James Higgins: Gigs / Tales

The gig that wasn't.

More later.

So after about 14 years living and gigging in the States, this was where it all ended.
North Star Road near Ferndale. For sure this was not the best gig I ever played but it was a great venue with great people and a happy hippy atmosphere.

This was the 3rd time I'd played there. It really is a cozy little festival.
Ben and Kim own the property which is a couple of quiet acres a few miles outside Ferndale. Every year they organize this Brookstock Festival. Lot's of bands play over the 3 days. Savage Henry are regulars. A band called something like the Black Beast Something also played. They were quite good actually. Dark rock with rumbling bass lines.

We were advertised as the Muddy Boots but of all members who have previously played with the band, the only person available was Donald. We hadn't gigged together since I don't know when. We showed up an hour before the gig and we went through a list of 3 chord tricks. Then we looked around for a drummer to join us for a jam. We found a guy called Cruise. He'd been playing with the band just before us. So with zero rehearsal he just dived straight in. We started off with Farmer John even though we'd only played it for the first time an hour earlier while we were practicing.
I can safely say this set was not our finest hour but the people were there to enjoy themselves and fortunately were not there as art critics.

Ultimately this was a disappointing gig for me. I'd been looking forward to it for months. But in the end we were just 3 strangers jamming.

Thanks to Donald for stepping up. It is amazing how often The Muddy Boots boil down to us two. I guess it was me and him who first put this band project together before linking up with the rest of the original Boots.

Well there we were at the bitter end. Most of our set wasn't that bad really: it was just threadbare. No lead instrument apart from my harmonica and cazumpet. We couldn't do any real finishes or intros. It's not easy ad- libbing with no lead instruments.

Not exactly an exit in a blaze of glory but it was a fun evening.

Thank you and Goodnight America.

……………………………..

Three weeks later I'm in Iceland with Hil and Ronan.
We have a 24 hour stop-over on our flight to Munich.
I must say that visiting Iceland fulfilled a lifelong ambition for me. I can remember discussing it with my cousin Michael when we were about 17. I measured the distance from Scotland to Iceland on an old school map and estimated it to be about 800 miles.
We never went but now some 30 years later there I was on Iceland with Hil and Ronan.
Sam's friend Rory had given us some great tips to help us make the most of our short time there. (Thanks Rory.)
For sure it was an odd feeling to be standing on that mythical land of Vikings, lava and geysers on the edge of the Arctic Circle. Indeed Iceland for me had always been enveloped in a surreal haze of half truths. Did it actually exist? Or did it disappear with the Vikings? But we landed around 6:30 AM and there it was.

Here are a few quick facts I learned on the plane.

It seems just about everyone can speak English.
The Prime Minister is in the phone book.
Thirty percent of Icelanders have university degrees.

Though Iceland seems just off the coast of North America, it is unquestionably European. It could easily pass as an extension of Scotland but a little bleaker and with better English. It's a European back door with a long hallway to the living room.

The car rental guy was very friendly and let us store our extra baggage overnight in the office. He said, "Iceland is not about stress." He advised us to slow down and take it easy.
We had been traveling already for a long time and were fairly bolloxed but we were determined not to miss the opportunity to explore this strange new land.

Hil hadn't drove a stick shift in a while so Iceland's deserted roads were a perfect place to get back into the rhythm. Iceland's streets also had lots of empty roundabouts to practice on without undue pressure. America has very few roundabouts: just enough to make a driving test tricky.

Black ash and lava formations are everywhere and the hills seem more like heaps. Solitude and silence prevailed. There was no background rumbling of industry or honking of continuous traffic
What few cars we saw, drove on the right. Small compact cars. In fact everything seems smaller. Tiny houses, tiny towns. Tiny supermarkets.
We drove south from Kevlavik and did Rory's loop tour in reverse.
We were getting out of the car every 5 minutes to photograph something or another. Every time we stopped, the weather was different. Most certainly the climate was far milder than I'd ever have imagined. Perhaps because of the Gulf Stream. Clouds rolled in and out from the sea. The sun shrunk in and out of mists. Winds yelled and whispered. It all added to the raw haunted atmosphere of Iceland. Quite melancholy and from an artistic perspective, a bit abstract.
It really wasn't hard to picture the Viking long boats coming ashore a thousand years ago. The land, despite its volatile nature, can't really have changed that much. Sure nowadays there are a few scattered settlements and some roads but basically it must have looked the same then as now. I wonder if there were any trees back then. Not many at the moment.

Poor Ronan slept through most of our first few hours. He'd had a long day but had taken everything in his stride: even losing a tooth at 33,000 feet.
Tooth Fairy was going to have to be imaginative.

One thing we couldn't find anywhere was an unlocked public toilet. This wouldn't normally be a problem but on such a barren treeless landscape it's hard not to stand (or squat) out. I guess if I was wandering in the Scottish Highlands, I would not be expecting to find a toilet either. I must still be harbouring some American residue. I guess we were now back in the real world.
Finally we found a gas station café that was open. We ordered some coffees and used their facilities.
The attendant was friendly enough. He gave us our coffees and left a carton of milk and a big bowl of sugar on the counter. He wandered off to chat with a customer. Definitely no stress there.

By then it was still only mid morning. While Ronan was conked out across the back seat of the car, me and Hil visited the Mid Atlantic Continental Divide. This was a wide crack about 30 meters wide and the same depth. We stood on a bridge and straddled the gap.
Later we checked out the Blue Lagoon hot springs. This is a very popular (and expensive) outdoor swimming place. We didn't go in but had a stroll around the pathways.
We also had a stroll on a beach and got caught in an icy squall further inland while overlooking a lake.
All in all we had a very pleasant morning. We then continued our circuitous route towards Reykjavik where we had booked a hotel. On the approach to the city, we saw the first real Icelandic trees. So far the landscape had been devoid of any flora taller than a rare stunted bush. The Reykjavik trees were pines, perhaps 25 or 30 feet tall. Not giants but re-assuring to see.

The Cabin Hotel wasn't a cabin but was nice enough and everyone was helpful. i don't think it was particularly central. We went for a walkabout and found a pizzeria.

In the morning (4 AM), after a great breakfast (continental) we returned the rental car near the airport. The agency runs a service to the airport which is only a 1 minute drive.
We cleared European Customs there then flew into Copenhagen and on to Munich. There was no security there. I came out the exit door and immediately smelled Camel cigarettes. Then I collapsed laughing.
I saw what looked like a large specimen holding tank. A room sized aquarium. Inside was a yellow haze of smoke like a special biosphere to keep aliens alive. Through the glass I could make out a swirl of faces and limbs. There were life forms in there. Specimens! Humanoids. I realized this was the smokers' room. No need to light up. Just go in there and breathe.
I guess it was the unexpectedness of this encounter that had made me laugh. A real "choke on yer pint" laugh.
Poor guys.
I'm still laughing.
But as an ex-smoker myself, I wonder if I would once have strode in and not thought twice about it?

So I guess suddenly we were in Munich.
Our rented car had a GPS. It took us straight to Eddie and Elizabeth's house in Aubing.
Me and Ed went for a stroll. It made me laugh to hear such a casual barrage of fine swear words from Eddie. I was feeling right at home.
It was great to see Ed and Elizabeth again. We'd known each other from Regensburg in the 1990s. I think we'd all met or worked at the Goldene Ente beer garden. Later Ed and Elizabeth had owned The Leprechaun Irish Pub in Regensburg before moving to the States for a few years. Now, like us, they'd returned to Germany.
Amazing now to see our kids playing together. Also amazing for us to just slip back into that old Regensburg familiarity so easily.
They kindly put us up for a few days while we dealt with some paperwork.

So right now me and Ronan are in Burghausen while Hil has a month of studying in Munich.
Ronan had his first day at school yesterday. What a brave wee guy. He was fighting the tears but when I picked him up he was smiling. It hadn't been so bad as he'd dreaded. Not great but not bad. Nothing an ice cream wouldn't fix.

Burghausen is a town of 2 halves.
The New Town (Neu-stadt) and the Old Town (Alt- Stadt) where the ice cream lives. We live in the new part.

Burghausen has the longest castle in Germany. Our apartment building is still a building site. I suspect the castle might be finished before our home.

The Salzach River runs past the old town. The far shore is Austria. There is a bridge that leads to a town called Ach and to a cell phone problem. It seems when I get too close to Austria, my new cell phone sometimes switches to an Austrian system that then charges me expensive international rates.

And now here we are. 10,000 kms from Seattle. What's next?

Brookstock seems a long time ago.

………………………………………………………………

Anyway, years back, me and Peter were having a late night beer in the Alte Malzerei. We were sitting at the bar and were well past our walk a straight line date.
The place was almost empty but a guy about our age came up and ordered a beer. While Zoltan the Hungarian chef poured it for him, the guy overheard us talking.
I guess out thick Glasgow and Dublin accents confused him. He asked us where we were from. On a drunken impulse I told him we were from Iceland.
He seemed impressed. He had never met anyone from Iceland. So we told him all about it. I explained that Peter's English wasn't so good so I translated everything into phony Icelandic for him. Peter would nod at my gibberish and would mumble some gibberish of his own back at me which I would translate into German for the poor guy.
This cracked us both up. When the man asked what was so funny I would say, "He is a very funny guy."
The man stood listening. Trying to crack the code.
"What are you doing in Regensburg" he asked.
"Hoogy doogie hurdy Regenzbog" I'd say to Peter.
Peter would nod and say. Yuckin shtoopop floppin toop."
We were like the Flower Pot Men.
I'd then nod and we'd both say, "Yaka yaka", as if we were agreeing on some point.
"We're with the band."

I had envisioned that the man would depart after Zoltan delivered his beer. But he didn't. He just stood there. He was there for half an hour. We began to wish he'd go away. We hadn't intended to drag out the joke. I don't know if he had sussed us out completely and was enjoying a personal inner laugh of his own or if he thought we really were Icelandic. Either way, we just kept on talking absolute drivel till finally he left. In fact I think he backed away. And who wouldn't: even if we really had been Icelandic?
Funny thing is that if we'd just stuck to our original accents he'd probably have believed us for sure.
Well that'll teach us to try mess with someone's head. I can picture that guy probably left and told his pals about the 2 twits he'd met at the pub, then they probably had a fine laugh and spoke some Icelandic of their own.

Another toaster of a day.
This gig really was an odd set-up compared to the other Market bbq on the Fairhaven Parkway.
A bit "Under-thought-out" by the powers that be.
At the original Fairhaven Market bbq, there is a little outdoor café corner that is screened off from the parking. Food is cooked and served right there. The band sets up and plays there too. Customers sit at picnic tables. It's all very contained and quite cozy.

But at the new Lake way Market we were expected to play in the car park in the blazing sun for 3 sweltering hours.
The store manager didn't really know where to put us. We campaigned for a canopy to ward off the sun. The staff set one up though I suspect they thought we were just some band of prima-donnas acting high strung and petty.
I recall we once played out in Glacier one Summer. We played outdoors in the direct sun. By the time we finished the gig, my head looked like a tomato. I was cooked and it didn't feel good at all.

I didn't need refried at the Market bbq.

So we set up near The Markets bbq area. The trouble was that they'd done all the cooking earlier and brought the food inside to display it at their deli counter. They sold it there and packaged it up. Most customers bought their food as take-away and probably departed without even noticing the band or making any connection between live music and their purchase. Even the few picnic chairs were well hidden. The bbq wasn't even on. In fact there wasn't even a cook manning the station.
Basically we were left to our own devices which just leads to farting about, big gaps between songs and frequent glances at wrist watches. It was all quite comical.
As a band, (me, Howie, Dave and Aaron) I guess we played well enough but we really were just going through the motions in a parking lot. The food was good right enough.

Thinking about the gig later, I realized that there really are no immediate neighbours near the super market. I'd have set up the bbq and sales counter side by side outside. I'd have started the live music around 7:30 or 8 PM when the traffic had thinned out. I'd have cleared away some of the outdoor displays and put out more seating. I'd have advertised the gig as a weekly Summer event. I'd make The Market a destination. Shop and Bop.

……But that's just me.

………………………………..

Song wise we didn't play anything too dark or adventurous. But we did get around to adding on a Howie Fiddle tune to the Annecy song. It had some welcome fresh energy.

……………………………………

There's not much creative energy in a supermarket parking lot though there's more goes on than meets the eye. There's potential drama in every slam of a car door and every glance in a shop window.

The band plays on; apparently oblivious but their eyes are furtive. Meanwhile at the Liquor Store, every scrutinized I.D. could be false. Could be a terrorist or an illegal alien
Every brown paper bag could be a quiet night at home with a loved one or a hellish recurring nightmare of domestic violence, sirens and blackouts. Or perhaps it contains some mellowing companionship by a lonely campfire.

At the checkout, shoppers are counting their change. The tension in the manicurist's salon is nail biting.
And what about that Crazy Mike guy at the video store? Why, he could come storming out that door like a Braveheart extra and go on a chansaw massacre without a moments notice.
Who knows?

Then there's that suspicious looking band hanging out by the wood pile…..

That's how exiting it was.

The Courtyard is a high security facility for offenders over 80.

That's not true but there were actually a lot of security measures in place. Every door had a key or an electronic password.
The Courtyard is an old folk's home. "Safety Measures" is probably a better term than security measures. They are in place to prevent guests from wandering too far off course and injuring themselves. Still, we definitely had a captive audience.

On this particular day The Courtyard was hosting a family day BBQ.
We were the band.
We (Me, Kat and Aaron) set up to play in a potted plant alcove (no cruel jokes please) in a corridor that led from the dining room to another wing of the home.
This was a completely unplugged gig. Aaron had his double bass, Kat had her violin. I had the new Tailor guitar.
At first the alcove was empty but about 20 minutes into our gig a few people stopped by and sat for a listen and a chat. It was all very pleasant.
Then word got out around the building, "They're dancing in the hallway". It was like a call to arms. They arrived by crutch and by wheelchair. Leaning on shoulders and walking sticks; their faces wrought in grim determination.
Extra seating were brought in, cookies were passed around. Someone broke out the O'Doul's. And yes there really was dancing. Those Golden Oldies sure know how to shake it.

At the beginning I was singing very quietly and tentatively. I didn't want to cause any heart attacks or start a slow-mo stampede for the exits. By the end I got the feeling they preferred our livelier stuff.
We played from noon till 1:30 PM. I think the people enjoyed the distraction.
A pleasant afternoon.

………………………………………….

A similar predicament arose long ago when me and PJ were on a busking walkabout. We arrived in the German spa town of Bad Orb. This little town catered exclusively to the older generations.
On the roadside as we approached were traffic signs we'd never seen before. One had a picture of a radio with a red X slashed across it. No radios, I presumed. A little further on we passed another sign. This one depicted a bunch of bananas with a red X. No bananas.

Down-town Bad Orb was all ashuffle and abustle with a wheelchair traffic jam but there was an overall aura of silence. I guess old people are comfy in silence. When you get a whole town of them together, the silence is intense.
We found ourselves talking in whispers.

We'd come to busk. We also busked at a high volume. There is a busker saying, "If you can't be good, be loud."
It looked like we'd just have to be good. There's a first time for everything.

In the end I couldn't bring myself to play. I did not want to be the person responsible for abruptly shattering the peace. I truly feared I'd set off a contagion of seizures and strokes.
PJ did a short set in hushed tones and the going was fair to rough but no one died.

I can't remember where we spent the night. I recall that the park was far too busy to sleep in though we may have crept in after dark. There was a hollow bush near the train station but it was already taken.
The next morning was sunny and warm. We found ourselves hitch-hiking on a country road outside a tiny village. The road was deserted. Forest was all around.
We were standing there enjoying the morning sun when a moped came by. Astride it was a beer bellied man in a wife beater string vest. He buzzed past us then did a U-turn and came back. He stopped and conversation ensued. The usual pleasantries: "Wo her commen sie? Was machen sie heir?" Sind sie Deutche?" Sind sie verloren?"
"Aha Musikanter."

After this short exchange he reached into his trouser pocket and gave us 5 Deutch Marks. Then he departed.
The 5 Marks was very generous of him but it did puzzle us. We hadn't solicited him for it. Did we just look like we needed it? I think we were wearing the new clothes we'd gotten from the Lohr train carriage adventure. So we weren't quite at our worst.

A few minutes later as the buzz of his moped faded into the sound of birds chirping, we noticed a pair of false teeth lying on the ground. It was too early in the morning to be looking at dentures but we were too squeamish to move them. We were experiencing irrational denture phobia. Like an elephant herd recoiling from a mouse.
So we got a small twig and managed to shoo them gingerly off to one side and into the bushes.
At this point in the tale we had not yet made the connection between the teeth and the moped man. We'd hitch-hiked on a million roadsides. They are littered with all kinds of human trash. For all we knew, those teeth could have been there for years. Perhaps they were all that remained of the last hitcher.

A few minutes later the moped goes past again and disappears round the corner. The engine noise recedes and fades out. Then we hear it begin to grow louder again. It comes round the corner. The guy is driving slowly. His eyes scouring the road. He draws closer and closer. Finally he is stopped right in front of us. We realize he looks exactly like someone who has recently lost a set of false teeth.
He appears to have retraced his morning trail like a toothless bloodhound. Now his nose has brought his beady eyes to rest upon us. There's no denying it. The trail ends here.

