I walk up to a small diner and way over pay for bacon and eggs, return to the Driftwood Inn, shower and Joe picks me up about ten past ten. It takes about 15 minutes to drive out of town and down the Spit to the ferries.
I wander over to where I see more guitars and we all sort of congregate. I don’t know any of the other acts besides JT Moring from San Diego but as we board the ferry, we’re all in the same boat now.
Other festivals I’ve been part of have itineraries and they usually seem to be more suggestions than real hard and concrete plans. Seldovia is different. There is a jam session scheduled on the boat and it happens. I’m sitting next to House of Hamill and they seem like some really skilled musicians, I just get a taste of their abilities sitting next to them chunking along on guitar as an Irish jig and reel happens in front of me. Sure there are only D, A, G and Bm in this song but for chrissakes, what’s with the jigs and reels changing chords three times inside two beats? I feel like I will never play a reel or jig properly.* There’s some more sing alongs and strumming and I’ve just met Terry from San Diego. He brought a tiny U-bass and a battery powered bass amp that sounds shockingly good. He follows along and tries to keep everyone in time. I get the feeling that this is his Sysophian task in life - trying to get the world to find his one.
Breaking from the jam, I make my way to the mess hall and get a bite to eat and am invited to join Molly at her table. She’s in her 70s and returning to Seldovia and her kids are going to be joining her for the first time in fifteen years so she’s very excited for their visit. It’s still amazing to me that just sitting down with strangers while traveling - folks open up and just share their story. I feel like I could write a book just by getting on public transport and asking the first person I meet “Where you going?”**
Off the boat and there’s a group of people here all assigned to us to get us to our lodging assignments. Felice puts my bag and guitar in the back of his truck and tells me about the town and drops me off at Chunk’s house.
Chunk is not home.*** His house is Rustic, with a capitol R. The key is in the front door and that’s where it stays. He will tell me that his house used to be back on the mainland but the woman who let him live on her property started off not charging him any rent and gradually upped it to $1000 a month. Then he decided he’d move his house to his property in Seldovia. He spent two days taking the house apart, labeling each piece so he knew how to put it back together, loading it into a big U-Haul truck, taking it on the ferry, driving it to his property here in Seldovia and spending the next two days putting it back together.
Once his house was back together, the town told him he needed a permit to build a house on his property so he asked them, “Can I have a permit, it’s all done.” They said “Of course, that will be $10.” Stamped his permit and it was done. Someone else complained that he got his permit so easily - the office said, “It’s Chunk. It’s fine and it’s already done.”
It really is the Wild West here.
Chunk has left me a note about staying there. It has details like sleep in any bed on the right side of the house, make sure to lock the doors because they won’t stay closed if you don’t and to wait for him to show me how to turn on the gas and light a burner on his stove and whatever I do - don’t use the two outside burners by the wall or it will likely burn the house down. I decide to wait for him to show me in person.
There is no WiFi here. There is no phone signal here. I walk the half mile back into town and into the Linwood restaurant. They have WiFi and I sit outside taking in the town and drinking some tea. I’m going to be doing a lot of walking this weekend. I’m ok with that, I like walking but walking with a flight guitar case is going to get tiring.
A woman who seems slightly inebriated starts talking to me. She has an eye patch. She’s asking why I’m here and what I’m doing, it’s nice but a touch scattered.
“I’m going up to my apartment and watch some porn if you’d like to come.”
“No, I’m all set, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” She says and leaves.****
Wild West.
From the boardwalk to the other end where the ferry docks and the stage area is located is maybe a mile. It’s paved in parts and gravel in others and always kicking up some dust. I stop by the library as I know they have WiFi too. The Library hours are 2-4 pm M/W/T/Saturday, 2-7 on Tuesdays. They have a bench outside and their WiFi password on the door. Sitting on this bench for the WiFi is a common thing to see folks doing.
I’ve found a museum shop and grab a couple of postcards and return to the center of town to the Post Office to get some stamps. Their office hours are listed as 1-4:30. The door is locked. I check my watch again, it’s three pm.*****
Go back to Chunk’s place and grab my guitar to head down to the stage. Tonight it’s listed that there is an Open Mic for not just the festival performers but for everyone here in town. The stage is in a portable half shell******, lifted up in the air. Sadi has brought her stuff to set up the stage, full back line, PA and all.
Sadi is telling me about the amps she has on stage. There are two Carvin guitar amp heads and one Carvin bass head. She points to the bass amp and tells me how she found two 15” Sub woofer speakers that were originally designed for a car stereo and how she has the ohm’s wired so it sort of tames the 500 watt bass head. The two Carvin guitar amps are full on top of the line from like 1983. That is not an insult and I’m not making fun. I haven’t seen amps like this still in service in a long time.
