movies are played on a projector outside which is then followed by exceptionally cheap alcoholic beverages being served at the bar inside. I, of course, humbly suggested that The Room be played in rotation to really show people what a phenomenal good-bad movie is like. The word was passed along to the staff and backed up by another patron.

Once again, the décor was a big factor here. Hey Joe's has an assortment of weird but cool pieces all around the restaurant.

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We went on to The Delta Diary for a post lunch frozen yogurt dessert. The diary used in the yogurt here is managed at Honey Hills farm, which congers up pleasant images of green, open fields and simple wood houses with long front porches.

Now it was time for a speedy drive down to Po Monkeys, a now legendary landmark bar on the iconic blues trail that has been in operation since 1961. The Mississippi Blues Commission placed a historic marker at the Po Monkey's Lounge in 2009 designating it as a site on the Mississippi Blues Trail for its contribution to the development of the blues (and one of the few authentic juke joints that is still operating today).  I took a few shots and read the posted signs hanging from the very, very small one room house. "NO LOUD MUSIC. NO DOPE SMOKING. NO RAP MUSIC." The sign out front reads. This is my kind of place. I make a mental note to try to come back later that night to see what kind of action takes place, being sure to bring my small guitar that I have brought for the trip.

(Post Edit: I later found out that Po Monkeys is only open one day a week. Thursdays. Maybe next time.)

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Me and one of the prettiest girls the Delta could hope to have
Afterwards, we stop in a small but spacious park where ducks and geese co- exist with people who throw them bread crumbs and, in my case, try to take some pictures that have some artistic value to them. We decide to beat the heat and take a break indoors for a few hours to recharge our internal batteries.  I stretch out and begin typing my experiences up to this point, while selecting my old blues playlist to accompany the Delta vibe. Muddy Waters “Mannish Boy”, Lightnin Hopkins “Grandma Told Grandpa”, T-Bone Walker’s “You Don’t Understand” and other antique tunes play through my headphones.  I put in my time and then, grabbing my old yoga mat, stretch out the travel kinks from driving and walking around. A much needed breather for a man in motion.

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Kylie contemplates the complexity of the universe...or what ducks are thinking perhaps
Eight o’clock rolls around and the sun is setting over the delta plains. We drive to Marigold, just outside of Cleveland, to dine at Crawdad’s, a 30 year old establishment designed as a large wooden cabinet geared toward the hunt. Next to food, taxidermy is the center piece here. Mounted animals of all kinds, deer, large cats, warthogs, antelope, moose, and more are mounted to the walls. A giant chandelier of antlers hangs over the waiting room. Hallways lined with pictures of hunters with their kill lead to various dining areas that are either tucked away in cozy seclusion or open to large groups. There is almost a maze like feeling to the whole place, as my company tells me about other rooms that I didn’t even get to see in my time there.  The main area where we dine has a stage at the back where the band is set up. A bar off to the right has a glass room above it with a scene recreated out of nature with a large bobcat lurking over drinking patrons.

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A bobcat makes sure drinking patrons pay their bar tabs
All of the food options look great, but the house special Goat Cheese Salad, catches my attention. I was also told earlier that day that the shrimp crawfish pasta called “Shrimp Sultana” is a big hit. Not one to skip on the chance to eat many different kinds of good food, I order both, along with two drinks to enjoy the Victor Wainwright Band, a four piece who play a wide range of tunes that keep the crowd captivated. Their cover of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” is a particular favorite that has most of us in a singalong as soon as the first lines begin. I had the chance to speak with Wainwright briefly in between breaks and he told me the group was feeling experimental that night and were trying a range of different numbers that they don’t normally do since the diner was running a little slow in the early hours of the night. I encouraged them to keep up the good work and asked if I could stand by for some pictures, to which they happily agreed.

