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I bike along Magazine and then back on St. Charles, where what looks like Spanish moss in the trees turns out to be beads.
The vibe here is mostly open. People are incredibly friendly. It's a bit like Brazil that way; it's a bit African, too, in that way of acknowledging one another (certainly more so than Denver or some other places we’ve just been). Though it might seem strange here in the Deep South, this seems like one of the least racist cities, in certain aspects. I know that can't be strictly true, but I sense there are more black-owned businesses, cultural projects, and enterprises than in many American cities. I sense a little less of the anger, fear, and suspicion than permeates American cities — though I realize this, for many, is an inescapably poor city. Hopelessness and crime live here too.
 I stumble upon the Confederate Museum. It's not as hair-raising as I thought it might be — mostly uniforms in display cases and a cannon in the middle of the room. In the back is a large stained glass of a priest (or friar) standing over a Confederate flag. One might wonder that God would endorse a nation that relied on slavery, but maybe God's all-encompassing view is less moral than we might hope. Or maybe every bigot, warmonger, and con artist has a right to claim God for their own cause.
I join Terry, Jo Harvey, Bukka, Ron, and Sandy at a sort of political road show event organized by director John Sayles and Maggie Renzi, his producer.
It starts with political cartoonist Tom Tomorrow, then Steve Earl performs an acoustic set of mostly recent, politically oriented songs. My favorite involved reciprocal generosity. A cashier in a coffee shop gives some kids a break on some candy, and, overhearing this, two truckers leave the waitress a too big tip.
Sayles' new movie Silver City is a political critique with a Bush-like nincompoop who media handlers and powerful businesspeople freely manipulate. There are a lot of story threads that involve developers, immigrant workers, the press, and it all seems pretty indicative of the way things really are. Chris Cooper gives a hilarious performance as the politician.
Afterwards, Sandy introduces me to Daryl Hannah, whom she knows from Colorado. I arrange to meet up with Steve Earl to try to do his radio program on Air America when we get to Nashville.
Terry told me he once shipped a whole load of tumbleweeds to Philadelphia for a theater piece. But when they opened the packages, they had become square.
Tracy, Ames, and I bike over to Site Santa Fe, a contemporary exhibition space, to see the current show. I particularly like the little room with Louise Bourgeois and R. Crumb drawings. The theme is something "grotesque," which covers a lot of current stuff.
We stop at the Whole Foods for coffee and a snack. I spot singer/director Meredith Monk having a snack. I invite her to our show, but she's prepping for hers a few days from now.
We hit the Georgia O'Keefe landscape retrospective at her museum, of course. It got written up nationally. It's a rare assemblage and collection of paintings. It's only up for a few more days, so our timing is good.
The show is of New Mexico landscapes, naturally, accompanied by photos, taken over the past few years, of the exact same spot. Mostly this is to emphasize what "liberties" she took, how much was changed, added, left out and slightly rearranged from photographic reality.
It turns out the places are pretty much intact, which might only be possible out here; they are pretty recognizable, though heightened and edited somewhat.
To be honest, I half expect to see a lot of convoluted hillsides that resemble vaginas, though that's an unfair view of her work. There might be a tiny bit of truth to it, but not all that much.
There is one painting of a dead cedar tree, with a blackish, twisted upside-down tornado on a warm desert hillside. Incredibly, the tree is still there, almost exactly as she painted it. It makes one realize that the plants and earth here, as in the Australian desert, move on a different time. Rocks and dirt that move under our feet may have been resting on those spots for a century. The infrequent rain and snow, the lightness of the wind make the tread and impression of people and animals almost permanent (as least compared to what some of us are used to).
We're at the Santa Fe Opera — a sweeping, partially open structure on a hilltop north to Taos. From the backstage and loading area, there is a breathtaking view of Tesuque and, over to the left, the mountains and hills of Los Alamos.
Mauro slips through the fence and takes a walk in the desert. He discovers a whole cache of gold balls on the hill opposite the loading dock. It turns out some of the local stagehands drive balls off the deck. He returns with a putting iron in hand.
The show goes incredibly well. More than once the crowd stops the show with a sustained ovation. It does sound pretty damn good in here.