He seems a little shy about telling us he's looking for his teeth. Which is unfortunate because now that we'd just poked and prodded his teeth with a stick and wrestled them into the undergrowth, we were also too embarrassed to tell this poor man that, yes we had seen his teeth and in fact we know them quite well.
No that would just take to much awkward interpretation. We could've explained that his teeth fell out his pocket when he handed us the 5 marks. That's easily. But how had they come to be hiding now in the bushes? How could we explain that?
So we denied everything.
"Teeth? What teeth? No teeth here?"
The man departed. Perplexed. Toothless.

Well we instantly felt kinda bad for the guy. What to do? Isn't it bizarre how something so simple can get so convoluted?
We figured he'd probably keep searching till he found them. So we decided to retrieve the teeth from the bushes and maneuver them onto a fence post where they would be plainly visible if the man returned. Hopefully we'd be long gone by then. He'd find his teeth. No explanations would be necessary. Everybody would be happy.

It wasn't easy to negotiate those teeth onto the fence post without touching them. We used a couple of twigs like rustic chopsticks to pick them up. One chopstick each. We were pathetically dainty and careful as if we feared they'd bite us. They kept falling off and landing in the roadside gravel. By the time we got them balanced on the summit of the post, they were a gritty mess.
I guess it was just taboo to touch someone's false teeth. No one likes to eat food that's been in someone else's mouth. I guess this was the same sort of nausea.

Anyway with our good deed done, all we needed was a lift away from the crime scene. An hour passed. The road was not heavily trafficked. We were far off the beaten track. All we could do was stand there: me, PJ and the fence post with the teeth. What had once been an anonymous stave in the ground now had a mouth piece which gave it instant personality. For a while it felt like there were three of us chattering away.

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a moped. The tooth fairy was back.
Oh oh.
Once again the moped stopped beside us. The driver was now looking a little more distraught. Lunch time was approaching and teeth were not provided.
We tried to look innocent but we were aware that his roving eye would shortly settle on his false teeth atop the post. We were lined up side by side. He looked at me. I shook my head. "No I've seen no teeth."
He looks at P.J. who says cryptically, "sometimes".
Then the man looks to the fence post. He sees the filthy teeth. He grabs them. Stares at them. Cogs are turning in his head. How can teeth fall from a pocket and land upward on a fence post? He glowers suspiciously then drives off.
"Jeez", says PJ. "I thought he was going to ask for his 5 Marks back."

Encouraging to see a lot of friendly faces in the garden today. Craig and his kids were there. Also Alex, Sagit, Eleanor. Hil and Ronan, Tree and his wife even showed up. Mr. Flanders also made a cameo appearance. Dave's kids were also there. So there was an amicable, sociable buzz in the air.

The sun popped in and out sporadically, folks hula hooped. Fish were fried, beer was consumed. The band played.

We've had the same line-up for the last 3 gigs now. Me, Dave, Kat and Aaron.
Unbelievable.

We split the gig into two 45 minute sets. The first set probably flowed a little better than the second but both were a lot of fun. Our song endings were a bit hap-hazard but at least we nailed the endings on Annecy and The Bouncy House.

We also managed to toss in some more unusual songs like Can't Keep me, Fontainebleau, 20 Tonnes and Painted Pony.

Unexpected hit of the day…..Ain't No Bugs on Me. The real version: not our old bluesy rendition. The kids (and adults) were quite entertaining with their Hula Hooping antics.

So all in all this was a good gig even though we ran out of time before we got to play our whole set list. No Cardboard Box or Whisky in the Jar "O". Or Step It Out Mary

Anyway, not a bad farewell gig to bow me out of the boundary Bay scene if indeed our (me, Hil and Ronan's) move to Europe continues to take more solid form.
That would mean Painted Pony was the last song we played there.
It's been a mad run with the Boots. Was it 3 years? We easily played well over a hundred gigs in one format or another.
An interesting experience. On the whole it was a blast. For better or worse, I feel I learned a lot.
So, good job everybody.

Still we're not quite dead yet and who knows, I may still be in town a long time. Even if we leave, it will only be for a couple of years.
We'll probably be back before anyone notices we've been gone.

Tailor Guitar review.

It's been a while since I played there. The market has always had a friendly atmosphere. Now that it's relocated to Chestnut Ave (Street?) it has brought the same ambiance along.
The new premises are at the same place they had the Allied Arts over Christmas.
Remember that big stage?
Anyway it was a non descript but pleasant little afternoon gig. The most notable event was the unveiling of my new Tailor guitar. It worked well under the circumstances. I didn't give it much of a sound check. I basically plugged it in and started playing. I can't say it sounded great or bad but I was pleased with its overall performance. There was no feedback, no crackling, and no twanging or rattling. It stayed in tune. The action was very comfortable.

All guitars have their quirks. I haven't found the Tailor's eccentricities yet. I have noticed the high B and E are a bit bright but I've often found that's a problem with various guitars. That's why I generally only change those strings when they break. I like them dull.

This Tailor guitar doesn't have a graphic equalizer as versatile as the Takamine. It only has a volume knob and 2 other unlabeled circular knobs. The only way to figure out what they do is by trial and error.

A huge plus is that the Tailor's battery is easily changeable. The Takamine's battery was originally inside the body. It was a nightmare to change till I got it repositioned to near the cable input with easy external access. The Tailor battery is thankfully already accessible from outside. This means I don't require a PHD in gynecology in order to replace a flat battery.

I bought my Takamine in New Haven Connecticut in 1989. It has served me well for gigs though I rarely played it for personal fun. Its action was always a little high. I lowered it when I bought it but should have lowered it a tiny bit more. Instead I decided to quit while I was winning, before I messed it up completely.

In short; what I liked best about the Takamine was its pick-up. What I disliked was the inside battery.

I've had that guitar for 22 years of gigging during which time it's taken a lot of knocks. This latest unpredictable breakdown is a fizzle too far.The Takamine is talking to itself. That's a bad sign. The time has come for the Takamine to go into well earned retirement.

That guitar has done me proud over the years but her quirks have become flaws.
That means the Takamine's last gig was at the Ferndale Highland Games. Not a bad place to bow out.
We didn't exactly go out with a bang; just a crackle. But it's sure been a buzz.

So here we were again back in Hovander Park.
T'was a scorcher of a June day at the Ferndale highland Games.
This time, we finally played in the actual beer garden. On Friday we were closing in: lapping the shore as it were. But on Sunday, the powers that be, finally agreed to move the music into the fenced off beer garden.
A squad of caber tossers shouldered the stage ceremoniously across the field and hoisted it over the fence, putting it down within reach of the sacred beer tent.
And no, we weren't on the stage during the trip but that would have been quite an entrance.

Me, Dave, Kat and Aaron were the band. Same line-up as Friday.

I'd say this was quite an entertaining wee gig. Being daylight meant that we could actually see what we were doing without the glaring interrogation spotlight frying our eye balls like on Friday.

This was the shutting down of the Highland games event.
For readers just joining us….. We'd also played on Friday when they'd had the traditional keg blessing. Kirkin the Firkin it was referred to or something like that.
Now we were last out the door on the Sunday. Typical Scotsman and crew, waiting for the last of the slops.

Anyway we fairly whizzed through the gig, keeping it up tempo but not in your face.
No big gaps between songs and no extended jams. Quite refreshing to be honest.
But my guitar still crackles.

Met a lot of interesting folks from all over. Many folks came up to say, good job. Apparently we'd been broadcast over the whole park. I'd thought we'd only been playing to the beer crowd.
There were people there from all over the world. I even met a Scottish guy from Elgin. A guy from Newfoundland and… many more.

Ronan was great. He really was patient. State law says children aren't allowed in the beer garden. If the garden had served food too, he may have been granted entry. In the end it wasn't a big deal. He played football and we hung out with him before and after the gig. For his reward, he did insist on being treated to a "Happy Meal" at a well known fast food restaurant whose name fitted well with the clan theme. One with a play room.

Hovander Park.
Ferndale.

Our stage was set up just outside the beer garden. Naturally we'd have preferred to have been on the inside but this was a vast improvement on last year when we were set adrift on our podium raft in the middle of an empty field. The beer garden had been but a utopian speck on the horizon.
That's where the party seemed to be happening while we were like jealous uninvited neighbours down the street with binoculars.
But this time we were almost part of it. We could hear the clink of glasses close enough to make us salivate like Pavlovian dogs.

We went on stage after the Scottish Idol talent contest. Yes Scottish Idol. There were plenty of enthusiastic entrants, but not much talent (Says he, Mr. Talent himself). Actually to be honest there were some nice moments. A little boy beat upon a drum and there was a teenage girl with a beautiful voice who sang a haunting battle song. Unfortunately for us there were endless late entries. Every time the show seemed over we were delayed again and again. Finally 2 hours after arriving, we took to the wee stage just as the mosquitoes and the dusk was settling in.

Interesting to note that the winner was paid the same money for singing one song that we got for the whole evening! Hell, we should have been a late entry too. (I doubt we'd have won right enough.)

But not to gripe. We had quite an agreeable gig. Sound check wasn't the best but not too bad. "Live-with able."

So this band line-up comprised of me on guitar and cazumpet, Dave on the drums, Aaron on the bass and hey diddle diddle, Kat on the fiddle.

Seeing as it was the Highland Games, we tried to throw in as many Celtic songs as we could muster. Step it Out Mary. Donald Where's Yer Troozers. Muirshin Durkin. Whisky in the Jar "O". Mari's Wedding. And a few others that I don't recall.
We went from song to song with very little noticeable awkwardly long gaps in between.
One Bummer though is that my guitar is crackling again. Very frustrating.

By the time we finished up, it was solid darkness. The only light available was a giant Bat Signal spotlight that shone right in our eyes from 15 feet away and blinded us completely.
Dave tried to protect his eyes by hiding in my shadow. Occasionally I'd hear him yelp in pain and I'd know that he'd accidentally peeked out into the atomic glare.
Still as I said, it was an enjoyable gig. One to remember. One forever burnt into my retina.

This was Kat's first gig with the Boots and she slotted in quietly and professionally. (Thanks Kat.)
Dave was an inspiration as ever. Aaron was solid. I'm hearing some tidy little bass runs emerging. Not that my material requires much daring do but I do appreciate all creative input.

Anyway not much to report. No news is good news.
The Muddy Boots continue to tick over but in no fixed format.

Ski to Sea Day

T'was a momentous day today. After being here in Bellingham since 1998(?), Hil competed in her first Ski to Sea. I guess now she can really say she's "done" Bellingham.
We are very proud of her. She did the cycling part. I believe it was a distance a little over 40 miles. Her time was about 2 hours 12 minutes which she was very pleased with.
I would have liked to enter too but they didn't have a motorbike section.

Afterwards we all headed to Boundary Bay where I had a gig with the Muddy Boots. The band comprised of me, Dave, Aaron and Howie.

When we got there, a band was already playing. It took me a minute to recognize Will who I'd jammed with around Christmas. It hadn't worked out but he seemed to have assembled a band for the day. When I spoke to him, I'm not sure he could place my face. He shook my hand enthusiastically and asked if I was still sailing. Not sure what that was about. Maybe a code word.

Then I recognized Phil in the corner. He'd been playing slide guitar. I asked him if he wanted to sit in with the Boots for old time's sake. So then we were five.

The gig itself went fairly smoothly. It was a sunny day and we were in the beer garden. It wasn't the busiest but it made for a laid back atmosphere.
Lucky Mike set us up with a fine sound check (thanks Mike) and for a few songs I used my Fishman pickup on my Vantage guitar for its maiden voyage. It worked well enough. Not spectacular but no feedback.
Song wise, there were no real disasters. Whisky in the Jar "O" almost worked but our arrangement sort of fell apart. We were just about holding it together when a freak gust of wind blew across stage and made off with all my music notes. I had to interrupt the song to chase them down. Some things you can't ignore. Fortunately, Lucky Mike appeared and chased them down like a butterfly hunter. Then he weighed them back down with a D.I. box. It was lucky he was there. I guess that's why they call him Lucky Mike.
I'm sure they wouldn't have flown so far if it had been the tips jar that had blown over.

We also played Painted Pony which felt a bit rough but everyone seemed to enjoy it.
The rest of the material was the usual stuff.
I think we all enjoyed the gig. It was good of Phil to sit in. I think Howie had fun. Dave and Aaron were solid. Hiccups were few. That's a good thing.

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Right now, I'm not sure how much longer we will stay in the States. I get the feeling that this town, nice as it is, might be all played out. I'm getting that dead end feeling again. Bellingham's music scene has been a pleasant little merry-go-round but Europe is calling again.

I wouldn't say that Europe treats it's musicians any better than the States, it's just that music is more engrained into the various cultures.
I sense that the (Any) local music scene is a cottage industry stuck in a rut of every man for himself. Musical expression is pushed aside by more immediate individual needs like paying rents and bills. Thus musicians take any crumb of a gig that comes along in order to make ends meet. They (We) become the dumpster divers of the art world. Solidarity crumbles. Bands become loose wheeled co-ops instead of well oiled machines. In the end everybody is afloat but no one's swimming anywhere. It's not necessarilly the musicians' faults, it's the sad economics of a business which pays worse than a dishwasher.

Whatcom County surely this must be one of the most breath taking places on earth. I continually remind myself that people come here on holiday from all over the world just to see it. To many, it's the trip of a lifetime. For me, It has been an incredible experience that I got to live in every day.

I recall in January 1999 we were waiting for the ferry up on Vancouver Island. I think it may have been Schwarz Bay. The weather was mild and we were looking through the San Juan Islands towards Mount Baker in the East. We were en route to Bellingham to start this new chapter in our life. Me, Hil and Huck the dog.
Schwarz Bay was silent except for the gentle lapping of waves on the shore. We stared East at that big white mountain that seemed to draw my eye. I swear it was the most wondrous place on earth. (That's a big compliment coming from a Scotsman.) I felt we were staring at a live postcard. We gazed in awe and I turned to Hil and said. "This… is embarrassing". It was too beautiful. And now we were going to go inhabit that postcard. We didn't deserve this. How would we explain it to our friends without being apologetic?
Of course we got to Bellingham and it rained for the next 5 months. When I remarked on this to a local, he said, we were lucky we hadn't arrived in October cause it had rained those 3 months too.
There's sure been a lot of up and downs since that January day, but sharing this adventure with Hil, Ronan and Huck has been the happiest of privileges.

I still can't help missing Europe. Not that it's particularly better; it's just where I'm from. We may go back for a year and then return. We may not even go. If we do leave, I doubt our absence will be noticed. I will miss the wildlife.

Ronan was born here. This is his town. I only really came to the U.S. for a look around. I have a green card but I'm not an immigrant.
If the USA was a part of Europe, I'd probably be quite content here. But it's not. I can't just nip across a border and visit a whole new world and be back a few days or months later. That is truly what I miss about Europe; that get up and saunter mentality that I've put aside for so long. I wandered around the back roads of that continent for years. Eventually I didn't even really need a map any more.

If we are in Europe still when Ronan turns 21, I wonder if he'll wish to return home to Bellingham. Home to Padden Creek. Just like a Salmon.

Hil has done the Ski to Sea and that feat reminds me of when we did the vendange near Beaune. Though I'd criss crossed The Continent for years, the vendange was something special that was missing from my European experience though I didn't know it till we did it.
Hil has done the Ski to Sea. She has gone officially native. We are clear for take-off.

Oh Solo Mio

This gig wasn't confirmed until the last minute. The Haggis Band had cancelled and I got this 1 hour afternoon slot.
I was to start at 1 o clock so I got there 20 minutes early but the previous act hadn't even shown up yet. I hung around outside. Fortunately it was a beautiful day so me and Hil strolled around downtown which was quite pleasant but nevertheless I don't enjoy loitering around before gigs. It makes me antsy.

………………………….

Meanwhile inside......

The Penk Dancers are 3 pretty young girls who do a high stepping, high energy dance routine set to traditional Irish techno music which brings the house down every year. They bounce effortlessly around the room like antelopes. I always have this primitive urge to lasso them. They are very good at what they do and get the crowd all fired up. Heaven help any unfortunate busker who has to follow that act.
Alas, I was that unfortunate busker. I seem cursed to die regularly in their footsteps. Last year on Paddy's Day I was on after them. At the Burns Supper last month, it happened again. Now here I was, once more eating their dust.
I was at least prepared for it this time. I resigned myself to being background noise accompanying corned beef, cabbage and clinking cutlery.

After The Penk Girls had kicked up their storm and jigged out the door, the bar felt like a twister had just passed through.
In the calm of their exit, I and Lucky Mike hauled in a stage and the PA system from next door. Sometimes I think there's a thin line between building a stage or a gallows.
I figured my best bet was to just play well, keep it lighthearted and flowing.
You'd think the management might have at least turned off the TVs.

