More stories from the road

San Francisco, Part II

Went for another hike in Marin County; this time down Tennessee Valley on the way up north to our show in Santa Rosa. It’s a lovely easy hike through coastal hills to a secluded beach. There were maybe a half dozen folks on the beach. Up on the cliffs were the remnants of bunkers to defend against the Japanese invasion. This is maybe 15 minutes and a 45-minute hike outside of downtown San Francisco, which never fails to amaze.

Jenni asked the others on the walk about their divorces. I didn’t even know that Mauro has been married. It was only a few months before he and his bride realized it was not going to work. C described hers and I did mine.

Jenni then told us an amazing story about a car crash she was in when she was younger. She was in a coma, and her mom, the singer Maria Muldaur, suddenly became born again while Jenni was out. Well, she said, everyone was doing it in those days — Bob Dylan (famously), T Bone Burnett and a bunch of others. So, when Jenni came to, she opened her eyes and saw Bob Dylan’s gospel background singers surrounding her hospital bed, praying and singing with her mom. Jenni thought maybe she’d really gone to heaven and Bob’s band was there. Her head was swathed in bandages, stitches were all over her face, and she had a plate in her head. Someone cautiously asked her if there was anything she wanted (partly just to see if she could hear and respond). She answered, “Blistex.”

Some rode the bus on the long drive to Park City, Utah, and some rode there with boyfriends. And some, like C and I, returned to the city and opted to fly to Utah after a day off in San Francisco. We met John Waters for lunch the next day and went gallery hopping. Jack Hanley Gallery in the Mission and then Paule Anglim, Fraenkel and Rena Branston near Union Square. Fraenkel is sort of an old school photo gallery and they had a show of Garry Winograd, Lee Friedlander, and other 60s and early 70s street photographers. I wonder if that kind of photo taking is even possible anymore. In some of the pictures GW had obviously planted himself in the middle of a busy city sidewalk and must have been snapping off shots right in people’s faces. Wonder if folks wouldn’t get upset about that now.

John’s apartment in SF isn’t as chock-a-block with items as his other places, at least not yet. There was a lovely embroidered pillow that his mom did of a burning police car. He’d given her a photo from the Dan White “riots” (Dan White is famous for, among other things, his lawyer’s “Twinkie” defense.) On the way to the galleries, we stopped at a used book store that specializes in pulp and porno paperbacks organized into arcane categories: stewardesses; prison; cold war; A-bomb themes; nurses; soldiers; teens; etc. I got presents for the band but no one wanted the book titled Rock Group Roadie. John tipped me to one that I got for C, Girl Artist.

Later, we rode the loaner bikes to catch Ron Sexsmith and band at the lovely and ornate Great American Music Hall. Wow, what a songwriter! I got choked up a couple of times. His songs are sad but dangle a line of hope and beauty; they almost revel in their sadness. He’s a little nerdy and chubby, not a typical rock star or even singer-songwriter by any means, but man can he write (and sing). The room was sadly not full, and the management there initially gave us the royal treatment, but we quickly opted to pull some unused chairs onto the floor. The sound was better there than in the VIP section. Ron, it seems, is going out with Colleen, who used to babysit and look after Malu sometimes! Colleen’s great — I hope it works out and they are happy.

Park City, Utah

The night we arrive it snows. Quite a change from the deserts and the Mediterranean climates we’ve been in for the past couple of weeks. I go out early and buy socks and a wooly hat. There’s not enough snow on the ground to ski, as it’s the first snowfall they’ve had up here, so Mark and I opt to go for a hike in nearby Deer Valley. We follow some of the soon-to-be-covered-in-snow ski trails up to the top of the mountain — 9000 feet. It’s still snowing lightly, so there isn’t the great view that there must be from up here on a clear day. We take an alternate route down and end up on the other flank of the mountain; the hotel van can’t locate us so we walk. There is no one around at the “village” and condos at the base of the mountain stand empty, as the season has yet to start. The Park City shops, many of them, don’t even bother to open until the ski season begins.

Our hotel rooms are spectacular. Mine has 3 bedrooms, a kitchen and a pool table! The night we arrived, a group of us play pool (badly) in Graham’s room. Mark D checked the room rates; in the high season, our rooms would go for $3000 a night! Jeez, will anyone be able to afford those rates — the cost of getting here; ski passes; etc. — when the economy bottoms out?

Park City to Denver

The night drive over the Rockies takes longer than planned, due to the light snow and slightly icy roads. We’re running at least a couple of hours late, more like 3, which is OK for us in the band; I’m typing this and having a morning coffee, but for the truck and crew, it means they’ll be later than is comfortable getting to the venue. We’ll have to push soundcheck back and see if the union guys in the hall will cut us some slack. At some point in the middle of the night, we were in the mountains at a Flying J truckstop and Arlene (the crew bus driver, just ahead of us) got on the CB radio and said, “Stay where you are, the road over the mountains is closed.” Ice and frozen snow. A few hours later, the road opened up again but soon we came to a stop as a truck had jackknifed on the icy road ahead. As we sat there, our bus began to slide backwards on the ice, coming quickly to rest. Once the road was cleared of the truck, it took a few tries and some spinning tires to get us moving again.

It’s absolutely gorgeous outside though. Snowy mountains, fir trees and high treeless valleys.