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The Victor Wainwright Band
Back at the table, our food is served quickly. The salad, decorated with roasted pecans, plump cherries tomatoes, and a peach vinaigrette sauce, is a winner. The first bite I notice the creamy texture it has, thanks to the goat cheese. The second bite with a pecan in the mix takes the dish to the next level, with a cherry tomato giving an extra juicy addition to the knock out combination. This may be my new favorite salad. Simple, but very effective.

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Later that week I made my own variation inspired by this dish, but with Tuscan chicken, feta, and red wine vinaigrette. You can see it on my Instagram.

The Shrimp Sultana makes for a perfect main entrée. Served with sautéed Gulf shrimp, crawfish, onions, peppers, and garlic in a Cajun cream sauce with breadsticks, this dish is a powerhouse for someone looking to chow down. I’m fairly certain I could not have picked a better combination to dine on. On top of that, our waitress was way cute and super helpful! I even scored another sweet T-shirt to remember the good times by.
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A big, red truck limousine hybrid (yes, you read it correctly) is parked outside Crawdad’s. Apparently, some of the delta’s wealthy elite (farmers) decided to stop in for a good time. A waiting driver is posted as the men drink at the inside bar. Hoping to find some action at Po Monkey’s, we head down the roads of Marigold to the small shack as ten o’clock creeps by. My GPS takes us to a dirt road that trails on for a mile or so, feeling much longer as there are virtually no street lights and I have to drive slower on the rocky road. When we finally arrive back at the shack, the parking lot is empty. Not a sound can be heard around us. Off in the distant, a few lights from Cleveland reach us across the miles of farmland. There is no telling why Po Monkey’s isn’t happening tonight, but despite the small juke joint being closed, we are still treated to one of the most impressive features of Delta nights. Overhead, the stars shine on a clear sky, unobstructed by a single cloud, brighter than usual it seems due to the lack of light pollution in the area. I take a few pictures from atop my car, but omit them in the end. Some things can’t be captured by a camera.

Sunday morning I prepare my equipment and spare luggage for departure. We grab breakfast at the Desert Inn, which is serving up a pretty standard morning buffet of eggs, bacon, diced potatoes, and biscuits with gravy. Shortly after, I am parting ways with my company and hitting the road (the right road) back home.  My mp3 on shuffle plays Eagles of Death Metal, Mississippi Fred McDowell, and a cool Portishead number with French lyrics that I’ve never heard before. Just as the landscape opens up and the country side takes on its full beauty, Stairway to Heaven begins to play. Well played rock and roll gods. Well played.

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The delta fades away and I find my route heading down 49 South, no scoping pictures with my camera along the way. It’s easy to say that my first time in the heart of Mississippi farmland was a success. I left feeling a strong connection to Cleveland and the surrounding area’s sense of small, but involved community. Wide open spaces that drag on for miles may not hold much appeal to some, but, for me, it was a lifestyle that I appreciated away from the busy commotion of larger towns. There was so much more to see than what I imagined. More sounds to hear besides just country or blues. This area of the Delta displayed a healthy mix of young college enthusiasm mixed with ole time-y tradition. Simplicity with variety if you will. 

When I got to the city limits of Gulfport, I was met with a sense of irony. The whole time I was in Cleveland it was sunny and hot. Typical of mid-July. The bugs, dirt roads, and long highways took a fair toll on my vehicle, which was quiet filthy at this point. But, as I approached my hometown, a great thunderstorm pummeled the area, washing my car clean and providing a metaphorical cleansing of the mind. When I get home, I’ll check to see how my garden has been fairing with all this good rain. I’m no farmer, but I did stay in the Delta last night.