Because the Penk Sisters had been running late, my set had to be shortened. I didn't mind.
So I did a Greatest Bits set and then put my guitar in an open D tuning for a big finish. Open tunings do help make any sound checks sound good. Pity I can't open tune my voice.
I figured I wouldn't have to tune my guitar back up again which can be tricky in a noisy room. But then I learned that the next act, The Bellingham Fire Brigade Pipe Band, was running late. Probably stopped en-route to rescue a cat up a tree.
Could I play a little longer, asked Lucky Mike?
Yikes. I'd just played all my best stuff. So now I had to ad-lib an extra half hour. And tune up without breaking any of my ancient guitar strings.

It wasn't really a problem. No strings broke. I don't think folks were really listening. I could have broke 3 strings and hung myself with another. I doubt anyone would have noticed. I'm sure they were having a good time, soaking up the atmosphere and the beer. They were going to enjoy their day whether I was there or not.
Finally the Pipers arrived and blew the place to bits with drums and pipes. The crowd went wild.
Insignificance reaches new lows when you are sandwiched between 2 such head turning acts as the Penks and the Pipes.
I guess this was a production line gig. I was but a humble cog in the great St Pats day musical marathon.
Still, I got paid and actually quite enjoyed it. Lucky Mike's sound check was fine in the end. He really worked at it and coaxed a decent mix out of the equipment. Well done Mike. Thanks.

So it was a gritty little gig. I guess it was nice just to be asked to partake in the celebrations.

Happy Birthday St Patrick.

I must admit I don't know much about St Patrick. I wouldn't be alone there.
I do know a few bits.
I know that Ireland's best loved religious fanatic was actually Scottish.

When it's said that he drove the snakes out of Ireland, it's really symbolism for his stamping out of the old pagan religions. Apparently the pagan chieftains had tattoos of snakes on their arms. It was these chiefs who were driven from Ireland. They were not driven out in a Paddy wagon. Most likely they were driven out on foot by men wielding golf clubs.
There you have it: Golf is a Scottish game invented by St Patrick as he drove the snakes out of Ireland.
I wonder if there are any snakes in Ireland nowadays. Did someone drive them back?

Is it true that New Zealand is snakeless? Perhaps St Patrick went there too? He obviously never got to Australia. That place is Snake central. Or maybe he did go there. Australia might be where he drove them to. He may have died there, delusional, trying to drive the Box Jellyfish out of Oz.

St Patrick did not found Glasgow Celtic Football Club in order to raise funds to feed the poor immigrants of East Glasgow. That was Brother Walfred.
Brother Walfred doesn't seem to get celebrated like St Patrick.
Even St Andrew doesn't get the attention St Patrick does.

My Father's name was Patrick. He was alright but he wasn't a saint.

The Mad Haggis showed up, ate pancakes and played a few tunes. Then they left and never looked back.
Not a bad gig, just irelevant.

A jam.
Had its moments.

Tonight's Muddy Boots crew comprised of me, Dave, Aaron, and Yahn.

Not a bad gig, considering this was only Aaron's second gig with us. What we knew, worked, what we didn't, was a bit wobbly. A few songs dragged on a bit due to missed cues but on the whole I think it was fine.

We set up in the entry hall of the new museum. (Is it a museum or an art gallery?). At opening time a lively crowd of art lovers came tumbling in the door like it was the January sales. The café was open and there was quite a buzz in the place.

Bellingham's down town Art Walk happens once a month. It's an interesting event that encourages people to go out and enjoy the local art scene.
Maybe I should have brought along some sketches.
I guess music is art too.

Despite this band format being a little rough round the edges, we had some fun moments. It's always satisfying to nail the end sequence of Annecy. Cardboard box was as good a jam as ever. Bouncy house made its first official band sized appearance. I think we just about got it.
Enjara was a bit shaky. It seems to have lost its "oomph" recently. I think we'll have to give that one a pep talk. Its dynamic is getting lost somewhere.
Weeping Willow was nice with Yahn's haunting harmonica. My harmonica is now so old that I think it felt right at home in the museum. (Though it may be even more at home in a scrap yard). Poor wee guy.

Biggest disappointment for me was that we didn't get to play Painted Pony because we'd accidentally stopped a little early. I thought we'd played too long but we still had 5 minutes or so left.
We'd been practicing Painted Pony a lot recently and Dave had given it a great spooky beat. I guess we just didn't get round to it.
I really should invest in a watch, but right now I can hardly invest in a guitar string.

I guess we didn't get to play Thylacine either. We'd practiced it too because it seemed like an appropriate song for a museum. For that matter I also forgot all about the Guernica song.
Maybe next time.

I hadn't been to many museums or art galleries really till I met Hil. In fact I lived a couple of years in Annecy and hadn't even thought about visiting any local culture. Then I met Hil and within a week I'd been to the Vielle Prison exhibit and toured the castle and it's museum. I drew the line though when she tried to drag me into a church (The Visitation). I'd had my fill of churches since as a kid I had Catholicism rammed down my throat every day of my childhood. I swore I'd never voluntarily enter a church ever again.
Even after 8 years in Regensburg I never set foot in its mighty cathedral though I walked past it almost every day.

Since I got cultured by Hil, we've now been to quite a few museums together. We even have a membership at the Lightcatcher place.
In London we went to a Beatrix Potter exhibit in the Tate Gallery. On Vancouver Island we went to a Da Vinci exhibit. In Glasgow we went to the Burrell Collection. We went to museums in New York, and Montana and Munich too.

But the one museum that sticks out for me was a small museum in the beautiful little Italian town of San Germiniano. This was the museum of medieval torture and it was not for the weak of heart or stomach.
This exhibition revealed in gory, sadistic, realism, the intricate detail that these sick minded inventors put into their contraptions. These nuts were passionate about their work. There was nothing random here. This was cold blooded, pre-meditated torture.
I probably shouldn't go into detail but I've brought you this far….

…..Well there were the usual traditional stuff like stretching racks and thumb screws. Then there were the sarcophaguses with spikes on the inside of the lid. You can guess what the theory was there.
There were sinister looking tool kits that wouldn't have been allowed in a slaughter house. Then there was a pyramid about 10 feet tall. It had a spiky summit that a naked person was forced to sit upon. ("Aw Come on! Jeez!" I hear you say.)

The implement that really got to me though was a relatively simple device. It was hand cuffs, ankle manacles and a neck collar all joined together by a metal rod about 2 feet long. The unfortunate client was shackled in a fetal position and basically left there for an unspecified period of time. The metal rod prevented the prisoner from being able to change position. They lay there suffering horrible muscle spasms and cramps, never knowing if they were there for a day or a year. The end result was generally babbling insanity. Still makes me shiver to think about it.

Were people really that hard to get secrets out of back then? I was ready to confess by the time I'd saw the thumb screws. I hadn't even done anything!

It was all fascinating stuff in a macabre sort of way. It certainly fired up the imagination. Definitely an intense experience.
I clearly remember how relieved I felt when I stepped back into the Italian sunshine after that little horror show.
I definitely needed a beer.
Jeez, I need one now just thinking about it.

Fortunately the Light catcher wasn't that kind of museum. We might have tortured a few ears with our musical exhibit but hopefully not too seriously.

The name "Light catcher" sounds quite pleasant actually. Like a kind of sea bird soaring and diving around high cliffs on a cool sunny day in the North Sea.

Or maybe it's just a prism, or an old camera.
A sun trap. A solar panel. Or a guy with a butterfly net chasing winged light bulbs.
Or an old pointy hat with a broken window.

I'm raving.

There is certainly a difference between ad-libbing because you must and ad-libbing because a band doesn't practice. The latter is what most Muddy Boots gigs have boiled down to recently but at the Honeymoon on the 28th we were forced to ad-lib spontaneously and it turned out to be a lot of fun.

The day before the gig I got an email from Phil saying he was stranded in Ireland with his slide guitar and wouldn't be at the gig. So I got in touch with Yahn. He said he could make it for the second set with his mandolin.
So that was good news.

But then, on the afternoon of the gig, Donald phoned to say he and his bass were ill.
Terry was there at the time and I asked him if he felt like learning 20 songs really quickly. But he said he was going to be too busy.

So I reached Aaron via email and miraculously he was free to play.
We'd had one session about 2 weeks earlier to practice for the Light Catcher gig. I hadn't seen him since.
So we lined up for kick off as a makeshift trio. Like a tricycle built of spare parts. Me, Aaron and Dave. I don't think Dave even knew Aaron. He certainly didn't know that Aaron was taking Donald's place for the evening.

The place was really busy and there were a lot of familiar faces. Ralph and Casey, Murielle, Hil and Darla. There were some other faces too from previous gigs which was encouraging.

So we tip-toed musically into the gig with All By Myself almost like we were trying to waft into the atmosphere without making a ripple. Our sound check merged into the first song. We seem to do that quite often at the Honeymoon. I don't think we do it anywhere else. Usually we play that song as an upbeat rocking blues but it works well as a slower spookier song in the Honeymoon.

It was certainly an odd set made of 3 chord songs with easy changes. I filled it out with some simple solos and played some harmonica, cazumpet, and invisible bugle. In the end it was all fun and probably quite entertaining but I think it would have been hard to pull off for 3 sets.

Just as we were finishing the first set, a gnome appeared and asked to sit in and play some steel guitar.
He came up for the second set and he wasn't bad at all. Said his name was Mike. His last name was polish: something like Guatchz. Anyway he seemed a friendly sort of gnome and he just sat happily at the side playing away. From what I could hear, he seemed in tune and played in time. (Must have been a Metro-Gnome.) He kept looking up at me and saying, "This is a hoot. You are a hoot. What a hoot." He was hooting more than owl. But I had to agree with him. It really was a hoot.

It's always such a gamble allowing a stranger onstage to join in. It can be a nightmare or a pleasant surprise. Mike was a pleasant surprise. He was honest enough to tell me upfront that he wasn't great but he thought he could fill the sound out a bit.

Then Yahn turned up and as ever just joined right in. He must have thought that Phil had shown up after all but his Ireland trip sure had changed him.
Yahn had his harmonicas and mandolin. Soon we were back on our normal set list and all in all it was quite a blast.
A hoot.

But what a crazy band. Only me and Dave really knew the songs. We left a whole bunch of stuff out: Annecy, Riding Home, Dandelion, Bouncy House, I'd been really looking forward to playing Painted Pony. But sadly we couldn't do it.
One song we publicly premiered (flayed) was Mama Mazama. It went quite well I suppose. We'd only practiced it once up at Dave's. But that was with Donald. I doubt Aaron had ever heard it before.
We also played a few Irish/Scottish songs. Muirshin Duirkin, Step It Out Mary, and Donald Where's Yer Troozers. We must be getting into the St Patrick's Day Mode.

I guess despite the obstacles in our way, the gig went well. They say the universe provides. Well she was kind to us that night. Thank you universe and to all the folks who inhabit our local universe who came down to the Honeymoon by chance or design.
Sorry I didn't get to chat more but I was kept occupied rewriting set lists and cheat sheets.

Thanks a zillion to Yahn and Aaron for being there at such short notice and doing such a good job.

Mad Haggis.
At an Early Burns Supper.
January 22?

I seem to learn more about my Scottish heritage, the longer I stay away from Scotland.

There I was, 10,000 kms from sunny Scotland, just hanging out in the Pacific North West when suddenly I'm attending a Burn's Supper. It was a little unexpected.

Recently I'd been tentatively putting a new band project together and we'd made enquiries into playing the Highland Games this Summer. As musicians, we'd all played the games before but we'd never done it together as one band. Glen (The Games Organizer) had offered to audition us at their annual Burns Supper. It seemed like a good opportunity even though we had very little time for practice.
This new band had only been together less than a month. We barely had a set worth of material but we agreed it was worth the risk. After all the Highland Games were still 6 months away.

The evening's entertainment included Burns poetry recitals and Scottish music and Highland Dancing (Complete with explanation).
There was bag piping and I believe there was even whisky. It was all uncannily civilized. There was haggis (which apparently is illegal in the U.S.) …. And there was Mad Haggis.

Mad Haggis seems to be the band name we've sort of settled on. There were no shortage of other haggis themed contenders for the title. Kilt the Haggis, Stab the Haggis, Bilbo Haggis, Auld Haggis, Hounds of Haggis. I kind of liked, Legalize Haggis. It would look good on a T-shirt or as a bumper sticker. As yet, nothing is official. Half the fun of having a band is naming it. The other half is splitting up.
I kind of liked the name Dirty Dan Haggis. I thought it appropriate for this region. Mad Haggis is okay but I think Dirty Dan Haggis gives the band some local roots and some depth.
Dirty Dan Harris was a regional folk figure about a hundred years ago. He was not renowned for his high hygiene standards. According to Hil, I'd have gotten on quite well with him.

Anyway…We were to play a couple of songs at the end of the evening program.
The group before us (The official entertainment) was called Up In the Air. They kindly let us use their PA system. The only problem was that the speakers were placed so far off to the sides that we really only could hear our own instruments in our hands and not through the speakers.
We forged ahead anyway and although it sounded mostly fine to me, it had in fact been a bit rough. Still, on the positive side, considering we'd only had about 4 practices and I barely knew the band, I think we pulled it off. In fact we were officially offered the Highland Games gig. So we must have did something right.

For posterities sake I'll mention that I think we played, Donald Where's yer Troozers, The Star of the County Down, Haul away, and MacPherson's Lament. I didn't intend to sing the majority but it just seemed to work out that way. In the event that this band continues practicing, I will look forward to splitting the singing between us. That's currently a luxury I can only imagine.
At present, from the Muddy Boots Band I am lucky to extract a rare backing vocal. The only chorus I hear is, "Where's my money?

Back with Izzy Skint in Bavaria, we shared all of the singing. It was hard to shut us all up. I remember when we did our kosak version of the Land Down Under, there were backing vocals answering each other like echoes into the void. Quite a racket, but performed with unbelievable raw energy. The Skint's favourite chorus was ,"4 more beers Monica".

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A haggis is a large round sausage. Traditionally its contents are encased in a sheep's stomach. (Probably a dead sheep).
They say the haggis originated in Egypt about 10,000 years ago but nowadays it seems to be recognized as a Scottish dish. Perhaps a Scotsman dug up a mummified haggis from under a pyramid and brought it back to Scotland where it escaped into the highlands and bred with other wild sausages. Over time it evolved into the haggis we all know and love today.

In Scotland, my mother sometimes cooked haggis and I always enjoyed it. In fact I had a harder time eating the turnips. Haggis is full of meat and oatmeal. I guess it's like breakfast and dinner all rolled into one.
The poor haggis seems to have gathered an ugly reputation over the years. I wonder when that began. If people thought about what offal goes into the average cheeseburger, they may be more lenient on the poor haggis. First time haggis tasters seem to revile and dread the great chieftain o' the puddin' race. You'd think they were being force-fed road kill or flirting with cannibalism.

Various myths appear about the haggis. Probably the best known yarn is that haggis have 3 legs. Two on the left side and one on the right. The one on the right is shorter which helps then run around hillsides without losing their balance.

Then there are flying haggis. This myth probably originated in the highlands for the benefit of English tourists. There is a story of a Scotsman standing outside a Bed and Breakfast with a sawn off shotgun. As he surveys the sky, an English tourist passes by and asks what he's hunting.
"Low flying haggis", says the Scotsman solemnly.
The Englishman, being a man of the world, doesn't believe him but he looks up just as a haggis comes flying over the roof. The Scotsman aims from the hip and blows the haggis to bits.
The Englishman is amazed and wanders off raving excitedly to tell his friends that haggis is more than a mere sausage but is a real animal and can fly.
Meanwhile the Scotsman's pal is still hiding up on the roof and getting ready to toss another haggis.

………………..

Years ago while I was living in Regensburg (Germany), an English friend of mine drove to Scotland in a VW bus. I asked him half joking to bring me back a haggis.
Two weeks later I came home and found a short giggling message on my answering machine. "Hello James. Got your haggis."
It was such an unusual message that I miked the answering machine and recorded it onto my 4 track studio. Then I incorporated it into an answering machine song.

That haggis lay in the freezer for quite a while. The problem was that I couldn't find anyone brave enough to share it with me. (You'd think that Germans would be keen to try a new exotic sausage species). Eventually I cooked it up and sliced it into haggis burgers. It took me over a week to eat it.
It was delicious.

Fair fa' yer honest sonsie face.
Oh chieftain o' the puddin race.
Aboon them a' ye tak yer place.

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So…. What is the Mad Haggis?
That remains to be seen.
Does the Mad Haggis have longevity?
No idea.
Mainly they are the remnants of local band, Maggie's Fury who recently lost their singer and whistler to California.
Howie plays fiddle. And to my untrained ear, he plays it well.
What's the difference between a fiddle and a violin? According to Howie's theory, violinists get paid more.
Heather is a dancer. She dances ballet and Celtic. Maybe other styles too. She can sing and she plays the bouron. Very talented.
Incidentally, do ballet dancers get paid more than Celtic dancers?
Terry can play the bass and sing at the same time. An admirable ability in my opinion. I can barely master bass playing or singing individually.
Do bassists get paid more than bass players?
Then there's me. Guitarist or guitar player? It doesn't seem to matter. I rarely get paid anyway.