There is a little moat, a shallow trough of water, all along the front lip of the stage. It's a little inexplicable, as it's a permanent part of the stage, not a temporary set-piece representing the river Styx or some other metaphorical body of water that may appear in a opera. I want to use it somehow. I try walking in it in my plastic jelly shoes. It's cold, but it's secure, sturdy, and not deep.
I confer with Jon about lighting the trough so I can go in there at some point. He in turn confers with Geronimo, the local stage tech and they work something out with sidelights. I then talk to George (stage), Deanne (front mixing), and Lawrell (stage and monitors) about when this could happen. We decide to try placing a mike stand in the water just before the inevitable second encore, which begins with an acoustic version of the Talking Heads song "Heaven."
During the show the gag works fine, though, after 3 minutes, my feet are freezing. What I fail to account for is that the audience is standing by this point. No one except the front row and the balcony can see that I'm standing in water as I sing. The front row of standees pretty much blocks the view of the rest of the orchestra seats from my shoulders down. It ends up being a wasted gesture, and a little dangerous too...but maybe the balcony got the gag.
A few of us go over to my friend Terry and Jo Harvey Allen's house afterwards. I'm staying over as tomorrow is a day off; most of the band is taking the bus to Albuquerque, where they will fly to new Orleans. Bukka Allen and Rob, his bandmate, are there too. They are friends of Sam Phillips' (our opening act for the next few weeks) band guys, who also stop by.
I try to get Ames and Mauro to join in a bike ride with my friend Sam Dryden, but there are some late risers. So just Tracy and I follow Sam up the canyon created by Boulder Creek (I guess), then head up Poorman. We climb a steep, unpaved road that allows us a view of snowcapped peaks by the continental divide and, below, the plains of Boulder. Tracy and I end up walking our bikes up the last stretch — we do have a show later.
The show is at a Chautauqua, a great, big, barn-like structure that is a remnant of a movement that peaked in the early 20th century. Apparently, the movement — once a circuit of 12,000(!) mostly rural venues — was a way for far-flung settlements across the country to catch up on "culture." Speakers, dance companies, musical groups, lecturers, and vaguely edifying entertainments made the rounds; it was hugely successful. The public thirst for "culture" translated as a means to better oneself — an expression of Protestant and Victorian values that still inform the world of the arts. (It's pretty common to think that that arts and culture — high culture, not skateboarding — are good for you, edifying, enriching.)
I personally don't subscribe to this idea. I don't think the arts makes one a better person at all — maybe a better bullshitter. Everyone knows that a Harvard grad can be just as crooked as a toothless lout in a West Virginia holler. All that education doesn't make one a better person.
But I digress. Most of the circuit consisted of tents — one for the main hall, and smaller ones for dining and lodging. In a way these were like month-long rock festivals. In this Boulder edition, there were permanent structures, a beautiful community hall, dining hall, and a whole community of cabins for the temporary residents to says in.
Todd usually goes over security issues with the local staff before shows. This often includes negotiating how much dancing in the aisles will be allowed, when, and at what point in the set. It works amazingly well, most nights, as it tends to short-circuit the natural tendency of security, the promoters, and theater owners to exert too much control. We let them know we are concerned with safety and fire codes, but want to find a way for the audience members to express themselves.
Tonight, Todd calmly says that by the 6th song or so, they should expect the audience to be getting up and dancing. The promoter is shocked, and counters that people in this venue really don't dance. It's not prohibited, it's just not what happens here. He seems absolutely certain that the audience will remain seated.
Todd bets him $200 that the entire audience will be up by song 7 (I think — I might have the number wrong). The promoter immediately and confidently accepts.
The show begins, and sure enough, by the 7th song Todd walks over to the promoter, who silently hands him the money.
Botanical Gardens. The audience is fantastic — a mixture of young and old, all very excited.
We're in the round, which is a little odd, having people behind us, but they seem OK with it.
Up front, a large man who resembles Homer Simpson regains his youth and begins freeform dancing in a way that is just hilariously out-of-control. The young women nearby give him plenty of space for his gyrations. Paul and I eventually can't look in that direction, or we'll lose it. Ecstasy and pleasure are not always conveyed by the appropriate body language or facial expressions. From the gesture or facial expressions alone, one could be getting a tattoo, or be having a violent reaction to dinner. I remember critics of Elvis used to say, "it looks like it hurts."
