Miscellaneous Errantry and Peregrinations

A good traveler has no fixed plans

and is not intent on arriving

                    Lao-tzu

Yosemite — The Mist Trail  — Winter 1998.  The closest I’ve ever come to having hypothermia. When I started up to Vernal Falls the afternoon was warm, and the trail was mostly in the sun. I kept a leisurely pace stopping often to listen to the river and watch jays and ravens. I figured to be gone about two hours. In winter the trail is sometimes closed just above the bridge where a monitor measures the flow of the Merced. But today it wasn’t. It’s been a mild season with very little snow and the path was clear.  I passed a few people coming down, but I mostly had the trail up to myself. 

  At that spot where you pass through a small cave, the rocks were slick from the famous mist that blows off the top of the falls. Today the sun is low and there is no rainbow. The trail itself is a small stream. I plod upward thinking to make it to the top. Once I get a little past the overhang a wind blows down from the river, the mist gets thick and I am suddenly soaked. I stop and drink some water as the sun moves behind the rocks and now I’m in the shade as the late afternoon air cools quickly. I’m wearing jeans and a cotton tee and even worse, all I have is a chamois shirt in my pack. I am ill prepared, no fleece or down. What would Pak say? “Cotton kills!” I admit I should know better. I start to shiver and turn back to the truck which is about three miles away at Curry Village. Even though I’m moving briskly I’m cold and the shivering gets more uncontrollable. As usual, I’m too stupid to be scared. But I suspect I’m experiencing the first stages of hypothermia. Worst case scenario is I faint on the trail and someone finds me pretty quickly. Even though nobody knows where I am, there are a few hours of daylight left and the odds are pretty good that there are still people on the trail. I in fact do not see another person until I’m past Happy Isle and less than a mile from the parking lot. I am shivering viciously. 

  I start the truck and blast the heat as I pull off my two wet shirts, dry myself with a beach towel and put on my purple fleece. My skin is ice. Where is Heather when I need her warm little body? 

  My next move should be predictable to anyone who knows me. Five minutes later I’m at the Ahwahnee bar with a generous pour of whiskey while waiting for my vegetarian chili. I’m comfortable and safe and happy. Yet another tragedy narrowly averted. I often can’t believe my luck! Back at the lodge I enjoy a long steaming shower. I read Gary Snyder and then sleep a solid eight hours. 

        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

3/2012 ~~ At the Sea Ranch Chapel I do not pray. I don’t ask for anything.  I do, sometimes, acknowledge my good fortune. Lucky Antoni. For years now, every March, I get up one morning before sunrise and walk the short path from our rented house through the mist, past purple irises and little excited yellow birds. I cut through a patch of pine trees and cross a small stream before coming out on Highway One across from the sloping field where the chapel sits at the edge of deeper woods. Its curved roof reminds me of the ocean waves or a small mystery ship drifting away to return to whatever enchanted island it came from. It is that rarely designed structure that also looks like it belongs exactly where it is. It complements its surroundings. 

 This early in the morning I am the only one here. As is my ritual I let myself into the small room and sit on the far back hardwood bench. The first light of the day filters through stained glass with a calming opaqueness. I catch my breath and think.  And think some more. The silence is beautiful, something I never get enough of. I think about the people I love the most. Some of them just a mile away, still sleeping in the big grey house enveloped in fog. Some of them very far away and one, not knowing where she is, I miss with a savage ferocity. And it wouldn’t be real life if some now only live on in my heart. I wonder how it is possible that we endure the endless cruelties of existence. 

  This small room is a nondenominational place where everyone is welcome to pray, meditate, worship or, like me, an old atheist, just let my mind drift. In a moment of buddhist reflection, I admit to myself that I haven’t quite conquered my desires and cravings. Perhaps it will ultimately prove to be an impossible task.   

   As time goes by my un-winnable struggle with entropy keeps keeps me occupied, I find myself on another foggy predawn ramble walking to the chapel from the Stabbin’ Cabin, aptly named by the late Mike Carpenter back in our friskier days. It’s chilly inside the unheated room and I’m bundled up in fleece. It is the clicheic morning after the night before. A three hour, five course, seven wine dinner. I shuffled up the stairs to the Cabin only a few hours ago.  My mind is as foggy as the view toward the sea cliffs. This early morning lack of clarity is a small price to pay for last evening’s conversation and company. Going to bed early was out of the equation. To neglect friendship is on my short list of deadly sins. (Sloth and, apparently, gluttony are not. Nor do I consider patience a true virtue.)

 There are some things that at the time seemed incredibly important. But in reflection I can’t honestly remember what the fuss was all about. And the reverse, brief moments of everyday normal life now have a resonance that makes my heart quiver. Their importance went unnoticed at the time, but this grey morning, years later, I am baffled at the raw emotion these memories have triggered. Of course it all has to do with love. 

  More recently, I spread some of Mide’s ashes here in the flowers that face the ocean. 

       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm porous with travel fever

But you know I'm so glad to be on my own

Still somehow the slightest touch of a stranger

Can set up trembling in my bones

I know no one's going to show me everything

We all come and go unknown

Each so deep and superficial

Between the forceps and the stone  — Joni Mitchell

  “It just happens that people disappear for a little while, you know?”  

                                                                  Olga Tokarczuk   

  Celebrating my Jeep’s twentieth birthday I am on the road, alone again, for reasons not unlike Jim Harrison’s or Santoka Taneda’s or John Steinbeck’s. Maybe even Ishmael’s. I’m not quite as in need of healing as Neal Peart, but I may be looking for some amount of clarity. There is, of course, a shadow on my heart. Nothing unique about that. Although some of my reasons are opaque even to me. Melancholy and cafard are, however, relative. And I would never claim my inner turmoil is any worse, or any easier to comprehend, than anyone else’s. Individual levels of pain or heartache are not only impossible to measure, they are even harder to compare. Each to her or his own. 

 I haven’t always traveled alone. I’ve many good companions on my travels. Los, Cori, Pak, Brenna, Reilly, to name just a few. But lately its just me. I am lured on by the road, aimlessly. 

  Alone, I say, except for the 5000 songs on my iPod, a canvas satchel full of books and this laptop that connects me to the rest of the world. 

  Different versions of Joni’s song Hejira have been popping up randomly on the old iPod all week.  First from the live album, Shadows And Light, recorded in Santa Barbara with Pat Metheny playing guitar, and then the rendition from Travelogue. And finally the studio cut, three takes in five days! Do I take this as a sign? Even though I don’t believe in potents or omens I say to myself, “Mights as wells!” 

 The city has been getting to me anyway, summer is here along with the wave of tourists. UCSB just graduated 6000 students and their proud families all showed up to clog the downtown restaurants and bars, Trattoria Vittoria particularly. It was an exhausting week. No doubt Joni was telling me to get on the road. She’s never steered me wrong yet. I am reminded that I saw her sing Hejira at a folk festival back when she still toured. She was captivating that evening, her fingers cold from the night’s chill but her voice, as always, so beautiful to me. 

 Walking over to the beach to watch the full moon rise an owl lands on a branch near the path. A great horned is my guess, but it seems a bit small. Perhaps a juvenile.  A minute later it flies off across the grass and lands on a pine tree closer to the cliff. I walk over and I as do another owl flies over my head and perches next to it on a higher limb. It’s a bigger bird, two feet tall, no doubt a great horned.  It gives a slight, almost imperceptible throaty hoot. I watch them both for a while until all I can see is their silhouettes. They are backlit by the orange moon. They fly off in different directions. 

 

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not. 

     Ralph Waldo Emerson

     “Very like leaves

 upon the earth are the generations of men —

old leaves cast on the ground by wind, young leaves

the greening forest bares when spring comes in.