Stefan
2 Comments

Music Weekend Roundup: Eddie Dixon w/ Rosco Bandana, Fat Man Squeeze, Truitt Williams, The Mulligan Brothers, & Willie Sugarcapps

4/12/2015

5 Comments

 
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Eddie Dixon @ The Hard Rock

In a weekend of righteous liberation, I was afforded the chance to do a brief run around the coast from Thursday night all through Saturday. The adventures began at the Hard Rock Cafe, where musician and fellow band mate Eddie Dixon, took the stage to open for home town favorite Rosco Bandana. 
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Stripped down with only two guitars, Dixon performed a series of songs from his assorted solo albums, including his latest work, Bump Key, where he pulled such tracks as "Swindle Sea" and "Countries Are Here". Dixon is currently producing the debut album for Los Angeles artist Leighann Nelson and is an avid visual artist and photographer. You can check out some of his artwork here. 
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Rosco Bandana

Following Dixon shortly after, Rosco Bandana quickly made the finishing touches to their setup and began a two part show that lasted close to two hours. With a more minimalist line-up of six performers, the band showed that nothing has been lost in their ability to deliver a hard rock edge to their Americana folk roots, proving they are still one of the best, most energetic shows to see in the southern region. 
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New to the line-up was Zachery Fellman, who has been loaning his skill of the keys to Rosco for several weeks now. He also provided backing vocals and some hypnotic accompaniment on the saxophone. In the several times I have seen Rosco perform, I have always been impressed by the talent of Jackson Weldon, who always seems to be taking the role of a different instrument, depending on the show. I have seen him work the bass, as well as mandolin, for the majority of any given show. Thursday night was the first time I saw him take the primary role of the lead guitarist, where he consistently took every other song to 11 with his furious, impassioned playing that captivated the audience. A particular instrumental number had Jackson and frontman Jason Sanford weaving in and out of beautiful melodies before the entire band decedent into a high powered jam that left bystanders temporarily faceless. 
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From the sidelines of the center stage, Robby Amonett, a painter who has made a name for himself in the south capturing live performances as they happen in front of him, diligently replicated the energy from both shows as the night progressed. From the crowd, Johnny Cole of the Southland Music Line (see CNP #44 & 45) sat by watching the group he has loved from day one, as they gave thanks to those special followers, friends and family, who have supported their growth through all the past years. 

After the show, we all came together to pat backs, shack hands, and talk about our plans for the weekend. Johnny Cole, Eddie and I discussed the last showing at The Frog Pond in Mobile, which has become a local iconic venue that operates seasonally in the Fairhope area of Alabama. Their season ends next weekend until the fall. I mentioned a few festivals going on starting that Friday, including the Beachfront Blues event that was set to take place in Pascagoula the following day. 
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Fat Man Squeeze @ Scranton's

Friday evening marked the beginning of some questionable weather that looked like it may put a damper on all things music for the weekend. Not one to be deterred, I loaded up my car with all the necessaries to make for a good time down in Pascagoula, where I was counting on hearing some good blues and exploring a new area. After an hour long drive, me and my traveling crew found the park we were looking for...but not a band or music goer in sight! I circled the block once or twice, thinking I was just unfamiliar with the area, but had no luck spotting the blues. A little research online directed us to a nearby bar where the show had been relocated due to weather. Down the narrow street of a quiet downtown area, we found Scranton's.
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Making our way through the crowd in the main room, we found the side bar, a narrow room with booths and tables. At the very end of the straight shot was bluegrass performers Fat Man Squeeze. A three piece that welcomed our arrival with tunes that were fast, hard, and fun as hell to sing along to. 
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Within five minutes of being there, we were treated to such numbers as "I'll Fly Away" and "Folsom Prison Blues" that had the entire room joining in, with thunderous claps keeping time to the speedier rendition of Johnny Cash's hit song. The crowd was constantly entertained by the antics of the band's frontman, who cracked jokes with his band mates and the audience who sat within arms reach of the group. At eight o' clock, the band closed with a cover of "All Along the Watchtower", and I left out with the feeling that I had seen a personal favorite for the weekend. 
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Truitt Williams Band @ Jack's By The Tracks

