Thursday, July 29, 2010

The High Sierra Music Festival



Alright, a few weeks ago we had the great fortune of attending and performing at the 20th annual High Sierra Music Festival in Quincy, California. This has always been my favorite music festival, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, evergreens, lakes, rivers and an atmosphere composed of brilliant sounds. If you take a photograph in any direction you have an instant postcard to send to your friends (outside of Hawaii) and make them jealous of your whereabouts.

Our journey started out in Ocean Beach, early in the a.m. We packed our van like a clown car. It was so saturated with belongings, equipment, sleeping bags, snacks, people and the infinite etcetera you would think we wouldn’t even be able to fit the addition of a fly, though
later mishaps would prove that theory wrong. With bungee cords, we strapped down lawn chairs to our roof. We even stuffed an attached pod with additional possessions. Don’t worry, we’re not Sex in the City brand divas, traveling with mountainous tiger print non-essentials and hat boxes, there just happened to be ten of us making this trip in two vehicles. After a Josh Rice pack job, that rivaled the swiftest Japanese tetris players, we were off.

Our 2-train caravan was almost derailed right away. As I came to a halt at the first stop sign of the journey, two kids went flying by on the sidewalk on their bikes. I slammed on the brakes and we were inches from no High Sierra, my first hit and run, or High Sierra for some/jail for me. After I collected my thoughts and made a left it took about a block before I caught up with the kids speeding through youth on their bicycles. The girl bring up the rear made a sharp left and completely wiped out and rolled her bike into a poll. It was worthy of failblog, it was worthy of America’s Funniest Home Videos and it was at this moment I knew that if our sets were anywhere near as gratifying as watching that girl fall off of her bike, it was
gonna be a GREAT weekend.

The first half of the drive was relatively non-eventful, good
conversation or good soundtrack and occasionally both. Shortly shy of Gilroy on the 5 north I was looking into the side mirror and I watched as sleeping bags and pillows shot out from the top of the van. Apparently a small plastic latch broke and our pod opened up, spewing out personal belongings. I didn’t see anything that was mine, so I was willing to keep driving, but the screams of others suggested I pull over. I was concerned that we were going to have a Lethal Weapon 2 moment (spoiler alert), like when the surfboard shoots off some dude’s roof rack and decapitates a bad guy and Mel Gibson says “Wipe Out.” Though I would have said “Surf’s Up”, but that’s just me. Now if a guitar shot out of our roof rack and ripped some guys head off what would does an action hero say “Ripping Solo”, “Eddie Van Impalen”, “Nice Axe” or “That was a face melter, literally.” I’m down for suggestions on that one. Oh wait, I got this. “Your guitar lessons over!”

Fortunately, we just lost sleeping bags and our trailing clown car was on it. Though they were beyond the sight of our rearview mirror, I imagined some bold and daring darting through interstate 5 traffic to retrieve Josh’s neck pillow and a sleeping bag. We pulled off on the Highway,
let Josh get his Macgyver on and fix the pod with duct tape, an extension cord and a peanut. And we were off again.

It was surreal watching Josh’s repair work. The place we pulled off would have been an ideal set if you were recreating a documentary of the dustbowl. The winds whipped rapid, the sun beat down and the dust filled the air. Josh surfed the roof of the van as a silhouette while the rest caught heat and cigarettes.

Pressed on, but this time we had some stowaways. Somehow, within the brevity of that instant pull off, we acquired about 50 flies. I’m pretty sure they recognized the cultural and literal drought of their surroundings and sensed we were bound towards greener pastures (or that we had food) so they decided to tag along. I’m sure at least one made it to Quincy, the rest were forced through
windows at 80 miles per hour. Their efforts to cling on were noticed.

Shortly after we released our unwanted guest we stopped for gas and food. This is where, for the first time since September of 1999, I ate some fast food. KFC was speaking to me, $3 for 2 fat pieces of chicken, corn and mashed potatoes seemed beyond reasonable, especially
considering at the same list of titles Whole Foods that might cost you a couple of months rent, though it would be heady organic free range wheat free down tempo chicken. What appeared to be a great idea at the time haunted my stomach and the air within the van for the next several hours, the low moaned rumbling reminder that will hopefully last me the next decade of gas station decisions and speedy meal abstinence.

Late that night after 13 hours of driving, some L.A.
traffic, enough bathroom stops to satisfy the needs of ten misaligned bladders and one near disastrous deer encounter, we were safe beneath the fresh mountain air of Quincy California.

I woke up early the next morning. I guess I should say I got up, more than woke up cause I didn’t really sleep the night before. I was excited and nervous and had rapidly streaming orbit of all thoughts keeping me awake. For my last band High Sierra was pretty much the key to everything we were able to do. Every show we played outside San Diego for our entire post high sierra career involved someone saying “hey, you guys were great at high sierra.” It opened up door after door to new ears and its impact was very clear and tangible.