So mortals pass; one generation flowers 

even as others pass away.”       Homer

 I’m at an old motel, the kind I used to find everywhere, back on my first cross-country drives. In those days I never made a reservation because I was never quite sure where I might end up when the sun went down. Hopefully we would find a place near a restaurant that served liquor, or, next best scenario like in Wakeeney, Kansas, a family diner and a package store. These old motels are becoming more and more rare. The difference, I learned when I worked for Holiday Inn, between a hotel and a motel is that a hotel has a lobby and you enter your room from inside the building and at a motel you park in front of your room and enter from the outside. Another thing I learned was that you could always count on Holiday Inns and Best Westerns to have food and a bar. A very important consideration after twelve hours of driving. Especially the bar. 

 Often there were lawn chairs at the front door where you could enjoy a drink and chat with your neighbors while facing the road and watching the traffic flow by and the sun set. A friend I used to drive around with a lot considered these bare minimum rooms a slight step above camping. She wasn’t complaining. They were always clean and family owned so there was some pride in appearances and friendliness, now called hospitality by the corporations that run most of the motels these days. I’ve also noticed that you are looked at oddly if you walk in without a reservation. 

  Lately, I try to take the long way. Today the backroads yielded much less traffic, magpies on the shoulder, miles of vineyards with dangling clusters and great brown, dried fields. Warm desiccating winds, few clouds, vultures, a long plume of dust from a tractor a mile away on a hillside and Cachuma Lake at the lowest level that I have ever seen. It’s scary, but apparent, that we are running out of water here in the west. And there’s nothing that can be done, I fear, except go through one of humanities periodic calamities where overwhelming devastation and suffering last for a generation. A huge population shift will occur and the world will be a very different place.  My hope is that I will make an exit, gracefully, moments before the final collapse. It’s Ellie and Juliette, Marcus and Sebastian, Roux and Mae, that I worry about. They will have challenges far greater than anything that I ever had to worry about.  It seems, oddly, that over the years I have had a perfect window, or vantage point, to view my personal vistas. Speaking of my overall story? Oeuvre? Experience? — I have been luckier than most. However, it ain’t over yet, not even close, I hope. So there’s still time to be involved in the massive collapse that is surely in the future. (Perhaps a personal one as well.) 

  Bob Weir sings, “Yes theres a price for being free.”

  But here today, the end of July and back along the coast, cool foggy air slithers inland to where the sun evaporates the fragile tendrils. The ocean is as grey as the sky and the waves of high tide crash against the black, craggy rocks that are ever so slowly wearing smooth from the eons of friction. With my eyes, it seems more and more, that no matter which direction I look, entropy is apparent. It has shaded my outlook for, I think, the better. It helps me to see, and understand, just how temporary everything truly is which inspires me to be grateful for what I have; health (for now), sincere relationships, love, curiosity.. 

                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Stuck in Denver, again, on a cold and rainy night. It smells like winter already. I check in to the Marriott and see a sports bar across the street from the lobby. Braving the squalls I hurry over stepping ankle deep in a curbside puddle soaking the only shoes I have with me. A whiskey warms my heart as I answer some texts and emails and listen to nonsense bar talk. The trials of stranded travelers. I take my flight delay in stride thinking that those who curse, or defy, the Fates will be dragged along by them nevertheless. I have a mediocre burger, the signature of sports bars the world over. 

  On my way back to the hotel I, unsurprisingly, step again in the puddle by the sidewalk. This time, of course, with the other foot. Heraclitus famously wrote that you cannot step in the same river twice. Jim Harrison maintains you can’t even step into the same river once. Food for thought indeed. Neither, I note, ever mentioned mud puddles.   

  Autumn — early October. The foliage is mostly yellow this year, the reds may indeed peak later because the maples and oaks are still green. But the leaf-rain of yellow/orange is breathtaking as the afternoon winds from the west pick up. The clouds are white on top and grayer underneath and are spaced so to look ordered but that’s just an illusion brought about by the chaotic breezes. The sun slants through illuminating patches of the fields and woods surrounding Arrowhead as I saunter the grounds. It is here that Melville wrote:

 There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!

 Mount Greylock to the north, where I stood yesterday, does indeed, if I take off my glasses, look like a whale just about to spout. Especially if your dreams are often of the sea, like Melville’s. The day is warm, perfect Berkshire Fall weather. An influx of tourists is expected for this three day weekend that starts tomorrow. I walk up path and then a little ways into the trees before turning around and sitting on a bench for a while. 

  In his story, The Piazza, Melville wrote about looking toward Massachusetts’s highest mountain and seeing a cabin at the end of a rainbow, the light from the sun reflecting off a far away window. After wondering about the possibilities of what may be up there he makes the long journey to where he has seen his vision. Upon arriving he meets a woman doing chores, weaving and knitting, who spends her time gazing in the direction from which he came. She, too, sees a house and imagines what rich man would live in such a place. When Melville’s narrator looks  down the valley he recognizes the dwelling as his own humble farm. As often the case with Melville’s stories the lessons are ambiguous. He also wrote;

— yet what is there perfect in this world?

 Driving back toward Ridge Ave I listen to the Keith Jarrett Trio live from The Blue Note. Very appropriate for the season and the weather. A steady falling of yellow and orange leaves accompanies me as I navigate the back roads. Stopping at the causeway on Onota Lake I notice as many spotting scopes as I do fishing poles. The birdwatchers hoping for a bald eagle sighting. There is a nesting pair nearby. In the shallows on the north side are mallards, Canada geese and a lone great blue heron so still I almost miss her. I remember years ago watching my Uncle Joe here gracefully casting his fly rod a seemingly impossible distance, his back cast crossing the street behind him. 

  Early flight tomorrow. I tried to change my ticket but there are no flights available until Monday, five days from now. I almost want to get stuck again in Denver so to prolong my absence from Santa Barbara. 

  Well my flights went smoothly. I’m back on Barranca Ave sitting with a glass of wine and musing on the last two weeks in the Berkshires.  2000 years ago Virgil wrote; 

                         Optima dies…prima fugit  

Bibliography

Collected Poems — Gary Snyder

Occidental Mythology — Joseph Campbell 

I and My Chimney — Herman Melville

Lost Sailor — Weir

Autumn Leaves — Keith Jarrett Trio

Hejira — Joni Mitchell 

Travels — Pat Metheny Group

Urge For Goin — Mary Black

24 Hours at a Time — Marshall Tucker Band

Freeways — Bachman Turner Overdrive

Some Concerts --- Volume Two

The Allman Brothers Band

 Wiltern Theatre — 6/8/2002 — Loge - Row BB - Seat 112 - $61.50

  Opening with Trouble No More set the tone. (How do I remember this stuff?) Gregg’s voice aching. I also remember a soulful Come And Go Blues, which I think they’ve played every time I’ve ever seen them. (8? 9 times?  Something like that.) 

  A memorable moment was during the set break, Brenda ran into Randy Smith in the ladies room. For those of you who don’t know Randy, neither of us were surprised to find him in there. Pure Randy! We had a drink up in the balcony and then he evaporated into the crowd, elusive as always.

  Toward the end of the second set we were treated to a full blown Mountain Jam. It was something else! I was amazed once again at Warren Haynes’s musical knowledge. Not for the least because ten days earlier Brenda and I saw him with Phil Lesh and Friends at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley and on that night he played a trippy and very psychedelic Dark Star. I need not add, flawlessly. 

  Gregg, as ever, was nothing less than brilliant. There has never been any doubt for me that when he sings the blues so seriously it’s because he has lived them. He understands the pain and anguish of those songs.  And he was able to pass some of that feeling of heartbreak and lowdown sadness on to us. I’m glad I saw him as many times as I did and I know for me that something very unique is now gone forever. If I could explain it better I would. You had to be there.

