|
 oby
Dick, the great fishing novel, begins with a paean to the benefits
of climbing out of one's rut: "Whenever I find myself growing grim
about the mouth," Ishmael observes, "whenever it is a damp, drizzly
November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing
before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral
I meet: and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand
on me that it requires strong moral principle to prevent me from
deliberately stepping into the street and methodically knocking
people's hats off — then, I account it high time to get to
sea as soon as I can."
Hypos is defined as a "morbid depression of the spirits," and the
desire to escape that condition drives many of us to sea —
"sea" being interpreted for this column as the vast plains of Colorado,
which roll and dip a full mile above sea level, and the surrounding
mountains, which rise higher than any tidal wave ever known. Our
destination: the small town of Lyons, about an hour or so on the
Wyoming side of Denver. Our mission: To play music, seek transcendental
bliss, report our findings, and collect a check.
We — we defined here as the members of a band called Floor
Creak — set out on our journey armed with a guitar, a doghouse
bass, and a marvelous Singing Wench. Noticeably absent was the Surgeon
General. This is not to be taken as a personal attack on anyone
who has ever filled this position. The SG, after all, is a freak
of nature in the sense that, unlike many medical problems, he will
not go away even if you ignore him. So let us give honor where honor
is due.
Yet going on the road with a band is not to be mistaken for a visit
to the health club. The heart, lungs, liver, eyes, and large patches
of hide are put very much at risk. This journey would be no different,
for our gig sight was a brewery/restaurant called Oskar Blues. Indeed,
from the moment of our arrival it was clear our challenges would
be especially stark, largely because the Song Wench is also mother
to the manager (a philosopher and bouncer named Wayne Bowers). Accordingly,
our glasses were never allowed to go dry.
While some might panic is similar circumstances, we took this as
a sign from above, and were soon drinking scores of mountain men
and women under the table, and ourselves as well. Personal gratification
was of course the last thing from our mind. Instead, we sought knowledge,
which is summed up in a single line: There are meadows of bliss
which cannot be reached by Transcendental Meditation, and places
of enlightenment where Buddha dare not tread.
Unfortunately, there are few specifics to add. While we allowed
ourselves, at great peril, to be washed upon Nirvana's shores, a
look at our travel journals finds blank pages from this part of
the journey. We also suffered unexplained skinned knees, bruised
feet, and melted contact lenses. Go figure.
Not all of life is labor, and playing music is one of its great
pleasures, especially when fellow humans are driven to dancing and
applauding. Here we were not disappointed. One dancer, for example,
put on a magnificent free-form performance — a spirited combination
of writhing, standing on one leg, gazing oddly at the ceiling, and
starting and stopping without apparent reference to the music being
played.
This would not be worth further mention except for the different
interpretations of this dance. Our bass player, a young punk, opined
that this performance reflected something he called a "free" personality.
The Song Wench and myself, who are middle aged and therefore sensible,
suspected the inspiration to be untreated schizophrenia. Wayne merely
observed that the dancer was from out of town.
This brings us to perhaps the most gratifying lesson learned during
this journey: America continues to raise a generation of gifted
moral philosophers and wise young people. A couple of examples make
the point.
Wayne, 24 or thereabouts, was quite adamant that his customers,
and especially his staff, honor one's mother and father, especially
Wayne's mother. This admirable position was profoundly reflected
in the loud and sustained applause that followed each song we performed.
It was as if Wayne's employees knew that their Christmas bonuses
would directly reflect their (outward) enthusiasm for Mom's singing.
Indeed, in order that no one forget who was who, he billed the band
not as Floor Creak but as Wayne's Mom. There is much to be said
for directness.
As it happens, Ma (real name, Kathie Thomas) is a true Songbird
with a majestic strut. Yet how refreshing to see arms twisted in
the service of motherhood. The fact that the members of Mom's band
got a free ride for the week also reflected well on the boy.
As it happens, we were not the only pickers in Lyons last week.
Just up the street, the annual RockyGrass music festival was underway,
featuring massively talented string musicians: David Grisman, Missy
Raines, Jim Hurst, Chris Thile, Mark Schatz, Tim O'Brien, Darrel
Scott, Sam Bush, Tony Rice, Peter Rowan, Dan Tyminski, and Mike
Marshall, among others. People of such enormous talent suggest that
perhaps the preachers are right: There is an Echo of Eden in our
hearts. Musicians of such talent truly can transport us back to
paradise (sensible people realizing, of course, that there is no
paradise over the horizon).
As it also happens, the festival drew many members of what one brilliant
social analyst (ahem) calls the Sixties Reenactment Troupe: young
people who take great efforts to resemble the residents of the Haight
Asbury district, circa 1967. They were accompanied by braless grandmothers
swaddled in tie-dyed bedspreads, men a half-century old dancing
about blowing soap-bubbles, beautiful twirling girls in gauze dresses,
and countless stoners bearing slack jaws and reeking of patchouli
oil. This is not to be taken as a condemnation. Better to spend
time with Peter Pan than Captain Hook.
Yet their presence allowed our house philosopher to prove not all
members of his generation have been bitten by the "non-judgmental"
bug. Wayne's word for this crew: "Dirties." While rendering this
judgment, he wore a scowl far beyond his years. It was somehow a
very beautiful thing.
There were many other awesome creatures and experiences: a knockout
waitress in a cowboy hat, a swarm of maniacal boring bees, a girl
named Cupcake who sings like an angel, and a sky so blue it might
have inspired Sylvia Plath to dance a jig. All of which had a very
calming effect. Indeed, one notices a notable lack of interest in
knocking off anyone's hat, though of course tomorrow is another
day.
|