We’d be opening the fest, which worked to our advantage. All the people that were there were ready for some music, even if it was to be delivered shortly after the sun crept over the canvas. Our job would be to create a sound magnetic enough to pull people away from setting up their tents, to bait them out of hangovers with potency, to distract passers by from their initial destination, to be more alluring than a breakfast burrito. So at 6 a.m. I walked alone through quiet woods and empty streets, contemplating and imagining how the battle would unfold. I even conjured up a pep talk to deliver to the band, it was somewhere between Vince Lombardi, Theoden from Return of the King and Mike Tyson’s crazy ass. But I was so exhausted by the time our set came around I said something to the likes of “lets get em guys” or something equally anti-climactic. Either way, it worked, we came out the gate swingin, made friends with new ears and then relaxed into the weekend.

After our set I finally slept. I wrapped myself thoroughly into a hammock and apparently during my slumber the band contemplated tipping my hammock and filming it. Truth is, I would have been a thousand percent behind it. As long as they put a heavy guilt song in the back
drop and threw it up on youtube. Erik can sing his heart out and the band can play their asses off and get a few hits on youtube, but a dude getting rolled out a hammock and getting speared in the forehead by his afro pick has got to be at least worth double rainbow guy status. Fortunately for me, but not for our youtube stature, they opted to let me sleep.

I woke up and decided to walk into town which took so much longer than I realized it would. A short drive maybe, but there was one point when I was walking and hadn’t seen anything but open fields and turkey vultures for sometime and I started wondering what exactly was I
doing. In fact two days later a couple stopped me after one of our sets and said “hey, were you that guy walking out into nothing the other day? Where were you going?” They said it as if it were the scene at the end of a movie, where the main character, sick on the evils of the world, just walks towards the setting sun, out into the empty abyss of beyond. It kind of felt like that as well. The worst
part is that I was simply walking into town to get a kombucha and when I arrived at the Health Food Store they let me know that they just pulled all their kombucha off the shelf, something to do with alcohol and Lindsay Lohan. Though some of that must have been a hallucination from heat exhaustion.

After the Thursday set we could take it easy for a couple of days, witness some musical miracles, experience the deep fried pickle, get changed by Nels Cline’s fret work. Over the weekend some of our highlights were Dr Dog, Edward Sharpe, Nicki Bluhm & The Gramblers, the Avett Brothers, Robert Walters, Marco, the Slip and Surprise Me Mr, Davis. We also managed to play about 9 sets worth of music everywhere from the food court to the kickball field.

The rest of this email comes in list form. Unfortunately, the list might be missing some things cause I texted the list to myself and then stepped on my phone in a severe-life ending-fasion. I think that this was my 7th High Sierra, 3rd with a band. And my god it was great to be back. Saw a ton of old friends I hadn’t gotten to catch up with in years past. Got to play with Jordan Feinstein, one of my favorite organ players and favorite people in general. But not only did he add a beautiful layer of texture to the Heavy Guilt’s Saturday morning set, but he told me of an age-old secret, kept through years on guarded tongues, protected by 7 bearded hippie wizards, there is a hidden toilet, a porcelain god to which when you pray, you are truly worshiping a deity. Bathrooms at festivals generally get battered and bruised as the days wear on, when one
binges on deep fried pickles, their contribution to the stall has “staying power.” So it was an honor, up there with opening the festival, to be exposed to this alternate facility of silence, grace and solitude, a toilet so clean, one wouldn’t hesitate to rest a blueberry muffin on it’s rim, a secret (outside of this email) I will take to my grave.

It was interesting, to say the least, to play at 10 a.m Saturday, I’ve always considered the Heavy Guilt a nighttime band. Our brand of dreary rock n roll lends itself to a navy curtain draped around us. Also, after a night that may have just ended for many, the 10a.m. call is beyond the pull of coffee. I met a couple of cats at 4 in the same morning and after a brief exchange of conversation, they said “Yeah, we’ll definitely be there for you Saturday morning set” but something in their eyes rolling in the back of their head and the emptied whiskey bottle between them suggested otherwise. When headed towards the stage for sound check the audience was composed of tumbleweed and a few empties, but come 10 a.m. the souls came out of the woodwork. I think we provided a healthy sonic alarm clock to start the day. The set sure woke my ass up.