John Denver

 Saratoga Performing Arts Center - 8/2/1986 - Orchestra - Section 10 - Row HH - Seat 38 - $15.00 

  I was driving back from Bolton Landing where I dropped off Pat C, who had a summer job up there, and I got caught in a wonderful thunderstorm. Sheets of rain made Route 87 a river and my windshield wipers were useless.  I pulled off in Saratoga, found a deli, ordered a sandwich and a beer and read the local paper while waiting out the squall. I was in no hurry. I saw in the arts and entertainment section that John Denver was that night at the Performing Arts Center. The rain let up and I drove over to the box office and lucked out and got a ticket. All that was left the girl told me were a few scattered single tickets. I went back downtown for another beer.  In those days there were no concessions inside the grounds.  

  I will always have a soft spot in my heart for John Denver having sung all those songs around many a Boy Scout campfire over the years. So when he encouraged us to sing along I was well prepared. I sat next to two girls who were as enthusiastic as I was and they were generous enough to occasionally offer me their binoculars. It was a splendid evening listening to those heartfelt tunes with those two, slightly older, girls flirting with me. 

  Denver was on his game. He played all his classics with the joyful energy that he was famous for. He easily was having as much fun as we all were. Although I do remember a tear (mine) during Leaving On A Jet Plane. When I saw him again a few years later he performed an equally touching rendition. His songs really did come from his life. That’s is exactly what made him so authentic.  Gone much too young, there is a loss there and I feel like he left a lot undone. So for me, he will be ever youthful and his songs still bring up some old memories of a piece of my own life that resonates, after all this time, with true fondness.  

Willie Nelson & Merle Haggard

 Arlington Theatre - 4/21/1989 -  Section C - Row LL - Seat 11 - $27.00

  Dan came up from Long Beach and we spent the day walking around town, eating and drinking. Merle opened. The CD Chill Factor had just come out and he played a generous selection of songs from it before ripping through some big hits. His band was incredibly tight and smooth, they made it look effortless. His voice, so unique, sometimes it seemed like he was carving out the words and, like Willie, his phrasing was impossible to imitate. 

  Willie opened with Whiskey River, just like always, a song I’ve always taken to heart. That and Night Life, anthems of a kind for an old bartender like me.  (Although I wasn’t so old in 1989) Willie had us dancing in the aisles and singing along as if our lives depended on it. (Maybe they did) A Willie show is beautiful for its semi-predictability. There are songs that he simply has to play and he does so with joy and an unabashed love for the tunes. Every time I catch up with him it’s a treat and now with Merle gone every concert he plays is more and more remarkable for its history in the making. 

  And just a few weeks ago Willie’s sister Bobbie passed away so the sound of The Family Band will be forever changed. The great drummer Paul English has left the stage forever as well. Willie powers on though. He has several concerts already booked for the coming summer. Unfortunately, not near me. Oh, and of course, again like always, he closed the show with Whiskey River. 

The Grateful Dead 

Hartford Civic Center - 4/3/1987 - Section 106 - Row X - Seat 3 - $14.50

  Well, Holy Shit!  Jerry had been sick and they had to cancel the fall tour.  But he was back, feeling better, looking trim. (Well, for him.) They played a few west coast shows but this was their first night back in New England. The Deadheads were sparked. There was a moment a couple of months earlier that we thought this thing might be all over. We were thrilled to be wrong. The energy in the room was cosmic. 

  They opened with a thunderous Midnight Hour!  Other first set highlights; Row Jimmy, Desolation Row and Bird Song.

  And then after the break they absolutely ripped. China > Rider > Looks Like Rain > He’s Gone, maybe the best second set opening I’ve ever heard. The bridge between China Cat and Rider had a few amazing powerful peaks. The music playing the band. 

  And later Jerry sang a very poignant, due to his recent illness, Black Peter. There were some tears. That “a little peace to die” line shook the stadium.  

 They sent us out into the night with a rollicking Mighty Quinn. 

 It’s time to find the CD of that show that I burned from a cassette. Or, better yet, look it up on Relisten.

Jack DeJohnette, Joe Lovano, Esperanza Spaulding & Leo Genovese

 Lobero Theatre - 2/18/14 - Row L - Seat 9 - $50.00

  Talk about a full stage! I wish there was a recording somewhere of this group. Man they were hot. There was so much pure playing that night that I didn’t know where to look. I could’ve danced to every song but sometimes The Lobero is a little too serious for my antics.

 I really wanted to see Esperanza because her most recent CD was magnificent. I’d been playing it consistently for months. And everything she’s come out with since is equally remarkable. Pure art!

  Lovano is simply a master of the horn. He makes every note, every phrase, look easy. Genovese plays with so much soul. I wasn’t familiar with most of his work, but I am now. 

  Jack Dejohnette is probably the best drummer I’ve ever seen perform. Any genre!  I know it’s silly to compare him to guys like Peart, Hart, Kruetzman, you know, apples & cashews, but he is mesmerizing to watch. I’ve been lucky enough to see him several times and he always floors me. 

  Thinking back on that night’s energy, I wish Esperanza would tour more. She puts me in a mood and when I need a good jolt I play her loud and jump around the house. I’m not kidding!

Neil Young and The International Harvesters

 R.P.I. Field House - 8/15/1985 - Section 6 - Row K - Seat 2 - $12.50

  For the most part this was a very country and western tinged show. He was touring after releasing Old Ways, an album that featured Waylon & Willie on a few songs. Lots of steel guitar and fiddle. And as always, Neil pulled it off splendidly. The sound, for and old gym, was pretty good that night. I’ve seen all of Neil’s incarnations; solo, Shocking Pinks, Blue Notes, Crazy Horse, that Trans thing, Friends and Relatives, POTR, and portions of The Stray Gators. And oh yeah, CSN&Y. And Buffalo Springfield, too!

  It’s a treat no matter what genre he’s working in because the quality of the music is always at such a high level. This show was no exception. I do remember a blazing version of Southern Pacific that achieved a welcome amount of psychedelia. (Neil is the only artist who gives me the closest thing to flashbacks I’ve ever had.) The next year I saw him with Crazy Horse, a completely different sort of trip, so to speak….

Keith Jarret, Gary Peacock, Jack DeJohnette

UCLA Royce Hall - 3/11/2009 -  Section Right - Row- F - Seat 30 - $76.00

 The Trio! When you say that in jazz conversations there is no doubt about whom you are speaking. They arguably have been the most important jazz interpreters of the great American songbook of the past forty or so years. Their performances are simply astounding. It’s instantly apparent from the first few notes of the concert that these three musicians feed off each other’s energy and what might be a nuance can turn into an improvisation that lasts twenty minutes. The ballads they play are so infused with passion that even slow passages burn with intensity. Their shows demand that you pay close attention. They are in no way background jazz. The same applies to their albums. You have to listen closely because no note is ever out of place. And when the band does start to extend a song with improvisation the mood in the room elevates to a place that makes you realize that this piece is a one-off never to be repeated and when the song is finished you can’t help (Or I can’t!) but feel that you witnessed something that is even more beautiful because now it is gone forever. From the collective mind of these three artists, to their fingers, to my ears and then a fade to silence reminds me of the swift passage of life’s most precious moments and our quick and mysterious attempts to make sense of our experiences. Yes, that is what great music does to me. I’ve seen The Trio three times (Jarrett solo three more) and they have never failed to jab my heart and bring on tears. 

  And as lessons in impermanence continue to manifest there is sadness that with the passing of Gary Peacock those moments of musical inspiration are no more. Yes, we have the albums, and they are wonderful documentations of certain nights, but the anticipation of something new, never before played, is now a part of the past. I am glad to say that a few times I was there for the magic. 