This little band may or may not work. At times, the bottom seems to drop out. I sense a cloud of hesitancy and a fear of commitment.
If it wasn't for upcoming shows, I would say let's keep it casual for now. There's nothing to lose. I think the sudden gig pressure may have induced some stage fright. Rome wasn't built in a day though Hiroshima did get flattened in a matter of seconds.

Let's grow slow.
At the moment we are not about longevity. One minute, we're about gestation and the next, we're about abortion.
Right now we're …neither here nor there. I can't tell if it's a bumpy take-off or a bumpy
landing.
Life goes on.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
The Rotunda Room in the Old Town Hall.

The Rotunda Room is a very stately room with a high ceiling and a horseshoe shaped upper balcony suitable for Lennonesque jewelry rattling. I wasn't sure if this room reminded me of a wedding cake or a ballroom on the Titanic.

It did have great acoustics though, but I wish it hadn't been quite so brightly lit. We are a dark smoky room sort of band. It's hard to be sneaky in a spotlight.
Nevertheless this was a good little gig: part of the brown bag lunch time series. I believe the last brown bag lunch I had contained a bottle.

This weeks Muddy Boots band were me, Donald, Dave and J(Y)an.

Apart from the first 2 songs I think the rest of the one hour set was all original stuff.
I used my little crate PA for this outing. It was easily loud enough. I almost didn't need it.

Chairs were set out in neat rows and the people were very appreciative of our wee show. Musically, this was one of our tamer gigs. There was nothing particularly daring in the performance. Very safe. But I think we came across as friendly and approachable.
We might even be asked back.

As a band, I think we were all on good lighthearted form. Sometimes I forget how much I enjoy playing with the Boots.
I'd still love to incorporate more of our edgier stuff into our gigs. It feels like we cater too much to a middle of the road crowd because there's more gigs there. Too often, we are a watered down band.
We seldom play songs like Verdun or Jenny Grey, or Don't Flush it Out or Hitching up to Heaven, These songs have dark energy. My favourite kind. (Did we ever play Verdun?)

Jan sauntered in a few minutes late but joined right in on the grand piano. It was just sitting there so he walked up to it like it was all part of the act and started tickling its ivories. Quite an entrance.
I wonder if everyone will expect the Muddy Boots to be showing up with a grand piano from now on.

Dave has now graduated to the double egg shaker solo. Ye can't keep a good man down. He hasn't played with us that often but he's just fitted in like part of the furniture.
Donald on his bass was solid as ever. I love those Blackberry Pie backing vocals.

Generally we're quite tight unless the band shows up all in sunglasses. But that's another story. Which just goes to show that live music is as much about eyes as it is about ears.

Anyway this was a solid gig. I even sold a few CDs.

…………………….

It looks like February will be the beginning of a sporadic gig period in Bootsville. At the moment our calendar is looking deliberately bleak. Gigs do tend to show up but this year I'm not really actively searching.
We'll still take occasional decent paying gigs that come our way and we'll proudly continue as Bellingham's most invisible band. Maybe we'll win the Most Invisible Band category in the local music paper. Unlikely though as we're too invisible.
Hey maybe we're a cult band. That's the cool way to say nobodies heard of us.
Personally, I think I'm naturally invisible.
I'd do well in a war.

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Thanks Dave for being so pro-Boots on your facebook page. I appreciate your enthusiasm. We may yet rise above our invisibility and peek out over the fog.
We're not looking for fame, we're just trying to make a living doing something we enjoy.

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Here's one of my early anonymous moments which has given us a great laugh over the years.

Me and Peter played a gig out in Straubing (Bavaria) many years ago. (Maybe you were there.) It was a well advertised affair with posters all over town:

Peter Jordan and James Higgins.
Live at Joe's Pub.
Traditional Scottish and Irish Rock n Roll.
9pm.

On the night of the gig, the place was jammed. There wasn't an empty seat in the house. People were paying money for this too. We were a bit nervous so we drank a beer to calm the nerves. Then the start time was delayed to let everyone in. So we had a few more beers.
Finally the herd was settled. Joe himself introduced us from behind the bar where he had a karaoke mic plugged in.
His bar had its own theme tune. A jingle type piece with a sugary chorus of "Joe's pub, Joe's pub…." When the song was finished, Joe spoke to the crowd like a boxing ring announcer. "Ladies and gentlemen…. All the way from Ireland …It gives me great pleasure to introduce to you….in the far corner…Peter Jordan and James……..(There was an awkward pause while he consulted a piece of paper)….eh…Higgins."
The lights went down as the audience welcomed us with claps and whoops. Then you could have heard a pin drop. But the silence was abruptly shattered as we thrashed into the Leaving of Liverpool at a hundred miles an hour. The audience loved it. Their applause was deafening. But it was all swiftly down hill from there as our free beer kicked in. At one point Peter fell off his stool as I was slurring through some tune. He was crawling about under tables on his hands and knees, mumbling that he couldn't find his plectrum. I began to sway involuntarily. The audience began to lose interest and the ambient room volume rose. We bashed away but we were only playing unplugged acoustic guitars so we were slowly drowned out.
Towards the end of the night, Joe leaned out from behind his bar and said, "Play that Rock n Roll song you started with". So we relaunched into the Leaving of Liverpool and the crowd came back to the fold. There was renewed clapping, singing and stomping. All was forgiven. But by then Peter and me could barely stand. It was getting late so we said good night and clattered clumsily off stage.
The crowd did not cry out for more.

Meanwhile Joe had kept track of our beer intake throughout the night by marking little X's on 2 cardboard beer mats. When he showed us these "deckles" at the end of the night, the Xs formed hypnotic spirals round and round each mat into the centre. He took us into the empty darts room and solemnly held up the 2 beer mats. His expression was set and grim. I experienced a sudden sobering moment. Surely he wasn't going to make us pay for the beers. That would cost more than we'd earned. This might have been a good moment to be invisible.
"These", he said, tapping a finger on the deckles. "…..Are on me".

So ended the legendary night at Joe's Pub Straubing. Hil drove us all back to Regensburg in the Suzuki van. Somehow we were convinced we saw a Polar Bear in the bushes on the edge of town. (More on that another time.)
An hour later, we dropped Peter off near Ostengasse where he staggered off towards the old Dubliner.
As we were driving off I saw one of our Joe's Pub posters. It had been ripped in half like someone had tried to tear it down. Now it read….

Peter Jordan and Ja….
Live at…
Tradit….
9pm

Yip. That's natural anonymity. You see, even back then I could do it without even trying.

An hour after finishing up at the Farmers Market we were playing at the Pacific Arts Fair round the corner.
We played a lot of stuff that we'd played earlier but tried to mix in some songs we hadn't played yet. It's nice to have that option. I guess that's where our practices stood us in good stead. I wonder just how many different songs we've played in the past few years together. Must be a fair bunch.

Anyway I really enjoyed this little gig. It was nice to be out of the cold. A bunch of the folks who'd been hanging out at the market had followed us round the corner. So the festive spirit continued.

We played for about an hour and rounded off a year in the life of James Higgins and the Muddy Boots band with Cardboard Box. It's fun to play and I think audiences can tell that we enjoy performing it. I guess it's our current hit within the ranks.

Merry Christmas when it comes.
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Christmas Hit.

Speaking of hit songs…..

The very first real Rock Band I saw in concert was Slade. I was about 16 years old. They were playing at the Glasgow Apollo around the merry month of June 1981 (?).
They burst on stage and thrashed furiously through their set. They were playing everything so fast that they were finished in 45 minutes. They waved goodnight and left the stage.
The crowd called out for more. Possibly because they loved the music but more likely they just wanted their money's worth.
The band returned but seemed to have run out of steam.
The only song they had left in their repertoire was their big hit single which they launched right into with spectacular abandon…….
And the crowd jumped right in too.

……."So here it is merry Christmas. Everybody's having fun.
Look to the future now….. etc"

Not a song you expect in mid Summer but I guess there's always time for a Christmas hit. A little out of context perhaps but the audience lapped it up and sang it word for word.
Scotland is pretty cold all year round anyway. I've seen snow in June. So it often felt like December (though it seldom felt like Christmas).

The fade out memory I have of that concert was of Noddy Holder the singer swaying back and forth on stage. He was holding a tartan scarf above his head as Gene Kelly sang "Singing in the Rain" over the PA system.
The crowd were drifting out and the lights were going on, but he was still up there belting it out on his own.
As I shuffled out the exit and into the June night, I heard him yell, "Merrrrry Chrrrrismas everybody".

This was a good little gig considering we started at the crack of 11:30 in the morning.
We were in a good humour and once we warmed up we were in festive form.
I had one of those little hand warmers tucked into the small of my back. It kept me quite toasty. Don't know about the rest of the guys. Rick the market manager had kindly provided a gas heater which did help a little but you can't stick that into your trousers....

The market hadn't nearly so many vendors as in Summer. I think the freeze up last month killed off vast herds of them. Most of the surviving vendors huddled inside the actual building but there were a few brave stall minders outside in the cold who seemed to appreciate our little musical distraction.

The "stage" was set up in the middle of the car park and I believe we were closer to La Fiamma pizzeria than the main market. It did cross my mind that the dish washer in there was making a better living than me. (And I should know because that was where I last held gainful employment.)

Before we began, Rick came over to check we were doing fine. He asked us to keep the volume under control so as not to interfere with business bartering. I looked around. We were the only ones there.

So we started off with Wang Dang Doodle which I'd changed all the words to. Now it was a very tongue in cheek Santa Clause adventure. Not that it mattered as there was no one to hear it. So it went well.
In fairness though, a small crowd did gather round and I even sold a CD. Tips were generous too. They may have been there to listen to us or they may have heard about our heater. Who knows but they were very appreciative.

A bunch of my ex La Fammians co-workers were hanging out too and so a friendly, sociable atmosphere began to develop. Nikki was there. So was Justin and Kirsten and Oliver. Joel was up from Portland, Patricia from my art class passed by. Hil and Ronan were there. Friendly faces everywhere. Maybe it was my big floppy top hat that put a smile on chilly faces. It certainly has character. Sort of Dr Seusse-ish. I picked it up in a toy store a few weeks back.

Musically, I think we played quite well. We nailed the end of Annecy good and tight. It started snowing in the middle of playing it which was lyrically ironic. I guess that also went largely un-noticed.
One woman said, "You are a very unique band." Not sure if that was a compliment or an insult. I said, "Thanks, you're quite unique yourself.'

So a good little gig.
……Or maybe it was the heater.

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………

I quite enjoyed this little gig. I was signed up for an hour but played an extra 30 minutes.
I was surprised by the size of the stage. It was big. Big enough to walk about on. That's unusual.

Anyway I played a bunch of acoustic songs and everyone seemed quite happy.
I must say though that their PA seemed to lack volume. We had it cranked but it really wasn't very loud. It wouldn't be a problem while I am solo and acoustic but I'll be there again on Saturday with the Muddy Boots Band. When drums and bass kick in, the vocals will be drowned out. (Maybe not a bad thing). We'll see what happens.

……….
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I plugged in to the PA system for this one but kept the volume really low. Not much to report. A pleasant enough afternoon singing and farting about on my guitar.

Fun songs of the day? The Henhouse and Singing in the Rain.
Mockingbird / Band Zant were on after me. They seemed to enjoy the Henhouse song. Robin teased me with the idea of Mockingbird doing it acapella. Ha! That made me laugh. I wasn't sure if she was serious or not but she has my permission to try. I have no doubt that they'd do it well. Maybe they could do it in a Triplets of Belleville style. Ha ha. Who knows? I look forward to hearing it.

I bet it would be a freaky feeling if I unexpectedly heard someone singing a song that I wrote. Hard to picture right enough. And when I heard it, would I recognize it? Would it be like hearing it for the first time? Would I be embarrassed? It's embarrassing enough singing them myself.
It must be like looking in a mirror and saying, "Who's that ugly guy?" Then realizing, "Oh it's me."

I write songs but I never really get to hear them just as songs. I'm too close to them. We only have a working relationship. It would be a sweet moment to hear and enjoy a song I wrote before I recognized it. To listen and judge with an innocent unbiased ear would be a gift and a true test of good or bad. Wouldn't that be a useful effects pedal? Or a computer program that played your song in the voice and style of various bands in order to give you distance. It would also be a great way to pitch songs to a particular artist.
Call it the Imprint pedal or Song Cloak Software or Resound. What about Listen Glass? (Mmm. I like that).

Just thinking out loud.
No doubt I'll never know.

Good little practice session with lots of D tunings. I played Chocolate Girl for old times' sake.
Also played Norwegian Wood, Cluck Old Hen, May You Never, Dandelion, Singing in the rain. A lot of fun stuff.
Ronan didn't feel well again (he was sick last night) and Hil took him home early. I took the bus home.
I haven't been on the bus much since I took a break from college. It was odd to be sitting there again discreetly sketching faces. Just like old times.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots

I guess this was a decent enough gig.
Not much to add.
Some fun moments and a few disasters.
All's well that ends well.

Thanks for the lift home Dave.

As ever a fun little gig. The people were fairly generous.
I swapped a CD for an art lesson from a portrait painter called Orion. Ronan and Hil played air hockey and Hil bought a book on how to hot rod a VW bus.
Biggest hit of the day? Mari's Wedding in open D tuning.

A non descript hour of acoustic tunes. Basically background music for Christmas shoppers.

They came, they saw, they did a little shopping.

This was actually quite a fun gig right next door to the Boundary Bay. We played about an hour. (Me, Dave, Phil and Donald.)

Despite the fact we were playing in a gymnasium, the atmosphere was quite pleasant. Perhaps it was the mirrors on the wall or the kids' carpeted play area. Somehow it wasn't so vast and echoing like I'd expected.
I'd say there were about 40 or 50 people present. I think they were all members of a local paddling club. I guess this was their annual potluck.
They were showing a movie too about water sports. We were the pre-movie entertainment. People had come for the whole event and not particularly to see us. So we were relaxed and just blended into the ambience.

I may have imagined it but it felt like bum notes were conspicuously absent. I suppose that's because we only played an hour which meant we were able to play the stuff we like or know best. I do believe we played well and for once there were witnesses.
It does make me wonder what we could achieve if we actually practiced a bit more regularly. I think we have about 12 practices a year. Most decent bands have about 52.

I really enjoy our current version of Who'll Rock that Cradle. Dave keeps it cruising along yet it's still kind of spooky
.
While we were playing Blowing Down the River, there was a guy paddling an exercise canoe. That's a first. Made me laugh. I think it made a few people laugh. He was in perfect time with the song. Mmm, I think I feel a new dance move coming on.

I still can't fathom why I still have distortion problems with microphones through my little PA. The guitar is always fine but microphones sound like Dr Who and the Daleks.
Maybe I'm naturally distorted.

Flea Market Nov 20

A non eventful hour of acoustic tunes.
Played Cripple Creek Ferry. Can't even remember the last time I pulled that one out.
Saw a bass guitar for sale. Looked in good condition. I would have been tempted to buy it if I could have tried it out. My bass is so big and bulky. This one was quite compact. I'm sure it wasn't the best but neither is the one I have. It only had 3 strings. I should have felt right at home.

A tree came down in the wind and landed across the driveway just before we were set to go into town. Not a small tree. This was a big old waterlogged alder. Must have been 50 feet tall. Now it's 50 feet long. We had to hack and saw our way out of the yard.
I think a tree came down around this time last year too.

Anyway the gig was fine.
The band comprised of me, Dave, Phil and Donald. The first set was good and felt like we were fairly cooking. But at the break the clientele began to drift out and our energy levels dropped accordingly. It's only natural.

All the same, Phil pulled off some ripping slide and Dave played what must be the first ever egg shaker solo I've ever witnessed. Which also makes it the best ever too. Donald manned the bouncer chair by the door but as there was no door fee, I guess he was just jamming long distance. Sounded good though.

In fact we had a pretty good sound check, dialed in by the same barmaid as before. I guess she twiddled the same knobs as last time too. I must ask her for the recipe.

The punters, despite their slow leak out the door, were appreciative in an inebriated sort of way. They nodded more than they clapped but tipped less than they whooped.

Ultimately it was a decent gig but I had a heavy deflated feeling at the end: a dangerous indifference to that familiar realization that no one could care less about music or musicians. The crowd was there for cheap beer. We were simply an added sideshow distraction and we had to like it or lump it.

It's far too easy to become apathetic when you're regularly playing for bad tips and sporadic applause. After a while you begin to believe it's all your worth. Bar owners should note that they will eventually end up getting what they paid for: namely unmotivated, uninspired musicians. Egg shaker solos aren't cheap.
For the sake of this bands survival, we need some wild weekend high paying gigs.

It does make me realize that it's been a while since I've played a real outgoing Saturday night gig with an energetic audience in attendance. It seems we are currently banished to Backwater Tuesdays for the duration of a long dark Winter.
Roll on Summer.
Jeez, and it's only November.
Ha! Welcome to Bellingham: the little town that's going through the motions.