I play the chain in the band, in case you haven’t seen us, it basically involves me having a chain tied to my foot as I stomp it as hard as I can onto a wooden box. It probably looks like I’m very angry at that box, like the box murdered my family or was responsible for launching Lady Gaga’s career and I’m trying to get back at the box with my foot. After one of our guerrilla sets a guy came up to me and we were talking music for a while. And he suggested something very logical that I had never thought about. He said “you should probably wear some extra arch supports or padding to protect your foot and your knees, stomping that chain as hard as you do is fun to watch but probably not good for you.” I have since heeded this man’s words of wisdom, I had also noticed the bruises on my foot post High Sierra. I had never had a second thought after deciding that I’d be the guy in the band who slams a chain vehemently into a wooden box. After his initial warning I was on board, but here is where he added a very funny sentence. He said “What you’re gonna want to do is get together with some other chain players and see what they’ve done to do it healthily” He said it with such lubricated nonchalance that I almost believed him, like that was just something I could do, log on to chainplayers.com or call up the chain players guild and ask for Rick, see how he’s made adjustments in his life to play the chain. My ego is not raging enough to believe that I’m the only guy out there playin the chain, but I haven’t seen a ton of other people doing it. Anyway, I’m thankful that this cat caught me before I broke off my chain foot, but I should have asked him where I might find this collection of chain players, cause I think he might have known.

We’d like to thank Jiivan (Pronounced Ja-von), a slender Caucasian cook from South Carolina with a name built for an irate heavy set black woman defending herself vociferously on the Montell Williams show. He hooked us up with leftovers and to be discarded food. In fact the most unfortunate event of the weekend was when I had just learned that deep fried pickles existed and that I could exchange money for them. I had gorged on the new delicacy and ran into Jiivan shortly after. He offered me more free BBQ than I knew what to do with. The moment I had to turn away free BBQ was as sad/angry as I’ve been since Arrested Development was canceled. Anyway, Jiivan gets four thumbs up for his contribution to our High Sierra experience.

Jessica Canzona is like the little white sister that I've never had. We feud, fight and we quarrel, but at the end of the day we're good friends. I like to think that I emerge victorious after most shenanigans and practical jokes, but every dog has his day. This was her day. I was walking innocently in the sun, enjoying the fresh rays of a summer day when I heard my phone's text message alert sound off. I tried to read the text, but the sun was too bright. As I tried to position the phone in a place where I could read the message Jessica crept up behind me, like a silent ghost ninja in isotoner slippers, and delivered a well timed kick to that area behind my straightened knee that completely knocked me to the ground. I couldn't have folded any more thoroughly if I was origami expert on speed in a paper mill (Dunder Mifflin), and her execution was as good as that last metaphor was bad. And as I lay collapsed in the shade of my shame, I could finally read the text. It was from Jess and it was a photograph of her middle finger. Well played Canzona, though I promise my revenge will be swift, exact and immense.

Somehow in the realm of the Heavy Guilt I have been elected the speaker of the house, the guy who addresses the crowd, announces the band, pleas to deaf ears to buy buy our stuff, t-shirts in the back, next week we'll be somewhere, grab a cd so I can eat food and the infinite etc... I'm not certain how that came to pass as I am as horrible at it with the Heavy Guilt as I was with the K23. I stutter and mumble, make inside jokes that I happen to be the only individual inside of and possess a congested nasally voice to rival the finest nerds of the land. During our second set I had a brief moment of lucidity where I thought I had something clever to say. We rocked out as hard as we could for a song called Ain't No Sinner, I beat my floor tom barehanded, like a red headed step child, and the next song on out set was called Blistered Hands. The light bulb above my head burst into audible action, I said "this next song is called Blistered Hands (pregnant pause) which I will have tomorrow." I thought it was funny but the silence I was greeted with made me feel like Michael Richards stand-up at the Apollo (or a Chuck D performance in rural Arizona), never before had I heard crickets at a rock concert. Shortly afterward Jenny capitalized on my bad joke with the old "ba-dum-bum" on the drums, the proper punctuation to failure. Well played Jenny. You join Jessica on my enemies list.

I’m not sure if it was a gigantic insect or a small extra terrestrial, but something black and about 5 inches long, huh huh huh, landed on Josh’s shoulder and gathered as large a crowd as any of our guerilla sets. Its antennae were about as long as the creature itself and it was WEIRD looking. If I had the power to blow it up about 100 times in size I would base a Predators franchise around it. I’d text you a photo, but like I said I destroyed my phone, so . . .