Spring - 2022

  The Jeep is packed, I stand in the street for a minute. The waves are gentle at Leadbetter Beach, two owls call each other from across the neighborhood. I often hear their throaty hoots when I’m up this early. It’s an hour before sunrise. Only stopping for gas, I’m over the Golden Gate before noon. It is clear and windy. Alcatraz looks deceptively close. Traffic is light on this Palm Sunday.

  I get to The Sea Ranch Lodge with plenty of time to rest and scratch a few notes in my journal before meeting everyone at the house Joanna has rented on Curlew Reach.

  However, the Wus pull in right behind me. Timing! Our reunion is emotional. We go in the lodge, the bar is not open yet but the cafe has beer and coffee and sodas.  We sit for a while at the famous corner table and take the traditional photos. 

 We still have some time to kill before check-in so we go to the Surf Market for oysters, fudge, ice cream, lottery tickets and some other random necessities. 

  The house, named the Aloha House, our home for the next seven nights is perfect; big and roomy, open kitchen, fireplace, piano, large dining room table, hot tub, a grand view of the ocean that today glitters alluringly in the afternoon light. We hope to see many whales. 

  Michael and Mary show up and the excitement of the first day is electric. We open some wine and Pak starts pondering dinner. Oysters first and then we walk out to the point in front of the house. Seals watch us from the waves, oystercatchers scoot by screeching their distinctive cries, an osprey hovers while hunting the shallows. The tide is high, the wind blows fierce and rain is expected tomorrow. 

  Dinner is leisurely and delicious. We get caught up, tell some stories, drink fine red wine. Before I know it it’s midnight and exhausted from the eight-plus hour drive, the windy ocean air, lots of food and a touch of whiskey, I go to my room. I open my journal and am too scattered to make many notes. I’m asleep in minutes. 

  Tradition: For the last eight or ten years of trips with the Wus Ellie is my alarm clock. We are usually up before everyone else and we get in a morning walk and try to make it back by breakfast. I’m up reading (Milosz) when, at 7am, my phone pings. Ellie texts, ‘Good morning!’ I text back, ‘Good morning!’ A minute later she knocks on my door, we grab our jackets, slip on our walking shoes (Uggs for Ellie) and are out the door while the rest of our loved ones still sleep. 

 It’s a clear morning and the prospect of rain seems slight. The clouds from last night have dispersed. We walk south along the cliffs toward Black Point. We meander, in no hurry to get anywhere. We see more seals, cormorants, oystercatchers, gulls, and vultures. We stop and photograph flowers along the path, quail under the pines and deer in the fields. We see very few other people. Elusive yellow birds dart away too quickly for Ellie to get a good picture. But, we reason, we’ve six more days to capture an image of these colorful little singers. We notice our neighbor has a bird feeder and decide to keep an eye on it.  

  We make it back in time for Mary’s Quiches, one broccoli, one asparagus. Both wonderful. 

  Everyone wants to walk up to the seal rookery so off we go. There are a few new babies only hours old, tiny, black, helpless. But in a few days they will be in the water learning how to swim and fish. We watch their progress all week. The knowledgable docents keep us updated when we stop by on our daily visits. 

  Back at the Aloha House around noon. Joanna opens a rosé and we sit at the outside table and enjoy a long lunch. The wind is still blowing hard, there’s a gale warning in effect, but the back deck has a high wall that perfectly blocks the heavy gusts. So we bask in the afternoon sun, sheltered and warm. 

  We try out the hot tub on the deck which is situated as to give an ocean view through a large opening in the wall.  Pak hops in with a beer to share with me. The soak feels very much needed. 

  Then it’s back to the store for more oysters. (And Milanos, bread, candles, more lottery tickets.) Pak grills them with garlic, butter, bacon, maybe some wine. At the table he lightly crisps the bacon with a torch. A delicacy beyond words. Michael lights a fire and the house gets cozy. 

  Dinner is again relaxed, Juliette fits the candles into wine bottles adding a touch of her elegance to the evening. Pak gives one of his soulful toasts and we clink glasses. More good red wine. The conversation never slows. Michael and Mary have great tales about their many, many adventures. We we hurry back out to the point and catch the sun as it comes out of a cloud and sinks into the choppy sea. Shorebirds sing in the distance. The moon, almost full, rises over the pine trees. There’s a sense, perhaps false, that we are eternal. All of this has been going on for eons and will continue long after I’m not even a memory. 

  Michael takes out his guitar and sings a few songs he’s been practicing. He sings softly with touching emotion. We are all charmed by his renditions of some of our favorites; John Prine, Dylan, John Denver, Tom Rush. 

  We tell more stories of past trips up here. Stories, stories, stories! I vow to Pak that I will go though boxes of old pictures and bring them up on our next visit so we can try to get our memories in some sort of chronological order. 

  Again we are in bed before midnight. Later, after two am, the whipping rain against my bedroom window wakes me. But it is soothing, I try to stay up and listen to the storm but I’m quickly lulled back to sleep and hear nothing until Ellie’s text tone hours later. 

  That is how the days went with some slight variations. Ellie and I taking long morning walks before breakfast, Pak’s mastery in the kitchen, strolls to the seal rookery, lunch, wine, hot tub, another walk, a store run, (oysters) dinner, a nightcap. 

  And here’s how the rest of the week played out, in no particular order. One early morning Ellie and I walk over to the Sea Ranch Chapel and sit in the quiet for a few minutes each, for a moment, lost in our own particular thoughts. We are pleased to be the only ones out this early. I’ve spent many mornings in solitude here over the years but it’s nice to have the company today. Some of Mide’s ashes I tossed in the flowers outside the window facing the ocean on another Spring morning. Aileen was here on that trip. 

  I grab some donation envelops like I always do. When I have a good week at work I like to drop some cash in the mail to help with the upkeep. It’s never a lot, but usually enough for the grounds crew to have a six pack and some pizzas. 

  A few days later we all come back before going to the Lodge. We walk out to Black Point and are amazed at all the flowers blooming this year. Delicate small ones, yellows and pinks. Pak is particularly enchanted. And like every Spring, the big patch of Lillies are resplendent by the old barn that is slowly collapsing. Back at the lodge we indulge in martinis, another tradition. Juliette has been craving French fries and to my surprise orders a burger to go with them. And also to my surprise it does not spoil her dinner. 

  One afternoon Ellie and I are walking along one of the small coves and we hear frogs, lots of them and they are loud. There is some rain runoff flowing down the hill and the long grass is wet. We take a few steps toward the sound and the frogs go silent. Ellie quietly slinks closer to where all the singing is coming from and then freezes. A minute later the chorus starts up again. Ellie is surrounded by frogs but we don’t see a single one. They are so well camouflaged, hidden in the tall weeds between the rocks and sand. Ellie moves and the little swamp is again quiet. We walk away and can hear them again calling each other and proclaiming the wildness of Spring. Later in the week we walk by again and their loud croaks resonate and again they remain unseen. All we can do is laugh in wonder. 

  We have a rainy day. It never lets up so we lounge around watching the sheets lash the house, trees, fields. We can’t even see the ocean. We read, look at pictures, I write in my journal. (Kind of.) Juliette plays the piano. She’s learning Yesterday. Michael joins her on his guitar. I try to read (Milosz) but instead nap, waking off and on to Juliette’s music. It’s ridiculously relaxing. There is wine breathing when I finally come to. Pak makes his epic wonton soup. Michael has the fire blazing. We are warm, happy, dry and rested. 