The tree fell in our garden and I heard it. But if a band plays in an empty bar does anybody hear it?
If a band played in a bar full of deaf and blind people would it not exist at all?
If a tree fell on a dive bar would anybody care? Or would nobody notice?

……………………….

But talking of Saturday gigs…..
Years ago, me and JB managed to somehow get ourselves a Saturday night gig in the Harp in Regensburg. I have no idea how, because Wee John had that gig sewn up tight since the place first opened.
The news seemed to generate a buzz. Perhaps we'd bummed ourselves up a bit much and people were expecting something spectacular. Maybe we were just a change in the monotony.

So who can hurt a person better than their best friend?
Let me state here that my intention herein is not to hurt JB's (or anyone's) feelings in the telling of these tales of our misadventures. But for better or worse, our musical histories and learning curves are so entwined that people such as JB or Frank or PJ and Hil are all influences that are impossible to omit from the big picture. I try not to judge. I just write the deeds and consequences. They are open for individual interpretation. I wasn't exactly a saint myself.
But for now, don't shoot the messenger.

JB and myself had played music together a lot over the years but hadn't played together in a long time. In fact JB had only recently moved to Munich from Scotland while I'd been in Regensburg a couple of years. JB had made an impression on the natives during his previous visits to Regensburg. He was a clown and he could really make folks laugh. We would spend days together in knots of convulsive laughter. He'd do silly stuff like stand at a busy bus stop with a bucket on his head. This was the fun side of JB that everybody loved. But then he'd spoil his welcome by singing The Sash in an Irish pub and insulting everyone. This wasn't quite so entertaining.

I believe he often experienced four emotional seasons in one day. Maybe more. Some of them may have been new to medical science. Luckily Regensburg was so full of nuts that one more made no difference.

But it's testimony to JB's charismatic personality that even today, when I run into old friends; their 2nd question is inevitably, "So any news from JB?"

I always felt he was trying to go somewhere in his mind that he couldn't quite reach.
Perhaps the gig business wasn't the best career choice for JB. It has too many ups and downs. It's a very temperamentally unstable way to make a living. Saturday night's adulation is often followed by cruel Sunday morning busking on a city corner. Who needs downers when you’re a musician? It's depressing enough. It could turn a man to drink.

No wonder there are so many Rock n Roll deaths. We only ever hear about the famous ones. Sadly for every newsworthy celebrity death, there are thousands of anonymous wretches lost down behind the sofa cushions. Countless unmarked graves line the byways of rock n roll. It's a dog's life. Maybe that should be their communal epitaph.

Reliable isn't really the word I'd use to describe JB but having said that, I must admit he always showed up for gigs and practices. He may have miscalculated his sobriety but he was there. He loved jamming. We both did. We'd jam till we literally dropped. I think music gave him a grip and a goal in life. An unsteady grip was better than none.
I still have some of our live jams on tape. I always thought I should put them on CD and release them as a comedy. A dark comedy.
But none of that was what we were talking about……

…….Well when folks heard we were playing Saturday night in the Harp, they began to reserve seats. They had to see first hand what mischief these two chancers were up to?

So there we were on a Saturday night in a bar jammed to the rafters with expectant faces turned towards us awaiting revelation. What they got was…. "Whiskey in the Jar."

But it was enough.
It certainly helped that Reinhold Speck (known as Spock), Regensburg's local guitar guru was playing lead guitar with us.
We had a great night. There was ticker tape and balloons. The crowd cried out for more. And to be fair we really did give them all we had. We'd even kept our beer intake in single digits and didn't smoke any hash within 2 hours before the gig. Yes, such discipline. We were truly suffering for our art.
Nevertheless when the gig was over, we drank and smoked our brains out and JB still managed to insult anyone within earshot. And then we all went home, basking in the warm fuzzy glow of a good gig.

To this day there is only one song I recall playing from that night. Neil Young's Southern Pacific which we'd mixed with Ghost Riders in the Sky. I've no idea what else we played but we must have done something right or was it just that it was a Saturday gig?
We didn't pursue the matter too closely. We were content in our ignorance to believe that overnight we had become the world's greatest rock and roll sensation since the Sliced Bread Band. There was talk of more gigs with more pay. The future was bright.
Tee-shirts, badges, posters. Autographs in the foyer. Last of the Choc Ices…….
Unfortunately the Harp boss wasn't there on that night but the barman said he'd put a word in for us.

The next evening I had a solo gig in a little Bayerish Wald town called Cham. JB was still in town so he drove me up. He packed his bass guitar just in case there was a chance to jam.
This gig was in a disco. The walls of the dance floor were mirrored. I guess this was so that people could dance with themselves. Or if they had just woken up somewhere in the neighbourhood and had a shower but no mirror, they could drop in to comb their hair. As it was, the place was deserted. The only reflection was mine and it wasn't dancing and my hair hadn't been combed in a week.
.
So five minutes before show time the place was basically empty. I asked JB if he'd like to play a few tunes on bass. He immediately pressed his Self Destruct button on his chest and gulped down 2 beers and 2 Jaegermeisters. He then tuned his bass and passed out drunk, right at my feet like he'd blown a fuse. The whole scenario from start to finish took less than 5 minutes. Very impressive.
It was certainly an interesting answer to my question.

There I was at the microphone with JB curled up at my feet like a baby in a womb, when in walks an English musician I knew called Paul. He played in a band with his girlfriend. They performed in Regensburg quite often. I asked him if he wanted to play some bass. He said he didn't really play bass but he'd give it a go. So with JB conked out at our feet, we played every three chord song that came to mind. Wild thing, Born to be Wild, Heaven's Door. We bashed them out for a solid 2 hours.
I mentioned I thought he was doing pretty well for a guy who didn't play bass. He said thanks and added that he wasn't right handed either.

Paul seemed indifferent to JB lying on the floor at our feet. I guess he'd met Scotsmen before. A few dancers grooved past sporadically. They shot us some odd looks but were more interested in their reflections. Some had possibly just woken up because they were combing their hair a lot.
The boss, who was also English, came in at one point and looked doubtfully down at JB who showed no signs of waking or combing his hair.
He was about to say something when Paul spoke up. "It's alright. He's Scottish."
The boss nodded slowly then he left again. I guess he'd met Scotsmen before too. But it's a sad state of affairs in the ex-pat community when such events can be justified with a quick, "It's alright he's Scottish."

Towards the end of the evening JB rose from the dead. He stood and scowled accusingly at the world before reaching into his back pocket and producing a dented harmonica. Then in perfect irony, he checked he was in the right key and joined right in. Quite the band.

After the gig, we got an uncomfortable night's rest in the parking lot. A few hours later JB somehow drove us back to Regensburg in the pre dawn light.
We were in Ambrosias Café by 9am. I ordered a coffee. JB ordered a whisky. Then another. Then a beer. Then another.

At this point the boss from the Harp walked in. JB proceeded to try talk business with him about future gigs. The boss was very interested at first till he realized that JB was talking gibberish. All he could comprehend was something about, "Bishnish" and "Jaimsh ish the bosh" with lots of Ochs and Ayes mixed in.
JB had transformed from rock star into a slurring Scotsman. No doubt the Boss was wondering if this was the very same guy who had rocked his pub just 2 days previously.
Suddenly in mid discussion, JB stood up and gave a passionate Hitler salute to the breakfasting clientele and goose stepped out the door.
The boss looked at me. "He's had a few hasn't he?"
I said, "It's alright he's Scottish."
And the boss said, "Yes, I could tell by the way he walked".

So ended negotiations.

We never did play the Harp again together but I didn't lose any sleep over it. We played a lot of other places with The Lost Cause and the latter day Izzy Skint. Each one was progressively more chaotic than the last. But those are other tales.
Years later, it turned out that JB had developed an ulcer. I guess that explained why he kept being sick. But it didn't explain why he was a nut. (Yes I know, "It's alright, he's Scottish.")

Somehow, despite the chaos that always surrounded us, we remained friends over the years. But it was certainly a balancing act.
Life is fairly quiet at the moment.
Maybe on reflection, I should consciously avoid Saturday nights.
................
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Solo.
Another easy going hour of acoustic music. These little sessions really force me to revisit a lot of songs I used to know but abandoned over the years. I think I only played 3 songs that I do with the Muddy Boots. I even played Girl in a Redwood and my old open tuning version of Tramper Ticket.
Not much to report really. Spoke to a few more of the vendors. Definitely an interesting bunch of alternative people.
Also saw a good looking violin for 50 dollars. That's 50 dollars more than I've got.

A low key but enjoyable experience. Sang an hours worth of songs and sold a couple of CDs.
It's a pleasant venue for acoustic experimentation. I threw in quite a few of open D tuning songs.
I think I played half the songs from my old "Live at the Alte Malzerei" CD. Remember these ditties? Praying for a leap year, Diamond Lil, Like I Been Walking. I should dig out The Life O' Riley.

Another musician had shown up at the same time as me. He'd thought that he was scheduled to play but it turned out that his slot was directly after mine. I offered to swap but he declined the offer and left.

An hour later as I was finishing up, I was thinking to myself that business had been suspiciously slow. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the same guy from earlier was busking right outside the window. One of the stall holders said he'd been started up at the same time as me.

"Cheeky bleeper" I thought. Fortunately I'd sold a few CDs but if I hadn't I'd have been seriously pissed off.
Whatever happened to busker etiquette? Where's the respect for the unwritten codes of conduct that keep the peace. Simple stuff like, don't hog the pitch or don't play too close to another busker.
Yer Man outside the window seemed to have his own set of rules.

...........................

Back in Europe, an experienced full time busker would probably play a one hour pitch then switch to somewhere else. This gives shopkeepers a break and gives other buskers a fair chance.
As I busked across Europe, I noticed that buskers of most nationalities (especially in Germany) were very good at adhering to this common sense rule.
Personally I never crowded another busker. It was as bad for my business as it was for theirs.
In France, busking was sometimes a chaotic free for all of first come first served. Acts often set up in the morning and didn't leave till closing time. There was a hint of desperation to busking in France. The Peruvian bands were notorious for setting up at dawn and playing the same spot till evening. It was bad news for any penniless solo busker who had just hitched into town. His best bet was to just keep hitching out the other side of town.

Around Europe, many towns wisely had busking rules. These rules differed from town to town but generally they were fair. In Basil and Freiburg for example, busking could only take place at certain times. My first time in Basil I didn't know this and within seconds I had been filed in a policeman's black book and told that next time there would be a hefty fine.
In Heidelberg, busking hours were 4 till 7 and only at designated places. In some towns, permits were required. Often they were free or inexpensive. The hardest part was usually trying to find the office. In Bamberg, I remember walking for miles along the river to get the license.
Munich only issued 10 licenses a day. Five for the morning and five for the afternoon. But they were free.
In Schaffhausen in Switzerland, the permit was expensive but worth it in the end. I played there a couple of times and always had the place to myself.

Nurnberg had no significant rules at all that I noticed.
Harry was busking there one day with his guitar. The Peruvians set up right beside him and started playing. This of course pissed Harry right off. The Peruvians outnumbered him 5 to 1. They had drums, guitars, flutes, ukuleles and 5 voices. That's a lot of ammo.
Harry tried to keep playing but he was drowned out.
I guess the Peruvians must have derived some smug satisfaction when they saw Harry put down his guitar and count his money. But they got a shock when he opened another case and started tuning up a set of Highland bagpipes.
If you've never experienced the pipes at full throttle at close range then let me tell you it is frightening. You may scream but no one would hear you. They are deafening.
If you are having trouble with vampires in your attic and crucifixes and garlic aren't working, then I recommend the Highland bagpipes. Don't use those fart cushion eillean pipes, they would just annoy a vampire then you'd be in more trouble.
Harry gave the Peruvian band the full blast at point blank range. To their credit they defiantly held their ground. Soon a huge crowd had assembled to witness this epic battle of the bands. What a stramash.
The Peruvians finally crumbled and left. One of them tipped his hat and smiled in resignation as if to say, "Well done, you win".

The lesson here being, don't mess with an angry Scotsman and his bagpipes. Both are instruments of torture.

The Frog wasn't exactly hopping but there were lots of friendly faces in the place. Kim and Ben from Brookstock had shown up with their neighbour. That was a very nice surprise. Muriel from the Humane Society was there. Dave had brought in a bit of a crowd too.
With such a friendly audience we couldn't help but be inspired.

The barmaid's Sound check was fairly solid too. She came over about a minute before we started, took a few quick notes then absently twiddled a knob or two and we were off and sounding fine. Good job and credit where it's due.

I used my own mic for a change. It seemed to work okay.
It's amazing what a decent sound check, some friends and a solid band can do for a performance. It felt like the whole bar was on the same page. We were very relaxed and tried out some odd songs and there was a lot of good natured banter.
Even old standards sounded good. Dave really puts us all in the groove. We bravely attempted the bouncy house even though Dave had never heard it. It was a bit wobbly but we got through it.

Most notable aspect of this gig was that we really shuffled things up a bit. We played The Henhouse in the first set. That was Phil's idea and a good one too as it turned out because the place had quietened down by the second set.

Most enjoyable songs of the evening for me were Any Old Time, Who'll Rock That Cradle, Injara and Weeping Willow. They all had a good feel.
It really is a great luxury to have such a large selection of songs to pick and chose from. We are slowly becoming our own juke box.

Maybe it would be interesting to introduce some moodier haunting stuff like Browse round My Junk Shop, or B Movie or The Secret Circus. They might prove useful in the right atmosphere.

I guess I'm so used to the Irish pub gig mentality where playing a slow song can get you sacked on the spot. The shepherd's crook appears and you're yanked off stage as an emotionless metallic tanoy voice calls out, "Next".

I remember Pat was working as a barman in the Shamrock Irish bar in Munich. There was music 7 days a week. One evening there was a duo playing some sort of barbershop music. I think they called themselves Matching Ties. They were on stage on barstools looking neat and tidy, singing away with banjos, "By the Light (by the Light) of the Silvery Moon." Just doing their thing when quick as an ambush, Pat charges out from behind the bar and stuffs a wet mop right in the singer's face. "Ooomph" Then he gives it a good swish round like he was cleaning a tough stain off a window. "Ye've somethin in yer eye there boy."

As you can guess, Pat was mad as a hat stand and a bag of hammers. He was laughing hysterically as he did this. And to be honest, it was funny. "Right lads, tat's enough o' tat nonsense. Out the door witt ye."
It was Pat of course who was actually shown out the door. He was sacked. But then again he was always getting sacked. He was back at work about a week later. He may have been nuts but hey, he was a good barman.

How mad was Pat? To quote a cliché about onions. After you peel off all those layers of madness and really get down to the core of the man, you'll find at the centre, a little tiny bunch of over-ripe bananas.

Having said that, I considered Pat a friend (probably we were both insane). There was a pinch of sanity about him. He wasn't exactly nuts; he just had a mad streak. His sensibilities must have been stashed inside one of those bananas.
But that's not really what we were talking about. I think we were discussing the fine line between art and entertainment. I guess it's not about the picture; it's all about the frame.

I don't know how Pat would react to spooky music in the Shamrock. I don't think I'll chance it till I need a good spring cleaning.

But in The Green Frog they don't seem to mind it. It's a dark kind of spooky place. Rumour has it that they are on the verge of closing down. Which is a shame. I kind of liked the place.

There seems to be a disturbing financial pattern in Bellingham. It goes like this. A new business arrives, opens, closes, new business arrives, opens, closes, new business arrives, opens, closes.
One thing I notice about every bar that flaps its shingle then disappears, is that few of them paid their musicians. What's the significance of that? The puzzle here is, if a bar owner knew in advance that there would be bills he couldn't afford then why did he open a business?

It was Michael Lynch who growled the following words at me one day in Regensburg, "James I'm f***ing sick of feeling sorry for F***ing bar owners. They all come at ye with that little f***ing tear in their eye when it comes time to pay the musician. I'm sick of the greedy bastards. It's not our fault they can't run their own business."
I think he'd just had a recent run in with an Irish bar owner in Nurnberg.
And he had a point too. Many do expect instant miracles from live music. When their business fails, the musician is the first one to have his wages cut.

I remember Harry walking into the Dubliner in Regensburg to play a gig. It was a hot Summer night and the place was deserted. He didn't even glance at the owner but stormed up to the stage, plugged in and played the gig. He knew if he'd stopped to chat then that would be the end of any hope of payment. Instead he waited till the end, got paid and left.
Big D the barman shook his head and said, "That'll be the last time he works here."
That made me laugh. I almost choked on my Thurn und Taxis. I looked around the deserted run down bar. The dive to end all dives. A seriously flogged dead horse.
Then I left too. I'd only popped in to see Harry.

Oddly enough, that bar hung on by the skin of its teeth for a long time. It was rarely busy. They made cut back after cutback but still had occasional music that paid something. I think they only closed because the city had decided to renovate the whole street. The bar may even have gotten compensated. Now that's luck.