After a long, twisty bus ride during the night we arrive at this ski village at 7AM. The morning has scattered clouds and brisk temperatures. A ski lift rises across a field outside my window.
Our show is early — 4 PM — because it's a festival and we're on before Sheryl Crow. By mid-afternoon, it starts raining heavily and, at 4 PM, we meet on the site to decide whether to play or not. The stage is half-soaked from blowing rain; the tarps covering the drums and percussion are all pretty wet.
I ask about the risk of getting electrocuted. There are no guarantees offered, but it seems unlikely if power cables and junction boxes are not placed in the rain. There is too much rain blowing in to allow the strings to risk ruining their instruments, so we discuss doing a short set with Graham, Mauro, Paul and I by ourselves. I hastily throw together an 8- or 9-song set and we're on stage by 5.
Incredibly, as the rain has now let up, people emerge from tents and neighboring fields and form a pretty fair crowd. They're jumping up and down and dancing in their ponchos and muddy boots.
A few of our folks stick around to catch Sheryl Crow's set, some mainly to catch a glimpse of Lance Armstrong, her boyfriend.
Later, we head into Aspen proper to a restaurant called Ajax; friends of Deanne and her sister run it. Deanne tells a story of the wild life in this town in the 70s and early 80s; it was a Mecca for rich hippies. The high life was so prevalent that one friend's house had a mirror and pile of coke permanently laid out in the entrance foyer for visiting guests to help themselves to a line.
The food and wine is delicious and we all head back to our hotel for an early night. Well, some of us do.
The Republican convention has left NYC. My neighborhood is no longer in a frozen restricted zone (something Republican's seem to love to establish wherever they go).
About 1,500 protesters were arrested one afternoon; 500 of them were held illegally without bail or charge. A judge orders them released, which the police allow in condescending dribbles.
An article in the financial pages follows the economy and the size of the government during the past decade or so. Contrary to all their vehement claims, every recent Republican administration has increased the size of the government — sometimes drastically. The current administration has bloated government budgets so much that the increase alone almost counter-balanced the loss of jobs across the nation.
In Democratic administration the size of the government tended to go down, the exact opposite of the conservative claims every election year.
Tracy introduces me to Lyle Lovett in the lobby. He's playing later today and we've been sort of criss-crossing over the last few weeks. Looks like he'll have sunshine for his show. I admire his yellow leather western jacket and think to myself that he must be the best-dressed musician out there.
We're at the Ogden Theater, a smallish place that was added after our other shows in the area quickly sold out.
After soundcheck, Mauro, Doug, Tracy, Ames and I bike over to 17th Street to get something to eat. We end up at Marczyk, a gourmet deli where they are barbecuing meat and fish out on the sidewalk.
Others in the band and crew join us and we buy some wine, salads, tortillas, etc., and take over a picnic table on the sidewalk. It turns out the owner read the lyrics of "This Must Be The Place" to his fiancé as a proposal for marriage. He recognizes us and offers us a desert thrown together from fresh peaches, mint, blueberries and cream. We all have the feeling that we're pretty blessed and we're living the good life.
The audience later is incredible. All ages. The room is packed, hot, smoky and, since we're now a mile above sea level, I have to watch my dancing during the show — over-exertion can leave me out of breath. I am exhausted by the end, but it's all downhill from here.
Penn Gillette of Penn and Teller came by after our last show in town. This time, he invited a bunch of us over to their show at the Rio hotel.
Lots of fun and some amazing and beautiful moments stood out — a tank that suddenly filled with goldfish and a bit with a rose and its silhouette. Afterwards, we share some spicy root beer that the guys favor; they suspect that they might be the sole customers for this particular obscure brand.
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I stumble upon the Confederate Museum. It's not as hair-raising as I thought it might be — mostly uniforms in display cases and a cannon in the middle of the room. In the back is a large stained glass of a priest (or friar) standing over a Confederate flag. One might wonder that God would endorse a nation that relied on slavery, but maybe God's all-encompassing view is less moral than we might hope. Or maybe every bigot, warmonger, and con artist has a right to claim God for their own cause.