  

  Another afternoon walk; we see a baby seal at the rookery, it’s only hours old. We watch silently from the viewing spot as the mother repeatedly touches noses with her newborn. I walk to the other end of the small cove where Pak is keeping the dogs away from the birthing area, per Sea Ranch policy. “The circle of life.” He says to me and we look down at a wake of vultures eating a small seal. They flap around menacingly keeping true to their reputation for gruesome theatrics. 

  “Biology.” Czeslaw Milosz writes. “It is concerned with life, as it’s name indicates, and therefore, in the first place, with the feeding of organisms, each of which uses another as its food. Nature is composed of eaters and eaten, natura devorans and natura devorata.”

  And all we have to do to grasp this is stand on the cliffs for a half an hour and watch. Seals dive for fish, birds crack open mussels, cormorants spear sardines, and an osprey flies overhead with a small cabezon clutched in its talons. Humpback and Grey Whales scoop up tons of krill and in the deeper water, out beyond our view, pods of orcas devour seals as do lone hunting great white sharks. Both are plentiful here off the northern coast. 

  There are signs warning of mountain lions although we’ve never seen one on any of our visits. There is certainly enough deer wandering around to keep a small population of big cats well fed. We do see a few dead deer on the shoulder of Highway One but they are most likely victims of collisions with traffic. We notice them because of the vultures strutting in the roadside grass. Ravens patently wait their turn.  

 One afternoon I catch a glimpse of a grey fox, its fluffy tail as long as its body, darting through the scrub brush in our backyard, no doubt in pursuit of rodents.

   And that’s not all, one afternoon Juliette, Ellie (mostly) and I befriend a cat. She approached us as we walked out to the point in front of our house. Sammy, according to her name tag. She followed us for a while and then met up with us again the next day. Sammy then treated us to a display of her hunting skills. Right in front of our eyes she stalked, pounced on, toyed with and then joyfully killed a tiny mouse as it squealed in terror. Natura devorans and natura devorata! 

  And then there is the viciousness of random events. Although it can seem like the universe is conspiring against us, that’s simply not true. Our worries and pains and reactions to pure coincidence are actually met with cosmic indifference. The universe neither cares nor notices our blunders even when they lead to disaster. Joanna finds a dead bird on the front step. It’s one of those beautiful yellow finches, as pretty and delicate in death as it was in animated flight. The front door is all glass and you can look right though the house to the big windows facing the Pacific. I’m sure to the little bird it appeared to be a straight shot to the back yard. If only. So often in life massive changes happen instantaneously. I am grieving two friends who recently dropped dead in the course of their daily routines. They have been in my thoughts all week. Two more ghosts to add to my very long list. 

  On a cold, the temperature dipped into the 30s, windy night with pelting rain blowing from the north we decide to brave the hot tub. Any minute I expect the rain to turn to sleet. It stings our faces but we are otherwise warm immersed up to our necks. We endure it for as long as we can before Pak runs in and pulls our towels warm from the dryer. Luxury!  

  Ellie and I get carried away and walk for more than two hours. There is simply too much to see. She photographs more deer and blue birds and quail. We discover the Del Mar Community Center which we never knew was tucked away behind an old one room school that was also used at one time to house workers, sheepherders. There’s a heated pool, tennis courts and saunas. We follow a path past gardens and fountains. All kinds of flowers are blooming. With Ellie’s phone app we learn the name of a few of them that I instantly forget. The morning gets away from us and we check in with Pak. Breakfast is ready and will be waiting for us when we get back. We pick up the pace but it still takes us more than half an hour to get back to the Aloha House.  

  The days speed by, vacations are notorious for their ability to alter the flow of time. So say the philosophers anyway. And I figure that time was even a conundrum for Einstein so how the hells am I ever going to understand it?  

  On our last morning walk Ellie and I finally see a whale. It’s traveling alone so it’s probably a juvenile male on his first solo migration. He rises a few times rather quickly and then takes a sounding dive. He’s not out that far, maybe three hundred yards or so. Then he’s gone. We wait a good fifteen minutes, Ellie scanning the waves with her camera’s telephoto. Gone just as magically as he appeared, no doubt in a hurry to get to the fecund feeding grounds off the coast of Alaska. 

Easter Sunday

Pacific Grove

Asilomar Conference Center 

Mide has been gone four years today. I call Mom and we both agree that it seems impossible, but it’s not. I still talk to him daily. There will always be so much to say. While driving the winding coast highway I tell him about Pak’s homemade wontons and the soup he severed with them. Perfect for keeping us warm on a cool and windy day.  

  Heartfelt goodbyes this morning. The kids hug me tight. I don’t want to let go. I’m near tears, like always when we part. I sense Ellie is too. We are both emotional. It takes me a few miles of driving to catch my breath. I pull over at a cliffside vista point and watch the surf and compose myself. A wave of melancholia rivals in size the breakers below me.  We all have busy summers ahead; Michael and Mary have sold their house and are soon heading to Montana before embarking on more travels and some professional house sitting. The Wus are off first to New York City and Washington D.C. and then a few weeks after that they go back east again to New Hope. Next month I am bound for Utah and then later in the summer, Pittsfield. Ellie and I agree that out of all the fun stuff we do there is something a little extra special about our time at The Sea Ranch. Nothing really compares to it. It holds a very unique spot in our hearts. 

 By the time I get to Jenner I’m almost normal. I am glad I’m not going directly back to Santa Barbara. Truth is, I’m not ready. 

  I detour around San Francisco and take the Richmond—San Rafael Bridge for a stop in Berkeley. Sadly, Chez Panisse is closed for Easter, I was craving a glass of Domaine Tempier Bandol Rose. Another tradition of mine when I pass through the east bay. 

  Originally I had planed to check out the Royal Robbins and Sierra Design stores.  But instead, on a whim, I look up the address to Czeslaw Milosz’s famous (To poets anyway.) house up on Grizzly Peak. I’m very close so I drive the steep and tricky road and find a parking spot right in front. I get out, there is not much to see, just the garage and a side path leading down to the house. There are garbage pails in front of the doors. Tomorrow must be trash day. But this is where the great Polish poet wrote for thirty years. It is also where he received the news that he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1980. An event I vaguely remember possibly because of the pride of Pittsfield’s small Polish community centered around Holy Family Church. (Later I would spend more time at the Polish Falcon. A bar of some reputation.)

  Grizzly Peak Boulevard is narrow and curvy with magnificent views of San Francisco. I’ve never seen the city from this angle before. It looks small and compact against the backdrop of the ocean.  I pass by Tilden Park and the Botanic Gardens wishing I had a day to explore. It’s another few hours to Pacific Grove so make my way over the peak and down into Oakland and head toward Monterey Bay. 

  Before I check in I stop and get what turns out to be my dinner; nuts, raisins, bananas, granola and dark chocolate. After seven nights of multi course meals I feel almost as if I’m fasting. I leave the wine and whiskey in the Jeep and stick to water. 

   I walk over to the state beach and find a crowd waiting for sunset. The sky is clear and the water calm, at least calmer than Sea Ranch. I see a whale, then two, then two more. I go back to the room and grab my binoculars. For the next hour I lose count of how many whales are feeding in the bay. More than twenty and there is never a minute where I can’t see a spout. The sun sets a deep orange illuminating the whale’s tall plumes of their breath. It’s a sight that is hard to understand. All that grand life in front of me. I get the feeling again of eternity caught in a single moment. This has been going on for millions of years in at least a very similar way. Migrations of the earth’s largest animals that have ever lived following their instincts that have evolved so precisely. It will all still be going on after I am not even dust and surely long after whatever fate awaits humanity. 

  The beach clears and soon I’m alone standing on a rock outcrop as darkness seems to come from every direction. I listen for a while to the waves and the shorebirds and the seals. It could be a thousand years ago or a thousand years from now. Again the mystery of time, or maybe timelessness. Same thing I guess. 