It's funny how so many American bars will happily invest money to buy materials to build a stage, then more money to pay someone to build it. They go out and buy speakers and monitors and mixers.
They spend money on advertising. They hire bar staff and cooks and sound engineers. They may even renovate the entire building and erect flashing stage lights on stage. It would be hard to deny that they are building anything but a music based business. They open their doors and wait. And it's like they've been constructing an elaborate trap. When the trap is fully set, sure enough the musicians come sniffing round like poor church mice at a baited cheese.
Before the musicians know it, the trap has been sprung and they're on stage, working for crumbs and, "a unique opportunity to showcase their talents". Bar owners seem to have copped on to this remarkably predictable behavior and turn it to their advantage.
But it seems to be a short term success. The better acts soon get bored being humoured and go wherever any money is. Those same mice that came sniffing for cheese also know when a ship is sinking.
The pub dies. Few cry.

I wish The Green Frog good luck. I enjoy playing there. I don't think the owner is a bad guy. I think he really has tried to give some decent music and beer to Bellingham. The Green Frog is a very basic product but that seems to be the attraction of the place. I think it's one of the few venues in town where my music fits.
Maybe they should have a "Pay the Rent" gig once a month. I might even support it because in the end we're all in this together. If the rent was paid, perhaps we'd get paid too. Then we'd be able to pay our own rents.
I think there's a faint glimmer of an idea in there. A once a month all day live music fund drive.

As I recall, the Shamrock in Munich paid quite well. Not extravagant but fair.
The owner treated his musicians a bit like staff. He expected them to work for their wages. Four half hour sets meant 4 x 30 minutes. Not 4 x 29 minutes. He also expected a standard of entertainment worthy of the sum he was paying. This approach forced musicians (subconsciously or not) to rise towards a certain minimum level of competence and maintain it. Even us, Izzy Skint, managed to hold on to our gigs. Izzy Skint's incentives were very simple. Firstly, playing The Shamrock was far more enjoyable than busking on some winter corner.
Secondly, the Shamrock owner was the landlord for half the band.
Thirdly: the beer was free.

Many Irish bars have come and gone over the years. Many were run by clowns on a Guinness bandwagon. I dealt with a lot of these jokers on a regular basis and I have to say at the end of the day The Shamrock in Munich was probably the fairest Irish establishment I ever worked with if you didn't expect too much. (Hey and I'm not even groveling for a gig).

The Shamrock opened around 1990. It's still there.
Jeez, some of the musicians are still there too.

It's been a long time since I played a solo gig. I think the last one was on Paddy's night which was a bit crazy.
This time things were a bit more subdued.
I played about an hour and was able to pull out a whole set of stuff I never get to play live: Cluck Old Hen, Singing in the Rain, Over the Hill, Nellie the Elephant and Salt in the Sugar bowl. Definitely a lot of fun and a great practice. Not too profitable but still a fairly sociable little adventure.

A Sunday Morning.

It was me, Donald and Phil playing this one. The organizers set up a little area by the door and actually broadcast the music outside. I hope we didn't scare anyone.
This was a very enjoyable little gig. Really it was just like busking indoors. We played a relaxing hour of blues and folk in a mellow atmosphere.
Beats going to church.

We played The Bouncy House in public for the first time ever. Someone rushed up and asked which CD it was on. That was a good sign I guess. Unfortunately I haven't recorded it yet but he bought a copy of Driftwood anyway. Thank you.

There was a stall there selling cigar box guitars for 25 dollars. It took all my resolve not to buy one. If the actions had been a little lower I would definitely have splurged. As it was, I doubt they were playable but they'd have looked good on the wall.

I guess I could just build my own anyway.
Recently I built a biscuit tin banjo: a Jambo. What a crazy sound. The Martin Guitar Company need have no fear as yet.
I think there's a video link to it on Facebook somewhere. Mostly it was just fun to build. I recorded a track with it on Sawney Bean. Mainly it provided some background twang (that's a technical term).

So it was a good wee gig. They even invited us back.
Ain't No Bugs on Me.

I love rummaging in Flea Markets. You never know what you'll find.
In Annecy, there was a flea market down town every month. I was strolling through with Frank one day when he stopped at a big wicker hamper of hats. He delved his hand in up to his elbow and pulled out a Bogart hat. Then he stuck it on my head and said, "A busker needs a hat."
Me and that hat traveled far and wide for years till finally it was lost in action in Erlangen in Germany. That was a tragic day. We'd all been drinking in the Irish pub by the station and had driven the Suzuki van to Harry's place afterwards. Somewhere en route, we slid the side door open so that someone could vomit (out not in). I think that was when my hat tumbled out. It may have jumped. I don't know but it was never seen again.
The following day I still hadn't noticed it was gone till we were almost in Bamberg. We did a u-turn and heading back. We searched everywhere but it was gone for good. I was devastated.

So if anyone out there found an old Bogart hat anywhere in Erlangen with a small hole right at the front on top and with a blue and purplish/red band sewn around its brim, then it might have been mine. Please look after it.

Five Muddy Boots showed up for this gig. Me, Donald, Phil, Dave and Y(J)an.
I think we enjoyed this one. There were some sound check issues at the beginning but we weathered them (As ye do).
It wasn't the busiest gig we've played in there but the audience was very appreciative and even appeared to be listening at times.
We managed to throw in a few new songs to the mix too. Christiana made an appearance. Great Explorers got a run out but I think it needs a key change. It might be another song heading towards G. Seemingly all roads lead to G.
Riding Home really grooved along nicely and went for a pleasant walk round the band.

It occurred to me later that we didn't play The Henhouse song. It's a long time since we omitted that one from the set. Can't say I missed it. It's a fun song but it was nice to have a break from it.

As gigs go, I'd have to say we felt quite tight during the majority of this performance. The evening did not feel like hard work, which might also explain why we didn't get paid.

I was looking at our set list and unless I missed something, I think we only played 16 songs. For a 2 hour gig, that’s not very many. That's like 8 an hour! A rough average of 7 minutes a song. I don't think we particularly dilly dallied between songs either.

Just for the record, 9 were originals and the rest were trad, blues and folk.

Time flies when you're enjoying yourself. The gig whizzed past and before I knew it, I was on my bike and cycling precariously home, balancing my guitar and backpack on the bike frame.

In short, I'd say this was a good wee gig with a lot of genuine positives.
Well done lads. Credit where it's due.

……………………………….

There was a Scotsman at the gig (apart from me). Not many of those in Bellingham. A guy called P McNeil I think. I enjoyed the rare novelty of talking with someone and not have to repeat everything twice.
He'd been working on a fishing boat up in Alaska and said he was set to head off cross country on his Triumph motorbike. Best of luck to him. Hope he makes it.
I was lucky just to get home on my bicycle.

Years ago, as we all know by now, I lived along the Danube River on the outskirts of Regensburg. After gigging, working and drinking in town, I'd stumble back home in the wee hours along the bicycle path out to Pruffening. This bike path was a one lane gravel lane that followed the Southern bank of the Danube all the way out of town and far beyond. There were no houses along my way and at night it was deserted. The unlit and silent journey took about half an hour on foot. It could be a bit eerie but I usually had Huck the dog for company. Often we got sidetracked exploring through bushes and reeds looking for wildlife. One bright night we stopped to have a drunken chat with a beaver who sat upright and listened patiently but hadn't much to say.
Another time we saw a creature that to this day I can't explain.
It happened near the Goldene Ente Bridge on the Harp side of the river. I saw a cat sized shadow crouched by the edge of the river dyke walkway. As I approached, it scurried backwards down the sheer wall towards the swift flowing river below. I heard a distinct splash and was sure it had fallen in. But a split second later it was back up, clinging by its front paws while its bedraggled body still dangled over the wall. It hissed like a seething angry feline through sharp incisor teeth. Yet I'm sure it wasn't a cat and it wasn't a rat. It wasn't a beaver either. It was like a cartoon Tasmanian devil. Its ferocity was astonishing. I'd never seen such venom and hatred in a creature. "Come ahead ya bastard", it seemed to hiss like it was threatening me. Challenging me to dare start something. I have no idea what it was. A coypu? Musk Rat? A raccoon? Certainly not Basil Brush. I don't know but jeez, it was pissed off.
I kept a wary eye on it as we sidled passed and didn't turn my back.

Most nights though the walk was very peaceful. Generally I quite enjoyed the stroll. In Winter I rarely met anyone. At 2 am most of Regensburg was asleep and I was happy to have the 3 km stretch of riverside to myself and Huck.

One late night in the wee hours, I was staggering home, singing to myself when I tripped over an old rusted bike lying in the long grass. It was basically just a rusty frame with 2 buckled wheels, more square than round. Its tires were just ragged pieces of rubber entangled in the broken spokes. There were no brakes, gears or lights. It was a mere skeleton. But it still had a rusted chain and pedals and an old fashioned spring loaded saddle seat. So I hopped on.
I have no idea how long it had lain there but rigormortis had definitely set in. The poor burdened beast grated and cursed in pain as I roused it from its coma and cranked it back to life. I remember laughing and cringing as we actually began to clunk forward.

I immediately discovered that it wasn't as easy to pedal a dead bike as you might imagine. But it was marginally faster than walking and we had quite a distance to travel. I swear we sounded like a bad one man band scraping his finger nails down a blackboard.
The bewildered bike must have thought it had died and woke up in hell with the devil at the helm. If only I'd had a whip. That's a scary image.

During that maiden voyage, I performed several spectacular slapstick stunts. First I did the "Human Cannonball" which involved exiting head first over the handlebars in the manner of an arrow.
Next I did the "Large Tree" which involved a large tree. I did that one several times. And finally my crème de la crème: a combination stunt called the "Runaway Corrugated jiggle" which involved some involuntary off road biking. This move often incorporates a frightening maneuver called the "Sudden Rock" swiftly followed by both the Human Cannonball and The Large Tree. It's quite a display. For many cyclists this triple tour de force is a difficult exercise but I alas appeared to be a natural.
Three interesting kilometers later, I stashed the bike in a copse of trees in case I needed it in the future.

In fact all winter I rattled back and forth along the river. It was a challenge but as I grew familiar with the bike's quirks (It was more quirk than bike), I was able to knock about 15 minutes off my journey. In fact I began to rely on that old pony bike to get me home on extra freezing nights.

Through rain and snow and bright moonlight, I rode that rusted relic in and out of town. The inward journey was usually fairly sober and uneventful but the return trip was the bad half of a Jeckle and Hyde experience. I must have cut a fiendishly f##ked up figure astride my scrap iron carcass. Yes indeed. Opposite direction and definitely opposite of sober.

One particular return trip, I was heading home after a gig and countless Jaegermeisters. I stopped to rest on a low wall. I'd been carrying my guitar on my back and I sat for a cigarette break. Next minute I was opening my eyes and I realized I'd been asleep, sitting upright. I'd no idea how long I'd been out, but the chill had crept into my bones. Huck was sitting patiently nearby gazing absently out across the river. I mounted the bike and still fueled on pure alcohol I steamed off for home with Huck happy to be galloping along.

About a kilometer later I realized the guitar was not strapped to my back. I turned and headed back. But there was no sign of the guitar. No sign of any person either. I continued on back into town on foot. Still no sign of the guitar. I returned to where I'd slept. No guitar. I stood there completely confused. Where could it have gone?

It was an expensive guitar. I couldn't afford to lose it. I scoured the area and went back and forth for an hour. Nothing. I was getting annoyed and exasperated. It was gone. I stood there despondent with my hands clasped on my head. It was futile. All I could do was go home and come back at first light.

I saddled up defeated and set off. Shortly I passed the place where I'd first noticed the guitar was missing. Then a half kilometer further on I stopped and my heart leapt. There was the guitar. Lying by the side of the path. I stared in disbelief. But how was this possible? I hadn't been there yet.
Had I been sleep walking? If so, then why had I put the guitar there then returned to where I'd woken up? It made no sense. Then again, how could I have put the guitar where I hadn't been yet? But I must have been there. Or had someone passed by and saw me sleeping and stolen it, then panicked and ditched it. This place was one and a half kms past where I'd sat on the wall. Just how long had I been asleep? There appeared to be gaps in my actions. There was no apparent logic to my movements. It was too much for my fried brain. I was just relieved to have found the guitar.

Let's put it down to simple mathematics?
One Scotsman plus X amount of schnapps equals X amount of recurring stupidity adds up to time to subtract X Jaegermeisters before long division leads to absolute zero.
Then add Y.

Y? Why Y?
Y not?

………………………………………………

When Spring time arrived and the days lengthened, I abandoned the bike. The path had become too hectic with a circus of walkers, joggers, cyclists, picnickers, baby carriages, dog fights and sunbathers. That's no place for a clown on a bike. It was suddenly impossible to meander through it all on my contraption without being arrested for vagrancy or disturbing the peace.

I had become quite fond of the bike but our parting day had come. It was time to put her out to graze. One night in mid March I finally left her leaning beside a large dented tree. Her days of purgatorial torture were ended and she was finally reclaimed by nature.
Me and Huck the dog walked home and we never saw the bike again.

I must say I enjoyed this gig. It was a bit of a quirky adventure. We were perhaps a touch chaotic with our ad lib endings but generally the gig was quite a hoot. I think everyone went home happy.

This week's band was me, Donald, Dave and Yan.

(NOTE: I am aware that Yan's name is spelt with a J not a Y. But Donald's girlfriend is called Jan with a J. She also plays music. So to avoid confusion, I spell one with a Y because that is how he pronounces it.)

We used Yan's PA system because it was all set up anyway. He seems to play in there a lot. Dave used his mini "Honeymoon friendly" drum kit.
As usual there was a laid back ambience to the place. We kept the stuff mellow but not too slow. We still played the faster stuff like Cardboard Box and Hens in the Henhouse.
We also played, Step it Out Mary, for the first song. We'd never played it before as a band…ever.
It went pretty good for a first attempt.

This was definitely a very organic gig: acoustic guitar, mandolin, stripped down drums, harmonicas, cazumpet and of course the bass.
Dave's drums are a great fit to this music. They add a sort of lively shuffle that we all just cruise along on top of. It's like we're surfing smoothly across the icing on a big happy cake.
While me, Dave and Donald surfed happily across the gateau, Yan seemed to be surfing the internet. He had his computer set up and between solos he was chatting on Facebook. It's comforting to know that he's keeping his finger on the pulse. (Good work when you can get it.)

Anyway, I think this gig had a lot of good moments. It was a very spontaneous affair with jams that didn't get over extensive or drawn out. Time flew by.
The first 2 song went great before we had to press the restart button on the 3rd song. I'd forgot to move my capo and I was playing in F while everyone else was in E. Sorry lads.
Fortunately the crowd were a forgiving bunch and we forged ahead.

I enjoyed Weeping Willow and Play for Free. Half the place got up and gave us money during the latter. I hadn't meant it as a hint but there ye go.
It was also great to hear some fun backing vocals on Blackberry Pie emanating from within the band. It might not be the best song I ever wrote but it does seem to possess some lighthearted appeal.
All things considered, this was a very enjoyable little soiree with good energy. I'd say we finished this gig with tread to spare.

There's definitely been some Autumn chill in the sea air these days. Out at the Beach Store Café beer garden, Arizona Joe (the boss) spent the evening huddled in his outdoor kitchen shed and pined for warmer climes. There wasn't much of a turn out for this gig. Apparently there was competition elsewhere on the island (a wedding I think). It was only later towards closing time that the garden got a little busier. By that time though, poor Arizona Joe had trembled off home, leaving someone else to lock up.

It's a shame that ordinance laws shut down the beer garden at 10pm. That seems to be the time everyone starts waking up on Lummi. They start calling for one more song just as we're getting set to catch the boat.

Musically this gig had some bizarre moments but some nice ones too. How Spoonful got messed up will be a laughing point for years to come. This particular version sounded like a page had been ripped from a story book and shredded. Then the pieces had been randomly glued back together again. There was certainly a plot but it was in code. I guess we all got off on a false start and kept plugging away in the vain hope it would all come together. Sadly, that didn't happen. We all continued along our own personal parallel universes right till the end which was quite a musical feat in itself.

On the more positive side, Weeping Willow felt good. It was an unexpected melodic surprise and Yan played some nice fiddle on it.

…………………………….

I guess this was the last gig of our Summer and it pretty much summed up the story of our recent gigs. Win some lose some. We definitely won more than we lost but there were plenty of dodgy moments. We've not yet been boo-ed off. So that's positive.

But there were multiple gigs where I was on stage yelling the name, key, and chords of the next song to a makeshift band of near total strangers. It's been comical but not that funny.
Musicians seem to come and go in and out of the Muddy Boots Band like it's a bus station waiting room or a welfare office. I estimate we had a total of ten musicians. That's quite a turnover considering there weren't really that many gigs or obvious disagreements. It's all about who's available.
I'm afraid we're becoming less of a band and more of a co-op. I think some bar owners even believe we are a charity organization.

In our defense, I will say that with all the "meet and greet" going within the band, it's been difficult to be cohesive and play our best. The only true constants throughout the past year have been me and Donald. I suppose people have lives to live. It's not easy to co-ordinate and motivate 5 people to assemble regularly for a practice. Maybe we should introduce more drugs and alcohol to our sessions. We'd probably play all night.

……………………………..