The Wander Wookie. I’ve always enjoyed the familial vibe of High Sierra. I love that artist camping is right there in the midst of everything else. When the K23 played High Sierra in 2004 or 5, we were camped next to one of my musical heroes, Les Claypool. I admired how there was no separation between the audience and the crowd and that if I felt the urge I could saunter up to Les and drop him a quick compliment. Now generally that works out. I like to think I didn’t blab on and on into Les’s ear. I’m pretty sure I told him that I took a date to a Primus show and it directly resulted in no action for me, though I had a great time. I hope he got a kick out of that and I kept it under 34 seconds and was on my way. I feel that about 9 times out of ten that space is respected, and people pick up on the vibe of all aboard or exclusivity, whichever you place out there into the universe. I enjoyed my interaction with just about every person who wandered into our campsite, whether old friend or new. But there was one guy, we dubbed him Tarzan, partially because of his shirtlessness, partially because he hadn’t mastered the art of communicating with the humans, partially because of his long feral hair, locked and muddied, who I could have done without his presence in our sacred circle. There was a group of us lounging and conversing when Tarzan materialized in our space. He was silent and staring and he just kind of stood there for ten minutes until we acknowledged him. I said “hey, what’s happening man?” at this point he looked at me blankly (I may have stumped him with the question) and returned into the wilds of Northern California.

There was a spotting of the rare and illusive tie dyed confederate flag t-shirt. It's like a fashion statement having an argument with itself where both sides lost. Most tie-dyed hippies tense up when beneath a waving confederate flag and you don't see a lot of confederate flags at the Peace Love and Unity Fest, in fact this may be the first sighting outside of a Skynyrd Concert in years. But there it was, Sunday afternoon at the Marco Bennevento Trio workshop. I snuck up behind it, hoping my black ass wouldn't be spotted and meet an untimely demise. I felt like I was capturing the last passenger pigeon and since I got my shot, and remained unnoticed, it was awesome.

My only complaint of the year was the missing Caribbean Food booth. Every year I salivate in knowing that I’m inches and dollars away from that grilled salmon plate, with sides, that spicy salvation that proliferates through the air of the food court. I almost cried as I searched around and around for them, I felt like a mother who lost her child at a supermarket, frantically looking everywhere, even the impossible places, peering desperately under the other booths for jerk chicken. I was as disappointed as Tyrone Bigguns at the 5 O’clock free crack giveaway.

During our last guerilla set most of our stuff was packed away. Josh “Pack Master” Rice had to leave early so we were hesitant to disassemble his pack job and try to reassemble without his expertise. So instead of using drums and drum sticks, jenny played on my cajon with a mallet and a broken in half piece of wood, basically a giant splinter. And to make a further obstacle course for Jenny, there was a loose baby who kept grabbing her makeshift “McGyver” sticks. Hopefully we’ll be able to get a million youtube hits with baby drummer, but at the time it was just challenging.

So in closing, High Sierra was an incredible experience. The kind of reminder a musician needs from time to time, the warm purr of a guiding voice, whispering “you’re on the right track, keep putting it out there into the universe.” The drive home was relaxed. The winding roads turned from verdant riverside greenery, to those mountain lion tan rolling hills, burning hot at rest stops and eventually into the reality of cities, the working of gears and minute
hands, the inevitable return to jobs and life, but the gorgeous specter of the experience looming pleasantly in the background of everything. Hopefully we’ll be back there next year, beneath the stars, within the warmth, snacking on fresh sounds and deep fried pickles.

With Love
- alfred howard

PS, Forgot one essential tale.

I owned the drive home, not trying to toot my own horn, I just caught the groove of pavement and handled it for 12 straight hours, I was pumped up by guayaki yerba mate and the Can's full length debut Monster Movie. Also, since there were 7 people and all our equipment in the van, if I gave up the driver's seat I'd be demoted to a bench with three people, and playing twister with bandmates isn't a great way to keep the ensemble united. We were making exceptional pace, though we did come to a complete stop north of L.A. on the 5. This derailing of momentum was terrifying cause there was a chemical fire, dudes in Hazmat suits and for 20 still minutes I was certain we'd be sleeping in the van. The mess was cleared up and we were back to burning down the interstate. By the time we got back to San Diego, however, I was completely finished. The disadvantage of owning the van is that you have to drop everyone else off at their homes before you can go to yours. After the 2nd drop off I folded, Erik lives pretty close to me and I made up some dumb excuse about sparse parking in my neighborhood and he wound up dropping me off at home. I made no plans to retrieve the van nor the keys, I just walked straight to my bed and got reacquainted with the concept of sleep (it had been a while). At 11a.m. the next day I woke up, refreshed and ready for work. I walked a mile and some change to Erik's and knocked on his door, then I rang his door bell, than I knocked again, this alternating process went on for shy of two hours. The best part is that he heard one doorbell ring and let me in as if it were the first. I don't think he would have believed I spent my morning out there if he didn't receive my obsessive voice mails and novella of texts. I got to work just on time, thinking about the vistas of Quincy all shift long.