  Back in my room I light a fire in a real fireplace with real wood. My room is rustic, no TV, no phone, no coffee maker. None of which I need. I read Milosz while waiting for the moon, now a day past full. It glows through the pines before I pull the curtains and drift off to sleep. 

  

  Monday, I’m up early. I take my binoculars and a banana and go look for whales. I walk north toward Monterey. The tide is going out and there are a few kayakers in the calm coves. I occasionally scan the water and do see one whale. The only one I spot all day. It’s a clear morning but rain is predicted for later. I walk for over an hour before turning around. At one of the small coves I stop to watch two otters dive for oysters, or maybe scallops, and then float on their backs and eat breakfast. They are slick and fast and bigger than I always remember. They are usually described as playful, and for good reason. They lie on their backs, frolic around each other, then dive for more food. I leave them to their antics and walk for over a mile along the path bordered by carpets of deep purple flowers. There’s a haiku by Kobayashi Issa:

  In the world’s way—

 On the roof of hell we walk,

  gazing at flowers!

  A kayaker putting on his wetsuit points at my binoculars and asks if I’ve seen any whales this morning. I tell him about the one and then he says that I should’ve been here last night. I was, I say and he tells me he’s never seen so many whales all at once. I assure him neither have I. 

 Walking out on a secluded point of rocks jutting out of the sea I catch the scent of rotting flesh. The wind shifts and the unmistakable stench of decay becomes stronger. Somewhere below me unseen is a dead animal, most likely a seal wedged into the rocks. I peer over the edge but see nothing but waves. From the smell I can tell that this one has been here for a few days. Milosz writes, “Certainly, I recognize the influence of sentimental and romantic imaginings about nature. Then nothing remained of all that. On the contrary, it struck me as unbounded suffering. But nature is beautiful; there’s nothing you can do about that.”

 The trick, of course, is to find the beauty amidst all the life living off of other life. There is a great Peter Atkins quote from his book On Being that I will look up when I get home. 

  Back in my room I shower and then read some Japanese travel essays out on my patio. I’m still high from The Sea Ranch and miss my friends. Once again I marvel at how quickly the days flow by. 

  I head over to Fisherman’s Wharf for a late lunch. It’s a mob scene and I can’t deal with it after my peaceful days at the Aloha House. So I walk around Cannery Row for a while and it’s always a bit depressing to see all the junk shops. Who the fuck needs all that trash? Not me. Then I’m cheered when I come to Pacific Biological Laboratories, Ed Ricketts’ old building where he lived, studied and wrote brilliantly about California marine life. Unfortunately tours are by appointment only. I didn’t even know that they had tours, so next time for sure! 

  Still looking for a quiet place for lunch I go back to the Jeep and put more time on the parking meter. I come around a corner and there a block from my Jeep is a bronze statue of Ricketts. I read the plaque and discover that this is the spot where he was hit by a train in 1948. He died of his injuries before John Steinbeck could get there to say goodbye to his great friend and muse. The long introduction to The Log From The Sea Of Cortez is a wonderful short biography of Ricketts. My friend Kevin Kechely reminds of him with his endless curiosity and energy as I watched him pick through the tide pools at The Sea Ranch on our first trips all those years ago. 

  Back on Cannery Row I stop in a restaurant and once I’m in the door I realize it’s too packed, there’s only a single seat at the bar. Before I can turn and walk out the hostess smiles, “One?”

 “If there’s a table.” I say, expecting a wait. Which I won’t do. But she whisks me to a large booth overlooking the bay. The room is busy, I somehow lucked out, again. I enjoy a leisurely late afternoon snack, a bowl of chowder and a red crab Louie. Service is excellent. Staying on my cleanse I forgo a glass of wine and stick to iced tea. I wanted sardines like I usually have when in Monterey but there weren’t any on the menu. 

 From my booth I see the whale watching charters come and go from the wharf. Farther out are fishing boats. The bay is still famous for sardines which might explain the whales last night. Perhaps a large school was moving through the calmer waters.  Although both humpback and gray whales mostly eat krill. Earlier on the wharf when I walked by the offices of the whale excursions they noted on their signs that humpbacks are seen daily and orcas are encountered several time a week. I’d love to see orcas. 

  By the time I get back to Asilomar I see I’ve walked over ten miles. The day has clouded over but I take the boardwalk through the dunes to check one more time for whales. Parked by the beach is a van with two girls (Hippies!) sitting in the open side door. I catch the unmistakable scent of hashish. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around that magical stuff. Intoxicating and alluring, they smile at me knowingly as I take the path out to a point and scan the bay. I’m relieved I’m not offered a sample. Resistance to generosity is not one of my strengths. 

  A flock of maybe twenty-five dark birds float far out beyond the breakers. I watch as they disappear in unison then pop back up one by one. This goes on for quite a while like wild choreography.  I see not a single whale and the sky is as gray as the ocean. 

 In my room I light a fire, I am tired and warm, I fall asleep reading. 

 Tuesday morning: I walk over to the beach in a light rain, more of a mist actually. There is an understated beauty in the dreariness. While packing up the jeep it starts to rain harder and I decide, like on my last visit here, to skip Big Sur. It’s a challenging enough drive under good conditions and while I don’t doubt my skills it’s always the other guy who is lacking ability to negotiate the winding road. I’m in no hurry to get home. (I keep noticing that these days.) I park at the beach and read, watch a few surfers in the rain and text Ellie. Her Spring break is over and today is her first day back in classes. 

Santa Barbara at sunset. I’ve left the storms behind me, somewhere near Paso Robles. My ten days worth of mail includes nothing urgent, I leave the pile for tomorrow. As I usually do, I’ve told no one that I’m home tonight. I want to give myself another day of solitude out of necessity.  Here’s the Peter Atkins quote I was thinking about all week.

  “That God chose the primitive barbarity of natural selection to achieve His end, leaving a charnel house of guts through evolutionary history, certainly suggests caution in accepting the conventional reports of His infinite benevolence towards His creation.”  

Listening to Charles Lloyd: I’m wound up so I unpack only to find that my chronic wanderlust is un-sated and I have an overwhelming desire to repack. The road goes on forever and I feel like I should stay on it, perhaps aimlessly. 

Bibliography 

Milosz’s ABCs — Czeslaw Milosz

Travels With a Writing Brush 

Classical Japanese Travel Writing From The Manyōshū to Bashō — Translated by Meredith McKinney

On Being — Peter Atkins

The Log From The Sea Of Cortez — Edward Ricketts and John Steinbeck

Autumn Wind Haiku — Kobayashi Issa — Translated by Lewis Mackenzie

Some Concerts — Volume One

  I have an old collapsible, accordion style folder full of concert ticket stubs. They go back a long time. A very long time. I fished through it and pulled out a few at random. Here are some thoughts and flashbacks. 

 Rush 

 The Palace Theatre — Albany, NY — 01/22/1980 — 

 My second Rush concert. Again Max Webster was the opening act. Again we are sitting in the balcony. Their album Permanent Waves had just been released a week before, so some of the songs were new to us. But the greats like 2112, By-Tor and Hemispheres were magnificent. La Villa Strangiato was a mind altering encore. Just like last year. 

  I have a fondness in my heart for the Palace. It was built in the 30s. (If I remember correctly) Albany, like all cities, has its share of shabby neighborhoods and the Palace is surrounded by one, and a few weeks ago when I happened to be in New York I drove by and was cheered, for some reason, to see that not much had changed. Although now that I’m older I am less frightened by and more charmed by gritty neighborhoods that manage to survive decade after decade. On this rainy night the marquee and outer lobby lights were like a beacon and I wished I didn’t have someplace to be. I would have jumped out of the car and mingled with the concert goers gathered on the wet sidewalk. I thought of all the shows I have seen there, Rush in 1979 being my first. Front row balcony that night! Some other real gems; Santana, The Kinks, The Tubes, Anderson and Wakeman, to name just a few..