Stepping out of Scranton's, I made a quick call to Johnny Cole to see if the Southland Music Line was planning on making the trip down to Magnolia Springs tomorrow for the seafood festival that was set to take place all day long, rain or shine. We agreed that the weather wasn't promising, but we would both keep an eye out and make a decision in the morning. Loading up the car, me and the road crew went over the train tracks to pay a first time visit to Jack's By The Tracks, a venue that we discussed in the last two episodes of the Coastal Noise Podcast. 
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Although I only stayed for a few minutes, it was enough to get a good first time feel for what Jack's By The Tracks was all about. An attentive crowd looked on as The Truitt Williams Band played a lively set (with a sign announcing Fat Man Squeeze to play the following night). The venue is a shotgun style restaurant, which gives a unique sound to the acoustics in the building. Even from the very back, where patrons sat eating an assortment of delicious looking dishes, you could still hear the band playing with clarity. 
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The Mulligan Brothers @ Magnolia Springs Seafood Festival

The next morning I woke up, made some tea and took to my back porch where I began sorting through the pictures from the last two nights. As it approached ten, I started checking the weather. Despite the nasty images that filled the radar just the night before, everything around Fairhope, Alabama seemed to be clear. It might not be such a bad day for a festival after all. I second phone call to Johnny Cole confirmed it. We agreed to meet at the Shed Blues and BBQ Joint in Ocean Springs and travel together to cover the shows. I loaded up my equipment and an acoustic guitar (in case of an emergency) and took for the interstate. Before long, Johnny and I were on the park grounds where we met up with Pascagoula photographer and Southland Music Line partner, Stephen Anderson, along with Robby Amonett, who was setting up to paint the festivals performers before heading over to Callaghan's Irish Social Club, a well known bar in Mobile that has a reputation of attracting top notch musicians. 
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Local band Mass Kunfuzion opening the festival
Though the rain no longer seemed an issue, baking heat began to creep over the festival, which was soon replaced by a nice breeze and some not so nice gnats. No one seemed to mind much though, as Johnny, Stephen, Robby, and I stood around with members of the Mulligan Brothers to make small talk before they took to the stage to set up. We grabbed our seats under the tent and settled in as the four piece folk inspired band began their hour and a half long set, filled with beautifully arranged songs that featured dynamic song structure and thoughtful lyrics. Half way through the show, we noticed the band was struggling to keep the bothersome gnats, which seemed to be increasing in numbers, away from their busy performance. I soon earned a reputation with the festival goers as "The Bug Spray Guy" when I handed over my spray bottle of Off to frontman Ross Newell's. Despite their difficulties, they powered through and left the stage to the applause of a delighted crowd. 
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Willie Sugarcapps

The headline performance followed soon after. Willie Sugarcapps, a band that came together from reoccurring collaborations at The Frog Pond just down the road, is the make up of five well respected musicians of the south. 
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Grayson Capps, Will Kimbrough, Corky Hughes and the duo Sugarcane Jane featuring Savana Lee and Anthony Crawford, make up this soulful display of powerful songwriting, harmonies, and skilled instrumental talents. Members take turns singing lead, swopping different instruments, and performing songs that he or she wrote, sometimes improvising comical ditties on the spot to the amusement of the crowd. When the band finished its last song, the crowd gave the group a standing ovation and called out for more as the sun was just beginning to go down. The band thanked them again and again and then stepped off to meet and greet with the appreicative festival goers. 
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Painting by Robby Amonett
All in all it was a fantastic day in Magnolia Springs, and a great way to wrap up my Music Weekend Roundup. A special thanks to Johnny and Stephen at the Southland Music Line for hanging around, Robby, and all the musicians I saw this week for getting out there and putting on one rockin show after another. Hope to see you all out in the future. Please share and support our local music scene. All comments welcome below. 

Until next time.

Stefan 

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    ​ Stefan         Lawson


    Host of the Coastal Noise Podcast. Blues/Rock Guitarist. Writer living in San Diego.

       
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