There’s a lazy-boy type of recliner behind the mixing board. Sadi is sleeping here the next three nights with the gear. She doesn’t think anyone will steal anything but still does not want to leave it unattended. When asked if she’ll be warm enough she shows us her blanket and assures us she’ll be plenty warm. She brought all of this gear here in three trips on a trailer connected to the back of her four-wheeled ATV - all while wearing knee high platform heels for the ten miles back to her place. She is fabulous.
Wild West.
There’s a ton of names on the Open Mic list and it’s an eclectic mix. I’m talking to a guy who has an old Epiphone acoustic. He has covered most of the holes with stickers - holes this guitar did not leave the factory with. Some tuners are broken and he has it strung up with four strings and tells me it’s in DADGAD tuning. I don’t even bother asking which D A or G is missing, it doesn’t matter. When he takes the stage you would never even know he was missing strings. It sounds fantastic. I’m not making shit up. He sounded great with his instrumental song. I’m kind of dumbfounded by this.
A young kid gets up to play the drums. His performance is rough. He is new at drums and he’s probably 12 or 13 years old and he does a disjointed drum solo. The whole crowd cheers for him like he’s John Bonham from Led Zeppelin. He gets an encore. Love and encouragement. It’s beautiful. When he leaves the stage he high fives folks through the crowd and walks like he’s ten feet tall.
My performance is fine. I know I’m not going to top that drum solo and I’m alright with that. I play Massachusetts and about to get off stage and I’m asked to play a second song so I keep it short and play Around Here.
Folks dig it. I see my friend with the eye patch she tells me I was good. It’s almost 11 when I get back to Chunk’s place. His side of the house with bathroom and kitchen is closed off. It is still light out and the other side of his house has three beds, one light bulb and one plug.
I stay on the ground floor and check my phone. I don’t know why, I know I don’t have signal but I see a fragment of a post about my buddy Victor that is not good. I put my shoes back on and walk the half mile back to town to get signal and find out that my friend Victor has died today. No details, just found. I’m heartbroken. Victor is a sweetheart. He’s been a staple of the local music scene in O.C. for a while now. He was part of our little songwriter group, also a huge champion of me and what I do. I was just messaging with him yesterday when he was trying to remember a song that I sent him to listen to. I message Tracy and let her know and Ron, Jen and Boris.
I’m alone on the street of Seldovia at one am now. The town is asleep. There’s a dog walking across the street looking at me funny. It’s still light out. It feels like a ghost town. I feel helpless. I can’t do anything to help Victor anymore. Why couldn’t I remember that song? I talk to him out loud as I walk back to Chunk’s place. I hope he hears me. 46 is way too young.
On the walk I remember that the song he was asking about was “music is the only language I know.” Damn.
***
Morning comes and Chunk is a great host. It’s here that I learn a bunch of his story and how he started out in southern Vermont and ended up here and how he spends the summer working his ass off and the winter skiing. I tell him about Victor and that I was afraid because I first thought it was self inflicted but I’m relieved to know that it was not. Not like it matters now but I guess it does. Chunk tells me about the long darkness of winter, the darkness that creeps in and how he is familiar with the thoughts but had a friend point out that he can’t even kill mosquitos, there’s no way he could do worse to himself and that comforts him. It’s a heavy Friday morning conversation but I’m thankful to have him here to chat with. He’s good guy.
Chunk has food growing in buckets on the roof, in a makeshift nursery in the kitchen and in greenhouse on the roof. Beets, potatoes, tomatoes, peas, carrots - you name it, he’s growing it. If the weather stays cool and he doesn’t have too many guests, he can use the other side of the house to keep his food and still be eating his tomatoes in March.
I pour my tea from his Coleman camp pot on the stove. The lid burns my fingers and I drop it in the sink. I tip the pot and spill as much as I get in my mug. He doesn’t need much but he has to be diligent with how he lives in order to stay alive. He tends to his garden on the roof and talks to the birds outside. He holds a peanut in his hand and opens the door a crack and a beautiful blue jay flies up and takes the peanut out of his hand then sits on the shelf outside the kitchen window and eats it. Then two crows appear out of nowhere for their morning treats.
Wild West.
State flower of Alaska - Forget-Me-Nots
The itinerary tells me I have to get down town. We are scheduled to busk straight down the street. Twenty minute intervals starting at the coffee shop, then the hotel, then the ice cream shop and then the restaurant and then me at the liquor store and then someone at the gas station by the ferry landing. I go from one to another listening to music performed in the raw, busking style. I love it. When it’s my turn I get a good crowd of about 15 watching me outside the liquor store.
From there it’s back to the stage as we have scheduled sound checks happening. Sadi is running cables and cords and frantically writing down all the soundboard settings on a clipboard for each band.
My soundcheck takes about 90 seconds and sounds fantastic.