  I am reminded here that I also saw the very last show Rush ever played. August 1, 2105. At the Fabulous Los Angeles Forum. Nobody knew it at the time, except maybe the band, but that was a wrap. They played with as much passion as they did thirty-five years before. They, Geddy Lee, Alex Lifeson, and Neil Peart, were a force in the music world; perfectionists, workaholics, unique, artists, teachers and, in the case of Peart, a writer/lyricist. They made a lot of noise for three guys. And we, their loyal fan base, remain dedicated after all this time.   

  In a book called Far and Wide Peart later wrote about that final concert. He did a few things that night that he never did in forty years of touring. First, from the stage he took pictures of both Geddy and Alex. And then after the encore he came out from behind his drum kit and took a bow with them. In photos they both look surprised to see him. I imagine the most fanatic of Rush fans might have suspected something unusual was happening. But we figured that if this was their last show ever they would have announced it. Wouldn’t they have?  Well, no, and they didn’t. 

  Neil Peart took another picture that night. He was a fine photographer as all his travel books prove. But until that memorable evening he had never captured the audience at any of their concerts. In the picture part of the crowd is lit up and they are waving their hands in the air, the neck of Geddy’s bass sticks up from the left corner. And just behind and above the soundboard to the right is where I am with Los, Todd H and Shel. Of course we are too far and away to identify but I assure you it’s us. And how thrilling to think that we are in the only picture that the great drummer ever took of his fans. A small slice of Rock and Roll history.  

Al Stewart

 The Mystic Theatre & Music Hall — Petaluma, CA — 04/28/2001 — General Admission — $15.00

  Before the show Joanna and I had some time to squander while waiting for Pak, Pam and Mike. We wandered around Petaluma, my first time visit. Surprisingly, we found a charming Irish bar, the name eludes me, and noticed a bottle of The Midleton on the back shelf. A long tradition of ours is to treat ourselves whenever we find a tavern that carries this finest of Irish whiskies. 

  “Two shots of The Midleton!” I say with glee to the lovely barkeep. She eyes us suspiciously for some reason. I don’t doubt that I am a bit shaggy but I’m sitting next to Joanna, who is always radiant.  

 The bartender says, “They are twelve dollars each.” clearly insinuating my wallet may not be heavy enough. At that time a shot of The Midleton at my own bar, The Tee Off, was twenty-five dollars for an ounce and a half. 

 Joanna, without missing a beat and with authority says, “Make them doubles!”

  Worth every penny! Part of the afternoon remains a bit blurry. 

 Al Stewart was great fun. He was joined by Peter White on guitar. He played all his hits and some great new songs from his album about wine. It seems he was now an oenophile. In my day it was called a wino. A fine line for sure. He told some stories, laughed a lot, played beautifully and sipped red wine throughout the night. All those old albums I love so much and played on my college radio show jumped back into my memory during that concert. 

 Just last month Al was supposed to here in Santa Barbara at a fundraiser for the Lobero Theatre. He was opening for The Allan Parson’s Project. Allan produced most of Stewart’s early great albums. Sadly they had to postpone. Covid-19 is still wreaking chaos with concerts.  

  Time Passages indeed. 

Nanci Griffith

  Mountain Winery — Saratoga, CA — 06/29/2002 — Section A, Row B, Seat F — $35.00

  Sweet, sweet Nanci! The Mountain Winery is the old Paul Masson Vineyard. A lovely chateau, rather old style and classy. The theatre is very intimate. I felt so close to Nanci that I kept thinking she was going to turn my way and ask if I had any requests. 

  Before the show we, Brenda, Chip and I, wandered the grounds and then had dinner on the terrace. All very relaxing. The wines were nice. It was a one warm, or I should say “Fair Summer Evening”, perfect to listen to music under the stars. 

  Again, sweet sweet Nanci, that night she was truly beautiful. There is really is nobody quite like her. She opened with John Prine’s Speed of the Sound of Loneliness and a collective shiver ran through the crowd. She was captivating. The other song that night that moved me to tears was There’s a Light Beyond These Woods Mary Margret. It captures so much emotion, friendship, aging, loss, and love. It’s a remarkable song. It still resonates with me for what I pretend to be obscure reasons. 

  Nanci passed away recently after twenty plus years of reoccurring cancers. The night that I heard the news I played the first album of hers that I ever bought. That would have been in 1988 when it came out. One Fair Summer Evening. I’ve played that one hundreds and hundreds of times. It’s a great driving album to listen to on long trips. I’ve carried it everywhere. 

 I saw Nanci before as well as after that concert at The Mountain Winery but that performance stands out for some reason. She was absolutely radiant there on that simple outdoor stage trying her best to explain the mysteries of love and sadness and heartbreak. And I loved her for it!

Aerosmith

  Santa Barbara County Bowl — 07/07/2015 — Section D, Row O, Seat 6 — $120.50

   Finally! It took me a long time to see these guys. Mide was so happy. He’d been on me for years and years. They were his favorite band. I don’t even know how many times he had seen them. I’ll have to ask Kev Mahon. 

  The band was right on that night. They’d been sober for years by this time and were really playing sharp, loud and crisp. It was their first, and so far only, concert at The Bowl. Joe Perry said his wife usually came to every show but tonight she was house shopping because they fell in love with Santa Barbara. They rocked it right up to the curfew. It was a very satisfying setlist. All the favorites and a few old gems from my youth. Mama Kin was ripping hot.  

  The next morning I called Mide to give him a critique. He asked what was my highlight. I had to admit that Last Child shook the house. He agreed that was usually a monster song performed live.   

  A few years later Mide was rushed to the hospital and it was dire. Mark called me at three AM his time. Mide was in and out of consciousness. My last words to him from three thousand miles away, relayed by Mark, were, “You’re just a punk in the street.” Lyrics from Last Child and a favorite compliment of ours to each other. I hope he heard them….

Sir Andras Schiff

  Lobero Theatre — SB, CA — 04/12/2018 — Row K, Seat 30 — $54.00

My favorite interpreter of Beethoven’s piano sonatas. On this night he played No. 24.  Masterfully, I must say. He also treated us to some Bach and Brahms. I sat next to two, who I would call, Matrons of the Arts. Before the concert they explained a few nuances of the program to me which certainly added to my enjoyment of the performance. 

  Sir Andras was handsome and elegant in his tuxedo and my seat mates practically swooned when he walked on stage. He has a very charismatic presence. Two plus hours flew by and after a moving encore, a Mozart piece that I was unfamiliar with, my mind and heart were somehow closer together. Which is exactly what great art is suppose to achieve. Simply a remarkable concert. 

Yes

 With the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra 

Hollywood Bowl — 07/30/2001 — Sec M1, Row 13, Seat 7 — $33.50

  At stop at Musso and Frank for a martini preconcert set the mood.  

  It was an exciting show regardless of the fact that Rick Wakeman wasn’t with the band on this tour. He would return in 2002. So they replaced him with an orchestra and it worked pretty well. After an overture the band took the stage opening with Close to the Edge. It was magnificent and set a high bar for the rest of the evening. Yes music lends itself well to big arrangements and the sound that night under the stars was perfect, loud and flawless. They dished out all the classics with highlights, for me, being The Gates of Delirium and Ritual. Both long and powerful renditions. Howe’s playing was particularly enchanting. 

 I always feel such a sense of living in historic California when I attended concerts at the Hollywood Bowl. Like other famous venues, Madison Square Garden jumps to mind, the ambience somehow becomes part of the show. There is a sense of tradition here. I always get the feeling that the artists on stage, Yes being no exception, are playing with a slightly elevated energy. There is something about the Hollywood Hills that is famously magical. 