I guess this past year has given us quite an extensive tour of Whatcom County. In case you didn't know, it's a beautiful wee place rising from the Pacific Ocean to about 10,000 feet with plenty of stunning scenery in between. It's probably how Scotland looked before it was clear-cut and the wildlife decimated. Plus a volcano.

The Muddy Boots certainly stomped around Whatcom. We played out at the hamlet of Glacier a few times. We were up in Everson, down in Anacortes, over on Lummi Island, around Birch Bay, up in Blaine, and all over Bellingham and Fairhaven. Yes, I know… such exotic places. We're living the dream. Still in honest perspective, it has been mostly a lot of fun. And like I said, spectacular.
I suppose just because a wonderful place isn't famous, it doesn't make it any less breathtaking.
Scenery -wise, there are far worse places to ply my humble trade.
It's never written on a contract that dramatic landscapes will be provided. The county's natural beauty is not so much a gig perk; it's more of a by-product of living here. I guess it's no one's to give.

Best gig of all? I don't know. Maybe the Gig with Chuck out at Glacier. That was a blast. The Allied Arts Festival gig with Charlie last year was great too. One of the gigs in the Anacortes Hotel garden was also a lot of fun. One gig at the Green Frog was also good.

Strangest gig? Maybe the Humane Society Benefit when Tree had his drums set up in the hayloft while we were all down below on stage with a sasquatch in the corner.

Well that's my take on the past year except to add that I've been privileged to play with some great musicians who not only do me the insane honour of performing my music but do it well.
I look forward (as ever) to our next outing.
……………………….

Playing in the states has certainly forced me to learn lyrics better. Over on Continental Europe, I often made up entire verses on the spot. No one seemed any the wiser.
I recall Nick singing, "It Never Rains in California" one evening in the Old Dubliner in Regensburg. Right in the middle he comes out with,
"It never rains in the Old Dubliner.
Girl you're a bubbliner."

The Irish pub scene in Germany demanded that musicians be walking juke boxes. To help me in my endless task of learning new material, I always kept a blank cassette ready in my radio cassette player. Every time a song came on that I wanted to learn, I'd press the record button and tape it. When the tape was full, I'd sit down and learn them all. I had to learn a lot because if anyone asked for any well known song under the sun, I was expected to know it. To this day I know hundreds of songs but not their first line because I always missed it before I pressed record.

I remember an Irish guy called Bobby (Grassick?) was passing the hat for the band one night up in Nurnberg. A reluctant donator said to him, "I heard this band play this song last time too. Why should I pay again?"
Quick as a flash, Bobby comes back with, "Listen, if you drop a coin in a juke box do you think it's going to play your song twice?"

With the Izzy Skint band we were forever changing lyrics. No song was sacred. "Dirty Old Town" became Dirty Old Man. The Star of the County Down suffered several changes and none for the better. "Who's the maid with the nut brown hair" swiftly became "Who's the nut with the light brown hair." Other County Down changes were too graphic to go into right now.
Most entendres were too subtle for a non native speaker to catch in passing. But once whilst singing "Get Back" the chorus degenerated into "F##k off f##k off back to where you once belonged." That was one of the more blatant ones. No need for translation there. Amidst the chaos of a rowdy Irish pub that stuff just blended in. Here in the States I doubt we could get away with such illustrious imagery.

Bad Moon rising was another classic lyric swap. "There's a bad moon on the rise" became, "There's a bathroom on the right." Harry took great pleasure singing that one.
He also sang the Beatles song, Yesterday. It went like something like this…
"Leprosy
Bit's and pieces falling off of me.
I'm just half the man I used to be…"

A bit gruesome. Uncouth even. I don't know. Ask Harry. He sang it. Not me.

I remember JB singing an REM song on the street in Regensburg. The song was called something like, This One Goes Out to the One I Love. He was belting it out fine style and at each chorus he sang out loud and clear across the square, "FIRE, My bums on fire.'
No one batted an eyelid. The funny thing though was he was playing outside a pharmacist. He must have sounded like an ad for an anti itch lotion.
I half expected someone to come out and give him some Preparation H.
I think the proper lyric was " something like "My heart's on fire". In which case he could have been advertising a heart burn medication like Prilosec.

Some lyrical adaptations were quite clever. Helen and PJ took Dylan's "One More Cup of Coffee" and rewrote the entire song renaming it "One more Gin and Tonic."
We even went as far as to record it.

It was quite difficult to get out of the lazy habit of half learning songs' lyrics. Usually in Europe I could get away with a verse and a half and a few choruses. It was especially easy with the Irish/Scottish trad stuff. No one understood the accent anyway. But to edit and butcher a well known song like Let It Be was unforgivable.
But that didn't stop us…..

"I wake up to the sound of music
Julie Andrews comes to me
speaks with Norman Wisdom
let it be….."

Etc etc etc. And many more.

Maybe back then we were all just chancers (I'm sure it hasn't changed) but what if the Continentals had caught a half of these on the spot lyrics? It might have made their evenings twice as entertaining? After all who goes to an Irish pub to hear perfect music? Sure the standards are fairly high but it's all about the craic.

Here's the standard interview for a gig job in an Irish bar.

"Can I have a gig?"
"Are ye any good?"
"Yes."
"How much money do ye want?"
"How much have ye got?"
"I'll give ye 150."
"Is there free beer?"

Folk music was never meant for concert halls and for people sitting in neat rows of chairs facing a stage. That's like looking at a zoo animal in a cage. Folk music is naturally interactive. It often starts with a bunch of musicians at a table in an old pub sharing funny stories and swapping tunes. As the pints flow, the music becomes less inhibited. The volume level in the bar rises. The rowdier the people become, the rowdier the music becomes. The two evolve together till last orders are called and a lusty round of cheerful vomiting and fighting ensues.

I do miss the craic sometimes. Good times. Good times.

This was a relaxing little gig with just me, Phil and Donald playing.
Due to the sporadic, intermittent nature of the audience, we were able to practice a whole bunch of new and old material. People came and went and never stayed longer that the time it took to eat their snack.
We played The L and M, Clyde, Stone River, Bouncy House, Weeping Willow and Great Explorers. We even played some of them twice.
It was quite a pleasant 3 hour jam. There are certainly worse ways to pass a sunny afternoon.

This gig got rained out too just like the Senior Centre gig earlier. Unlike that gig though there was a substantial all ages audience in attendance.
We set up to play in a large room with an old fashioned fireplace. Dave set up a wagon wheel in front of his bass drum which added some token legitimacy to the country western theme of the evening.
We are not a CW band but Country Western was indeed the theme of the evening. This created a potentially tricky situation. We don't really play that kind of music but somehow we pulled it off. We played some well known classics like Heaven's Door and that's all Right Mama which though not exactly Country, did get everyone dancing. The unexpected hit of this gig was Small Step on Broadway.
There were a lot of little kids at the start of this gig. They all piled in wearing cowboy outfits: all dusty boots and Rhinestones. Bearing that in mind, we began with, Old MacDonald Had a Ranch. We followed that with Ain't No Bugs On Me. The whole place just started dancing. We just went with the flow. If nothing else, we are very adaptable. We're an elastic band.

Towards eleven the place was emptying out. The boss told us we could wrap it up. Then we played an extended version of Cardboard Box which enticed a mixed bunch of teen kids back in from the outdoor benches. In the end we played till midnight.
William fell in love with one of the teenage girls. She gave him a bracelet and at the night's end, he walked starry eyed back to the car where he lay in a daze across the back seats. When Jan went to check on him he said in a dreamy far away voice, "Close the door mum, I need to be alone right now."

Well it was good to have this gig over with. It had been such a runaround. At one point everyone had pulled out and it looked like we'd have to cancel it. Poor Hil was frantic. She had chased that gig so hard. When it fell apart, she felt obliged to fix it. She called various bands around town and checked the websites of a bunch of others. She had no luck. Everyone was booked. Time was running out if we wanted to cancel and still leave the organizers ample time to find a replacement band. At that stage it was no longer about the Muddy Boots, it was all about not letting down the folks who'd booked us.
Finally after practicing with Donald one afternoon, I told him I was going to cancel the gig the next morning as it was only him and I left. Donald being broke and desperate like myself, said he'd come up with a solution. I left him to it with the understanding that Hil got 50 dollars from the gig money for all her trouble. By this time several weeks had passed since everyone had pulled out. I still had no idea who would end up playing the gig.
Whoever turned up would only have time for 2 practices at most.
Somehow Donald located a drummer (Dave) and Hil got in touch with Yan who even did a practice. Meanwhile Phil changed his mind at the last minute and decided he could play after all. Now all we had to do was figure out how to get there.

In the end it was actually quite a good gig but Jeez what a goose chase.

We played this gig with Donald's new PA. I think he got it in the Pawn Shop. It seemed to work fine. Though it was hard to tell as the room filled and emptied and the acoustics changed throughout the evening.


Speaking of Country Western, let me tell you a tale concerning my good friend JB.

Skye is an island far away up there in the Hebrides off the North West coast of Scotland.
A lot of folks in that area still speak Gaelic. It's a beautiful desolate place where such towns that exist are rarely bigger than villages.
The largest town on Skye was Portree. A typical little whitewashed fishing village built around a sheltered harbour and comprising of some bed and breakfasts, some bars and a few shops. History happens slowly in those parts. The natives tend to be a touch conservative and a bit suspicious of new developments. They like things as they are. In the time I worked there I remember the island's one and only traffic light being erected down by the ferry in Kyleakin. That was a sensation. It drew a crowd. I wonder what the reaction was a few years later when an enormous bridge was built to connect the island to the mainland. That may have been the biggest historical event up there ever. Bigger perhaps than Archie Gemmell's goal against Holland in 1978.
People came to Skye to experience its sense of desolation. It's hard to believe such isolation could still exist in Europe. Both JB and I spent time up there. It is a wild bleak landscape shaped by the most fundamental of forces: wind, ice, sea and alcohol. It sounds terrifying but it is beautiful.

As you can imagine, the Isle of Skye was not exactly the Las Vegas of the North. So when any event of a social nature occurred, it was a big deal. Like the time when a real live country western band came to town……

………JB was sitting at a bar in Portree talking with an American stranger. They started talking about music. JB mentioned he was a musician. The stranger said he was a musician too. JB suggested they should have a session. The stranger then said that he played with the country western band that was in town that very night. JB asked if he could maybe sit in on a few tunes.
"Sure", said the stranger. "But there's just one catch."

He took JB outside to his van.

"Everyone in the band has to wear one of these" He said.
He handed JB a huge cowboy Stetson hat.
"No problem" smiled JB. "I like hats."
"…And one of these" added the American. He presented JB a full cowboy outfit in a protective polythene cover. JB nodded in a manner that could have meant anything.
A sort of neutral nod of maybeness.
"Okay then", concluded the American. "Just be at the bar at 8:30 tonight." Then he got in the van and drove off.

JB took the outfit home and examined it in more detail. He spread it out on his bed.
Now, there are cowboy outfits and there are cowboy outfits. This particular cowboy outfit was a "helluva" cowboy outfit. Its exact description has since passed into the superlative fog of Portree folklore. But suffice to say, it was classically over the top: longhorn belt buckle, cowboy boots, silver spurs, rhinestone shirt and of course the 10 gallon hat. Is there such a colour as Neon Garrish?
JB loved playing music and never liked to pass up a gig opportunity. Chances like this were rare up in the Highlands and Islands. But……

……………………………

But..…."Is this worth it" he wondered later as he looked in his mirror at an image not quite Elvis, not quite the Lone Ranger, and not quite sober.

At 8:20pm, JB, missing only a horse and a gun, ( a bus stop cowboy) strode purposefully up the street towards the bar.
"Yer darn tootin it's worth it."

At 8:30 pm he pushed open the bar door and moseyed on in. If there'd been a piano player tickling the ivories, he'd have stopped playing in mid plink. As it was, pint glasses braked between bar counter and lips. Darts went astray and pool balls rolled across the floor like tumbleweed.

JB looked over to the stage and stopped in his tracks. There was the American guy with the country western band. They were all decked out casually in jeans and tee shirts. They all raised their glasses and toasted his health. "Give us a song Roy", they hooted.

Personally I'd probably have died on the spot: probably lynch myself. But JB bellied up to the bar and said in his best drawl, "Bartender gimme a milk, 2 straws and a small hole to climb into."

He did actually play the gig with the band which was by all accounts a roaring success.
Yeehah.



Old Folks Centre Family BBQ.
July 31st

An odd little gig.
It got rained out so we moved inside to a big empty hall with a few plastic chairs lined up.
Today's band consisted of me, Yan and Donald. At times we outnumbered the crowd. We didn't even plug in.
Yan was on fine form though and he drifted between the house piano, the harmonica, his mandolin and his fiddle. He was quite entertaining. It was just a shame no one was there to witness it. Maximum crowd was about 10 people. Minimum was zero.
In the end we only played about 45 minutes. Good practice.

Ronan and William spent the whole gig out in the hallway playing a WEI computer game which involved boxing, tennis, bowling and a lot of leaping around. They do love their gig perks.



BBQ at Fairhaven Market
July 30th

This was an easy going gig. A crowd of shoppers came and went throughout the duration. There was no need to play the songs in any particular order.
This was Dave's first gig with the band. He slotted right in and added a bright shuffle and a big smile to the proceedings.
There's not much more to add really. Good gig. I think we all had a good time.
Thanks to Jim and Sally for showing up.

The 3Ds
Fairhaven BBQ.

As ever another very pleasant and non controversial gig with the 3Ds.
Dale, Donald, Jan and myself were on the menu today.
The supermarket across the street has recently been having BBQs in a quiet corner of the car park. It's actually quite nice. They’ve sort of partitioned off the area between the liquor store and the supermarket entrance. Once you're in, you forget there's a car park outside.
I guess they've created a roofless restaurant. If they sold alcohol then it would be a topless bar.

Anyway Dale was in fine form and was very obviously enjoying himself. I think he sang a few more songs than usual.
I'm beginning to recognize the titles to some of these tunes now. I like playing Chicken Reel and Flop Eared Mule and Mind Your Own Business. They lend themselves well to the wash tub bass. I like them all actually.

I think everyone had a good time. I wore out 2 fingers on my tub glove. I'm glad I was wearing it.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band

We were a big old band of boots for this gig: Donald, Chris, Chuck, Charlie, Phil, and myself.
We set up to play in the bandstand in the town green (not Riverside Park).
I had been looking forward to this gig but sadly sound problems turned the afternoon into quite an exhausting 2 hours work for everyone.

Our sound system was a mish mash of Donald's speakers, my speakers and Phil and Charlie's amps. We had no real monitors and no one could really hear each other.

But we battled through it (as ye do).

To what end, I'm not sure. In fact I was reminded of our first recording session out at Charlie's a few years back when I had a similar ear phone sound check. (Wow. Remember that? Ooh pain.)
Then when Hil chirped in with, "hey, your guitar is rattling," I was thinking, "Jeez, that's probably the best part of the soundcheck. " Not that I could hear it. I wonder if it was rattling in tune?

Still… those notables who expressed an opinion, said the gig sounded fine: not spectacular, just fine.

We definitely had some nice moments. Songs like Cardboard Box and Injara are still great fun to play. We didn't even play Chuckanut or Annecy.

Half way through our set, the next band arrived. They stood behind the bandstand and I began to feel they were trying to psyche us off. In the last 20 minutes, I could practically hear them gnashing their teeth, checking their watches and tapping their fingers in impatience. It was kinda funny actually. Hadn't they read the program timetable?
Muddy Boots 5pm till 6:45.
Next band: 7PM till whenever.

What did they expect us to do? We'd already switched slots to accommodate them: now it seemed they wanted half of this slot too.

Well I hope the Everson citizens had a good annual fair. They certainly had far more entertaining things to do than listen to us and our sound check. There were stalls with tasty looking food. There was lemonade and arty stuff, a soccer game, a bouncy house, crazy golf, a swing park and popcorn. All good stuff on a very pleasant sunny afternoon.
I guess they weren't serving alcohol. This might explain the subdued nature of the crowd.
It really was a family oriented affair and fortunately for our uncooperative sound check, live music was just background noise for added atmosphere.

Odd gig.

Afterwards me, Hil and Ronan went to Riverside Park for a quiet picnic.
I think the last time we were in Everson was to write a travel article for a Whatcom County, "where to go" book. That must have been about 10 years ago. Riverside Park hadn't changed much. Good picnic though.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

A decent enough gig with some good moments.

This was Tree's last official gig.
Charlie may still be occasionally on the payroll but he seems content playing solo gigs. Fair play to him. He's out there doing it. I will miss that second guitar.

Just as we were starting, my guitar began to crackle. I couldn't believe it. After just getting it fixed as well. So I changed the battery. That didn't help. I changed the cable. Nothing. Tried a third cable. Then it worked.
What a start. That wasn't one of the good moments.

There was quite a big crowd in the park but they were really spread out thinly into the distance. We were set up to play on the step of the pavilion building. Scott Peterson and the Boundary Bay sound guy were doing the sound. I could see them talking in the sound booth. It looked like one was turning things up as the other was turning them down. It was kind of comical.
It was a bit of a blustery sound check which made the gig a bit like hard work. I felt like I was shouting. I guess we were spoiled after Scott's great sound check at the Allied Arts Street Fair last year. Can't win 'em all.

