Back to the grind

Being back home with friends and loved ones, sleeping in my own bed, riding my bike — all good things. Being back at the office with 340 new emails — that's another story.

Oh Columbia

Back in Washington...

Adorable...

The last night these two will be sharing a bed. (Or is it?)

California, there we go

This license plate was affixed to a car down the street from the house in Sacramento where we played the final show of our tour last night. It really sums up the experience of the show.

We played in the back yard of this palatial house in the burbs, for a private party celebrating the safe homecoming of a soldier friend who had been in Iraq. Very nice people all. Plenty of free food and booze. So, all the makings of a fun party but hardly the right conditions for a Hands of Plenty show. The audience was all either over 45 or under 12. And no one paid us much mind. And we learned that we play pretty poorly beyond a certain level of intoxication. So it was quite a way to end this string of shows.

But whaatev - California has been good to us. Sure, Arcata sucked (much to the consternation of our once-Arcata-based friends), but San Francisco was wonderful (the show, the company, the city), Davis felt like a recharging of our batteries, with a ravenous crowd and wonderful people to relax with.

The show in Sacramento was equally good, but in yet another kind of way. When we arrived at Luna's, we greeted somewhat brusquely by the owner who, due to some communication breakdown somewhere along the line, was expecting just me and my guitar to grace his tiny stage - not five smelly dudes with four amps and a drum set. We could see his eyes bulge from their sockets when Dan wheeled in his enormous, coffin-like bass cab.

But i think we won him over in the end. We played between two very talented local songwriters, Vinnie Guidera (pictured) and Scott Bartenhagen. The place was tiny and so packed, with Jesse and Lisa, some of Dan's local entourage and bunch of other folks. So instead of going the Sophia's route, we played it cool and quiet, starting with Telephone and Empty Bed and easing ever so slowly into the more uptempo numbers.

And as the dance-happy crowd in Davis pushed to get dancier and happier, this small, polite audience pushed us to be ever more intimate. I loved it. I reflected on the idea of terroir that I wrote about here a couple days ago - the idea that there are still things that you have to go the source to find, that you can't have delivered to you. For an example, I slow-jammed a number of excerpts from the wall in the men's restroom.

A few samples:

"I just want to be a good father - bu the bitch won't let me."

And:

"The problem with poetry is that nothing rhymes with scrotum." (Though an older audience member rightly pointed out that "totem" fits.)

At any rate, while these were sentiments you might find expressed in any bathroom stall anywhere, these particular ones existed only in the men's room at Luna's in Sacramento, Cal. I'm struggling to articulate for myself just why that's important, but it has seemed almost magically so on this trip.

We crossed the border as I've been writing this. So hello again to Oregon and thanks to California for one of the best musical weeks of my life.

So... tired...

They ought to treat people with sleeping disorders by driving them up I-5 through northern California. Less than an hour into our homeward drive from Sacramento, Dan got drowsy and had to be relieved. I took the helm but now, after only 15 minutes, I'm already starting to nod off.

Yeesh. This could be a long day.

Flat stuff

Flat stuff between Davis and Sacramento

Yikes

Let me never be this guy...

(Also, as Joe Varela, pointed out, aren't most banjo players one-man banjo players? Have you ever seen two people play a banjo?)

Driving through the Redwoods south of Eureka.

The highlight of our otherwise dismal time in Arcata. The show went on way too early. None of the handful of people at the coffee shop listened particularly attentively. We were accosted by super dirty hippies. A bro in a Mercedes circled around the block seven times, glaring and grimacing at us. We made $3. And every hotel in the area was completely booked up.

You suck, Arcata.

Brian at the Mill Casino in Coos Bay.

Terroir

We reluctantly quit our posh lodgings in Portland yesterday morning. It was bittersweet. On the one hand, we know that our accommodation situation is all downhill from here -- nothing but campsites, couches and the occasional motel (if we're lucky). On the other hand, the road beckons (he says with an impossibly weary sigh).

Before we were completely out of the Willamette Valley, though, we made a stop at Cameron Winery, where we interrupted the lunch of winemaker John Paul, who was not only every bit as talkative as I remember him, but every bit as insightful. He guessed with about 80 percent accuracy which instrument each of us plays. Still chewing on his sandwich, he led us into the back room and offered us a pair of 2007 pinot noirs. I can't wait to pop mine open. Drinking Cameron wine was one of the great joys of my former life in Portland, and it's been years since I had it. (Whether it will survive the trip all the way back home remains to be seen.)

That had me thinking all day about "terroir," the term wine people use for the specific, unique set of conditions -- temperature, humidity, soil type and depth, drainage, angle of light, the slope of the vineyard -- that influences the flavor and profile of a given wine. The idea is that each wine tastes like its surrounding, like the vineyard it was produced from. Of course, that can sometimes just be a marketing ploy (who can really taste a 16-degree down-slope?), but I think the term has some universal relevance.

Music and musicians can have their own terroir, too. That's one of the things I think we're out here looking for. Take the High Dive and the Alberta Street Pub -- both venues that are very much rooted in their respective cities. You don't really find those anywhere else. Certainly there are similar places elsewhere but nothing quite the same. Musicians, too. We haven't had the chance yet to play with many local folks, but we're looking forward to doing so in San Francisco and Sacramento. Who knows these towns better than their musicians? These small-time players like us you don't find on iPod commercials and Gossip Girl. You gotta go to the source to see them play. I consider myself lucky to have that opportunity.

I won't recite the tired argument that the world is shrinking and sense of place is deteriorating (except to say that so far on the tour I've been to two Fred Meyer's stores about 500 miles apart, and they were both playing the same James Taylor video on the TVs in the electronics section, and that -- indeed -- he was going to Carolina in his mind on both occasions). There's also the argument that a world with such easy access to media is more fragmented than it's ever been. Both points are probably true, and both have their drawbacks.

But "place" isn't gone entirely, and out here on the tour I'm trying to relish the finer points of geographical oddity -- the way the beach smells in Lincoln City, the incredible texture of the sand dunes in Florence, the itchy wool comforters at this casino hotel we're staying at in Coos Bay.

It's little stuff, but it makes me feel lucky to be traveling.

The sea!

Our first taste of the sea, in Lincoln City.

Columbia portal?

Proof that the Columbia River valley is some kind of interdimensional time/space warp?

And we're off...

The Hands of Plenty are officially on the road, heading out on a 10-day tour that will be taking us to Seattle, Portland and down to the Bay Area. I'll be blogging the whole thing - reviewing shows, pointing out the sights and keeping you up to date on all the latest band quibbles.

Stay tuned.