  I am rarely tongue-tied or flustered around celebrities. I have waited on many during my years behind the bar at the Tee Off. But when I saw Chris Squire sitting across the room at Lucky’s I felt apprehension about approaching him. He was enjoying lunch with his wife and young son. It was certainly a casual atmosphere. He walked by carrying his boy and engaged in conversation so I let the moment pass. After all, who wants to be bothered by me when I’m on my third mid-afternoon whiskey? 

  I was told he was staying in Summerland for a few weeks and had been in and out of Lucky’s several times already. He was an expert on the wine list, especially the reds from France. He knew a good value when he saw one. 

  He was back the next few Saturday afternoons sitting at a corner table, sipping wine, chatting with his wife, playing with his son. I never interrupted him, thinking I would get the chance sooner or later. I even put my CD of Fish Out Of Water in the Jeep hoping to get him to sign it.  I also wanted to tell him that I skipped my senior class banquet so I could see Yes at the Springfield Civic Center in Massachusetts. And then that was it, he moved away, back, so I read, to his house in the south of France. My brother Mide gave me some shit about being so shy, Squire being one of his favorite bass players. 

  A year after the Hollywood show we, Brenda and I again, went to Vegas to see them. No orchestra this time, Rick Wakeman was back on keyboards. The classic lineup. The show was at the Hilton, the one off the Strip where Elvis always played. We went over early to have dinner and found ourselves sitting at a sushi bar near the theater. As soon as our food came Alan White walked in and sat right next to me. I whispered to Brenda who he was.  We made some small talk and ate our fish and had a sip of sake. Alan was very friendly, funny, warm, witty. I finally had to let on that I knew who he was by saying, “You have to work tonight?”  He laughed and said they’ve been working him like a dog, that’s why he was going so easy on the sake. He still had to go up to Steve Howe’s room to work on something. We talked a little about the tour and he said that the band was trying to mix up the setlist night to night and asked if we were also going to tomorrow’s show.  Regrettably, we weren’t. 

  Yes fans are very passionate and a few other diners noticed Alan and came over for autographs and started to pepper him with questions about some nuances from albums that were thirty years old. He made a polite exit giving Brenda and I a wave. 

   Alan White in 2002 was thirty years into his stint as Yes’s drummer, he replaced Bill Bruford after they recorded Close To The Edge. I guess that would be 72 or 73. The both play on Yessongs. 

  It’s also important to remember that Alan played on George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass. And he also played with The Plastic Ono Band and is the drummer you hear on Instant Karma and Imagine. Seriously, think about that! Imagine! 

  After the solid performance that night we were wandering around the casino and Brenda hit pretty big playing roulette, black 28 in fact. And being the lovely woman she is, she went and bought us tickets for the show the following night. Regardless that the setlist was identical to the previous evening (They added Yours Is No Disgrace) I loved every note. Brenda claimed Alan tricked us. 

  The next morning we were off to the Furnace Creek Inn in Death Valley. 

  And oh, I did tell Alan that I skipped my senior class banquet to see him play on the Tormato Tour, and it was worth it. We laughed and laughed. 

Asia

Saratoga Performing Arts Center — Saratoga, NY — 06/23/1982 — Sec 11, Row LL, Seat I — $8.00

  Eight Bucks! I paid twice that for a martini before a Los Lobos concert the other night. I wonder what a beer cost in those days. But now I remember that way back then there was no alcohol served once you were on the grounds. That has certainly changed since that long ago summer night when we drank cans of Fosters in the parking lot. 

  Asia was a supergroup for progressive rock fans. John Wetton from King Crimson, Carl Palmer from ELP, Geoff Downs from The Buggles and Yes, and the great Steve Howe, also from Yes. Their first album was a heavy monster, bombastic, best played loud. Perfect music for big stadiums and open air sheds like SPAC.

  We had our usual caravan of three or four cars that would meet at Ridge Ave where we would figure out who was riding with who before heading to the liquor store in Rensselaer, NY where the drinking age was eighteen, not twenty-one like in Massachusetts. I notice from the date on the ticket stub that I would have been twenty at the time. Mide 18, TW 18, Hauge 17, Del 17. Wilk and Eksuzian both 21. I have conveniently forgotten the ages (and some of the names) of the girls who were with us. 

  This was also the night where when Steve Howe sat down alone on stage to play his famous acoustic pieces, Mood For A Day & The Clap, the audience became reverently hushed. Mide took this moment to stand up on his seat and yell out, “Smoke a joint Steve Howe!” The crowd cheered wildly and even the famously stoic guitarist had to smile. That is a story that is still told at late night dinners among our group. And it seems hard to fathom that it was forty years ago…

Tony Bennett

 Santa Barbara Bowl — 06/21/1997 — Sec I, Row N, Seat 1 — $35.00

 Tony Bennett is much in the news these days as he just made his last public performance — he has Alzheimer’s — at Carnegie Hall with Lady Gaga. I watched some of it and he is still remarkable, still handsome, still has his timing. Lady Gaga is simply breathtaking. Her love for Tony is apparent. They make a powerful duo. I was choked up. 

 He was no less brilliant that summer night in Santa Barbara. He was backed by his regular band, The Ralph Sharon Trio, and they swung hard. Tony was buoyant, joyful, energetic, and his voice displayed his passion for songs that he must have sang a thousand times. You’d never know it though, every note sounded fresh. 

  Somehow, I can’t remember exactly, I knew a lot of people at the Bowl back then (Heather?), I ended up with a last minute ticket. I went alone. I sat by myself sipping wine as Tony wowed the crowd. During one song, I think it was I Left My Heart, he lowered the microphone and sang without amplification. I walked home after the concert in awe of his talent.  

  I saw him again years later at one of Neil Young’s Bridge School Benefits at the Shoreline Amphitheatre.  These were all-day concerts, mostly acoustic, featuring eight or nine bands of rock and rollers. On this day Tony was the fifth or sixth performer. He walked out on stage in front of a crowd of old hippies, we veterans of much psychedelia. In his suit and tie, and again with the Ralph Sharon Trio, he had us dancing the minute he opened his mouth. He killed it. We were then blown away when Paul McCartney came out and they sang The Very Thought of You together. Sir Paul was clearly thrilled and pumped his fists in the air when he walked off stage.   

  Most bands at these shows did an hour set, no encore. But when Tony finished the place was standing and begging for more. He came out and played the day’s first encore. Cool, smooth, hip.  Later when Sir Paul did his set he said how great it was to sing with Tony. We hoped he’d come back out, but to our disappointment he didn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a late night gig in San Francisco and was up there slaying another audience. 

  

The Police

 Carrier Dome — Syracuse University — New York — 2/4/84 - Loc 13 Floor, Sec 14, Row KK, Seat 7 — $15.00 

 A somewhat hazy evening. A bunch of us (particularly Barbara Allen) who worked together at the Hilton made the trek up to Syracuse. We got employee rates at the Hilton near the arena. The pre-show festivities were substantial. PM, who was just plain old Pat back then and was, I think, going to school there, met up with us. I remember having a carrot in the pocket of my sweatshirt (It’s true!) and feeding to the horse of a mounted police officer. College campuses sure were different back then.  

  Some critic once wrote that for a few years The Police were the biggest band in the world. This may be true. That cold February night those three guys played hard and loud. They had grand energy. What fun! My old high school friend, Pat, and I certainly whooped it up. 

  Synchronicity had just come out and every song on that album was wild. Sting jumped around a lot. Listening to that album recently reminded me how tight that show was. It was their final tour. For a band about to break up they sure grooved well together. 

To be continued.....