Then it’s hang out and listen to everyone else. I’m on first tonight at 5 pm. To be the one starting a thing off, it’s a sort of like - I’m setting the tone. I have a wide enough repertoire to handle most situations but I’m quite unsure of what of mine will land best. I want to make a good impression, you know? No set list. Putting my trust in my instincts.
I know I played Chasing Rock and Roll, The Sea and some others. I told some stories. People dig me. It’s good. Everyone was listening. No one was on their phones. I know that most folks don’t have signal so phones isn’t even really an option. This festival has pulled something off, albeit, unintentionally, but still - the festival is in a place that is remote enough that folks can’t be on their phones.
And I love it. I mean, it’s also frustrating to have to go sit outside the library or that bar to get signal but at the same time - there’s a very much “in the moment” feel and I haven’t had that spirit since, what? The 1990s?
All the bands mingle and hang out and chat. It’s a thing. There are only ten acts on the bill here and they have it so you play short sets but multiple sets. There’s changeover, it keeps moving, no one plays long enough to overstay their welcome. I don’t mean that in a derogatory way - I mean it that it really keeps moving along. Something I have also just noticed - I seem to be the only “solo” performer. I mean, JT is solo-ish but Terry performs with him on bass and Joe is also solo but with his cajon, hi hat and Terry on bass as well.
The green room is a hub of activity and chocolate crepes and tacos and beautiful camaraderie. There are definite “Headliners” at this festival but they don’t put on airs, we’re all here and in this together and it’s the best. Wait a minute. Is this the best festival I’ve ever been a part of? It just might be.
Terry comes up to me after my set to tell me that I reminded him of a mix of Steve Poltz and Dave Alvin. My brain screeches to a halt when he says this. When it comes to storytelling songwriters that can command the attention of a room there is NO ONE better than Steve Poltz. And Dave? He’s the fucking King of California. I’ve opened for Dave twice and even covered one of his songs. He’s a regular in Danny Ott’s shop and a sweetheart and Steve? I bumped into him in Montreal waiting for an elevator. I gave him a “I *heart* Toast” sticker because I found out that he used to make toast for his audiences in San Diego.
So all of that goes through my head in the seconds after he says their names.
I’m just casually walking around the festival grounds chatting with folks. Byron comes up to me to ask a bunch of questions about my “Music for Train Stations” album. He wants to buy it but is confused by what it is. I do a pretty good job of talking him out of buying it and into buying “October” instead. He’s a photographer by trade and is taking pics of all the performers. He tells me he took about 200 pictures of me. I laugh at the volume and know that the hit rate on a good picture of my face is roughly 1 in 500. We do a swap of pictures for a CD that I have to force him to accept the CD as he was just going to give me his work for free. Artist recognizes artist.
Tonight’s last act (or headliner) is my new friends House of Hamill and I know there’s no “winners” of festival shows and there was no voting - I’m just going to say it. They won. Holy shit are they good. Almost too good. The weather may be the only thing keeping them human tonight as it gets cold at 10:30 when they’re on stage. Murder ballads, trad Irish stuff and their songs that they write about 1 star reviews from hotels on the road.********
I don’t know what time I got home to Chunk’s but I sleep for nine hours and barely move.
End Part 2
*I wrote a jig with my friend Georgianna and put it on SeaGreenNumber5 album and I don’t even think I could play that one right!
**Quo Vatimas.
***Chunk’s real name is Craig. When I ask him how he got the nickname he says that it came about in high school and may have been because he was a bit pumped up playing sports but Chunk was actually the bus driver for the team. Or it may have been a Goonies reference but he’s never seen Goonies so he’s not sure. He’s planning on watching it soon. He knows that Chunk did a dance in Goonies and that he befriended the monster so he’s ok with whatever his name means. Oh and I will sleep at Chunk’s house three nights but only see him twice.
****I’ve been propositioned before. I mean, I am a ROCK STAR, so that’s not out of the realm of possibility but that wasn’t what this was. It is clear to me, she was just being friendly. She was not propositioning me for anything involving her. Wasn’t that type of thing. Which somehow makes it even weirder.
*****When I ask Chunk about this he tells me I have to adjust to “Alaska Time.”
******There is another part of this stage that ends up showing up Friday nightby boat. It is pulled alongside the side of this large commercial ship. I’m looking out at the harbor when it arrives and a woman is standing next to me who starts laughing. “I told them we didn’t need it but they insisted on bringing it. Now they brought it for nothing. It’s too late.”
********I hesitate to talk this up too much because they don’t want to be known as the band with all these type of songs but the problem is - because they are so talented, these silly songs are REALLY well done and amazing. When they come upon a sketchy motel they look it up online and read the 1 star reviews that it has gotten and they use the reviews verbatim to make new songs. And they have no business being this good.