This event was a family day out for Bellingham. Hil got herself a folding chair and sat herself at a comfy distance chatting with Jan.
Ronan charged around with a balloon sword he got from a balloon folding guy.
He (Ronan, not the Balloon guy) and William had a great time playing in the bouncy houses.

Not much to say about the gig. We finished about 8pm.
There was one more band on after us, then there would be a fireworks display.

At several points during our set I thought I heard my guitar crackling again but it turned out to be some nearby fizzling fireworks. In the middle of one song there was a huge boom and a cloud of black smoke appeared in the sky. I looked up and thought. "Oh oh, there goes the Balloon Man."

When the gig was over, Me, Hil and Ronan went over to Alex's parents' home where they put on an unbeatable spread of food. From their balcony we had a perfect view of the fireworks display across the bay. By 11pm, the whole town smelled like gunpowder and barbeque sauce.

I guess the 4th of July is one of the top barbeque days on the American calendar.
In Scotland we didn't barbeque much. This is mainly because of the inclement weather but probably also because we never really defeated the English. We don't have an Independence Day equivalent. I guess we could celebrate Bannockburn Day.

…………………………………………………….

But speaking of Scottish barbeques…..
Some years back, up on the Scottish Isle of Skye, I had a job as Assistant Warden in a Youth Hostel. My direct Boss was a guy called Rob.

Rob was a stocky wee Glasgow man with thick milk bottle spectacles, tattoos and a stubborn streak. As a boss, Rob did things by the book. But he was a fair man. In the large scheme of things I'd have to say he was a good boss.
During working hours he expected me to be completely in charge and to function independent of him. He did not like to be unduly disturbed especially when he was in the Haakon Bar across the street. He ran a tight ship but when the hostel shift was done, he left the work behind and we were all friends. It was like the flick of a switch.

So anyway, me and him, Hil, Julie and JB were all up the Obb (the small tidal inlet) behind Kyleakin Village on a beautiful midsummer evening. It was a pleasant little place to go for a stroll and get smashed (as in pitifully drunk).

Well I must say we were well on our way to oblivion via consumption of vast quantities of beer, wine and smoky stuff. We were all swaying nicely in different directions when someone mentioned food. Suddenly everyone was starving. Then Julie had to mention sausages.
Well that was the moment that Rob decided to share his recipe for a Glasgow barbeque which as it transpired was a tricky mix of a cookout and a fireworks display combined.

It went like this……

First drink far too much alcohol. (No problem there.) Then drag an old rusty oil drum from some garbage heap and set it up on its end up the Obb. Next, get a large rock and a big 6 inch nail. Bash holes in the oil drum using said technology.
Next, bandage fingers.
Now stagger back to the youth hostel freezer and rip out a ton of bratwurst sausages. Spread them on top of the oil drum. Take a large can of kerosene and liberally dowse sausages, oil drum and self.
Ignite……

As I recall there was an instant inferno like someone had lit a space rocket. Flames roared to the height of the trees. We all jumped back. Except Rob. He had to be pulled back.
The fire blazed for about 5 minutes. The sausages had turned instantly black outside but remained frozen within: like a Choc-Ice for carnivores or the unfortunate people of Pompeii. I tried one. It tasted like pure kerosene. Disgusting.
We decided to go home. The oil drum was still glowing red hot. Someone gathered up the shriveled sausages and kicked the drum into the Obb River where it hissed angrily. The river was only a few inches deep. "We can't just leave it there", said someone. "Let's at least roll it down towards the sea."
Then Rob spoke up. "Och that'll take all night." He strode purposefully into the river and picked up the oil drum. Everybody yelled in alarm because it was still roasting hot. But Rob had it firmly grasped in a bear hug. The thing was almost as big as him. "Put it down. Rob. Put it down. Ye'll burn yerself." But he wouldn't listen and he stumbled and fell over the drum and into the river where the damn thing rolled right on top of him. We were laughing but we were trying to help. Rob, stubborn as a badger, just got up and like a Sumo wrestler; he grabbed his rusty opponent by the waist and carried it all the way back to the hostel where he abandoned it by the back door and disappeared.
Somehow by the end of the night all the sausages had been devoured. No one claimed to have eaten them but we all had kerosene breath the following day.

When I saw Rob next morning, he had a huge bandage on his right hand. We stepped out to the sunny backyard and sat sipping coffee on the kitchen step.
We were sitting there in comfy silence for a few moments then Rob pointed at the oil drum with his mug and said, "Where'd that come from?"

Hell of a barbeque.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.

We (Me, Hil and Ronan) went camping up the Mount Baker Highway on the Friday night before this gig. On Saturday afternoon we drove back straight to the gig out on Kickerville Road up near Ferndale.

The camping was fun. We stayed at Silver Fir campground which was surprisingly quiet. Our friends, Alex and Sagit had reserved some sites along the Nooksack River. Other friends of theirs showed with their kids. Ronan had no shortage of playmates.
Alex and Hil bravely cycled up Mt Baker to Heather Meadows while me and Ronan went for an easier ride along a logging trail that followed the River. It's a blast to see Ronan on his wee bike these days. Just two weeks ago he was still in the trailer and I was doing cycling for two. He just turned 6 last month but he weighs over 50 pounds. Every day I towed him to school became a harder work out. Now that I'm cycling without the loaded trailer and I feel light as a feather.

We passed an eventful day of doing nothing. We explored the giant hollow tree within the campground; we snacked and lazed by the river in the welcome sunshine. Me and Sagit drew some sketches. Eleanor and Ronan and all the other kids, skimmed stones, built pebble castles and climbed up and down driftwood logs. Ronan threw sticks for a dog who loved to dive in the river. Late at night when everyone was asleep Alex and me had a campfire jam, Grateful Dead style.

All in all we had a great little getaway away from Bellingham. Sometimes it's nice to have some spectacular mountains for company to give a different perspective on life. The only downside was the mosquitoes that were merciless in the shade but not bad in the open.
We left around 3pm on Saturday and crossed the width of the county. It was like doing the ski to Sea by car.

We arrived at the Funland Theatre in plenty of time.
This venue had apparently been a barn just last month. Actually it was still very much a barn but it had been funkified. There were sofas and church pews and a stage. Above the stage to one side was a loft. Upon this loft was the drum kit. It was a bizarre arrangement for a gig. Me, Donald, Charlie and Phil were on the main stage while Tree perched high above us like a rooster in the hay loft.

The barn was fairly dark inside and furnished with curiosities: a 6 foot Sasquatch, a suit of armour, a flashing robot, some broken TV frames and piles of other artistic odds and ends all arranged like museum exhibits.
I could picture this as a great venue for some late night spooky barn music.
In the courtyard there were a beer garden and a few charity organization tents all offering their services and info. There were chickens and goats and wandering musicians.

The whole idea was to raise money for food for the animals at the Humane Society. There were about 8 bands playing. I must say "well done", to the sound man for coping with it all. He must have had a long day.
We played our set around 7:30pm. It was very short (only about 6 or 7 songs) so we stuck to our catchier stuff.

It was nice of the band to volunteer their services for this gig without any prompting. Normally they don't play anywhere for free, but for the Humane Society there was no hesitation.

I'd say it wasn't our best performance but I had a great time chatting with all the animal lovers and musicians who were hanging out. (Probably all wanting adopted). I spoke with a drummer named Ken who'd spent a lot of time in L.A. He'd had a nasty back accident and had been confined to a wheel chair. One day he tried an experimental therapy and suddenly he was up and running again. It was quite literally like a miracle. He seemed a happy guy. And no wonder.
I also spoke with some of the band called 47th parallel. They were on after us. One of them was called Josh. He'd a lot of interesting busking questions which I was happy to try answer.

I hope the Humane Society raised some decent cash. It was an honour to play there. I derived great pleasure from making useful music. I'd love to do it more often. I'd travel the world and do it if I could. Right now though, I can hardly raise the money for a new guitar string.

Then we all went home.

So I'd say we had a good weekend, gigging, cycling and camping.

…………………………

I still find it strange to go camping with a tent. But that's apparently what respectable families do.
In the past I never even considered packing a tent. I traveled for years without a tent. It wasn't so much that I wanted to enjoy the romance of sleeping out under the stars, it was more that I liked to be able to open one eye and know what (or who) was going on around me.
Also tents were too much extra weight to carry around and a pain to put up and take down.
But girlfriends liked them.

It was because of the latter reason that I was compelled to invent the portable umbrella tent.
I'd always coveted the notion of a tent that was as easy to erect as an umbrella and just as portable.
One year back in the 90s, me, Hil, and Andy and Nina were drinking at the Regensburg Doltefeste. We stopped for pizza slices at a kiosk that had round barrel shaped tables that were tall enough to lean on like leaning at a bar. Protruding from the centre was an umbrella pole with a huge umbrella canopy. Emblazoned on it were the words, "Coca Cola." When we got up to leave, I realized the umbrella was following us through the crowd. Andy had simply picked it up and taken it with him. I recall shuffling through this crowd when a girl ahead of me suddenly stopped, turned and glared, then slapped me profoundly across the face. I was taken aback. Then I saw Andy's smiling face looking mischievously at me from the side. In one hand he still held the umbrella while his other hand was making little crab pincer movements.
This umbrella eventually ended up back at our apartment where it sat in a corner and gathered dust.

Some time afterwards, me and Hil were planning a trip to Spain. We spoke with Peter who had spent some time there over the last few years. He gave us some great busking info and told us about Northern Spain and the Basque Country and San Sebastian.
The night before we left Germany en route to Spain, I played a gig at the Alte Maltzerei. It wasn't the best paying gig nor the best attended but Walter the manager was a Spain enthusiast and he soon had maps spread out on the bar counter and was telling us enthusiastically about Los Picos de Europa.

Well next day bright and early we set off for Spain. I packed my guitar and the umbrella which I'd recently modified into some sort of crude bivouac instant tent. It wouldn't have been out of place in a ghetto. A shanty town igloo.

We took a Mitfahr (hitch hiking agency. Small fee.) from Munich to Saragossa.
This ended up being a 24 hour drive. The driver was a German guy of about our age. We smoked grass all the way there. Each time we crossed a new border, he hid the bag down his crotch. But most of the border posts were deserted. The Swiss border was active but paid us no heed.
En route our driver had given us emergency Spanish lessons. We learned words like, where, why, when, go, yes, shop, how much, thank you, hitch-hike, beer, wine, coffee, hash. It wasn't much but it all helped. We were far from fluent but we were slightly more than mute.

We passed over the Alps and over the Pyrenees and entered the Spanish desert. I'd never seen a desert before. I remember standing at a gas station by a roadside. There was nothing. No blade of grass. Just sand and rock and a long liquorice strip of tarmac.

In Saragossa, we parted with the driver. We planned to head North West by bus towards the Basque territory. He was heading for Madrid.
"140 Deutschmarks", he said.
I gave him the money. He looked at it.
"Each."
"Each?"
"Ya. 280Dms."
This unexpected expense put a severe dent in our already small budget. Hil had recently had her credit cards cancelled so we had no back up money at all.

Nevertheless, we headed North to Barcelona by bus. Then we took a bus to Pamplona. Finally we decided to take one more bus North. We agreed that no matter what, we would make our stand in that town.

All day we'd passed through desert. Not a sprig of green in sight. I was definitely in unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar climate in fact. I wasn't sure I liked it. I willed the grass to grow. I strained my eyes for any sign of green activity. Nothing. Then after several hours, the Pyrenees peeked over the horizon. A blade of green appeared. Slowly other shy plants began cropping up like they were growing before my eyes on a time lapse landscape. I breathed a sigh of relief as the land began to shape into hills with rivers and pines. I hadn't relished the thought of sleeping rough in the desert among imaginary scorpions and snakes and without firewood. I guess I'll always be a maritime mountain sort of guy.

So it was that we arrived in San Sebastian as dusk was hovering. It was a fair sized coastal town just a few miles south of the French border. Despite its proximity to France, we quickly learned that no one spoke a word of French.
We loaded up with some groceries then went looking for a place to sleep. I left Hil in the lee of a harbour wall and set off around the coast till I came to a steep park with closed gates. All along the street were fishermen with rods. Occasionally a group would jump back when an extra large wave came leaping high out of the ocean.
We waited till nightfall then crept in to the park and headed up the hill. We quickly set up our umbrella tent behind some huge Stone Henge sized boulders. Here we were out of sight and reasonably sheltered.
Basically I popped open the brolly and covered it with a small tarp. Then I put my waterproof jacket under us as a groundsheet and that was that.
It was beautiful night. Not a cloud in the sky. We had climbed up fairly high. Below us we could hear the surf crashing on the harbour walls. We sat by our "tent" and drank Vino Tinto from cartons. A perfect start to our trip.

We awoke in a gale. A river was running through our happy home. Rain rattled off the tarpaulin roof. We had to hold on to everything to stop it getting blown out to sea. We endured as long as we could: huddled like fetuses in a damp, miserable womb.
Finally I turned over on my belly and stuck my head out and looked around. Grey sky. Grey rock. Grey sea. Grey.
"Only one thing to do in a time like this" I said to Hil.
"What?"
"Cigarette."
And so we lay and puffed grey smoke into the grey sky then we packed up and went into town.

We found a bar behind the train station that doubled as a left luggage office. Every morning afterwards, we were there having café con letche and cervesa (spelling?)
We spent several days in San Sebastian getting scruffier with each dreary sunrise. It was not yet tourist season. We wandered around the harbour and the old town and the boardwalk. We often had the whole beach front to ourselves. We'd sit on the beach drinking a bottle of 14 percent red wine and watch an occasional die-hard wind surfer get blown about around the bay.

San Sebastian is set in a beautiful inlet guarded by an island like a gem in a ring at the entrance. It was pleasant enough but our money was dwindling towards zero and our sleeping bags were still not dry. We just couldn't get warm and when the tobacco finally ran out, we became downright irritable.

One day Hil had a temper tantrum and stormed off round the bay. When she returned some hours later, she'd walked a lot of her frustration out of her system. Meanwhile I'd been busking and I surprised her with a big bulging money pouch and some tobacco. Though she tried bravely, she was so dejected that she could barely muster a thin smile.

Tom Petty songs were the big money earners that day. So much so in fact that I dispersed with all other songs and sang "Into the Great Wide Open" and "Your So Bad", over and over. No one stopped to listen, so no one noticed that the each song lasted over an hour. I remember that I stood down near the harbour by a shuttered hotel that looked kind of like a steam boat where there was a steady flow of people going by and no shopkeepers to annoy. I wonder if it's still there. The busking hadn't been brilliant but it certainly was enough to feed us for the day with some left over.

I busked again that same day and with this new cash, we went to a café to get warm and to make some desperate escape plans.
By now poor Hil was worn out by the elements. She wanted to go home. Since we'd arrived in town we'd had only one day of sunshine in a week. We had only been in one bar: I think it was called the Boga Boga. Interesting place. We simply weren't enjoying ourselves enough to make hanging around worth while. Hil had had about enough of rotten weather and dodgy tents. I must say I shared her opinion. It was time to skip town.

So we sat in that tiny deserted café with all our gear about us. We couldn't even afford to deposit it at the Luggage Bar. Hil, her hair in knots and tangles, was staring despondently at the floor. She had no energy left. Regensburg was an impossible distance away. Apart from the busking money, we were just about flat broke.

The time was ripe for extreme measures.
I reached into my hip pocket and pulled out a crumpled 50 Deutschmark note. I waved it slowly in front of her field of vision. At first there was no reaction. Then she was looking vacantly up at me in disbelief, babbling and asking "is it real? Where? How? Is it a dream? Then she was crying. Then we were both laughing so hard we were both crying. The waitress looked over briefly: straight faced and suspicious from the far end of the café counter then returned to chatting with the one other customer.

I'd kept this 50dm note in my pocket for use only in grim dire straits. The time had come. This had been my pay from the Alte Maltzerei gig I'd played the evening before we'd left Regensburg.

We were reborn.
Reprieved.
I went busking one last time and raked in a welcome heap of pesetas. (Thank you Tom P.)
We decided to use all the money for 2 train tickets as North East as possible across France. Thus our destination was Grenoble in the Alps, which wasn't far South of Annecy my old stomping ground. A fair distance. We would be able to by-pass hitch-hitching through France which in my past experience has been so bad as to be hardly even worth the effort. Too much hike and not enough hitch.

The train was scheduled to leave at 5 am. We stayed up all night wrapped in the damp sleeping bags on a bench up the hill. We had a great view overlooking the city. The wait was actually quite enjoyable. We had some wine and food and we chatted away fairly comfy and had a laugh while looking forward to a nice long warm dry train trip in the morning.
We were at the station in plenty of time. We got on board and let the heat soak into our bones. With one minute to go, I asked a fellow passenger if this was the train to France. He said yes. But then a man across from him said something contradictory and pointed to the train across the platform. In a mad panic we rushed out and jumped on board just as it pulled out.
We headed North leaving the remnants of the dead umbrella tent experiment behind us in Spain. Official cause of death: drowning.

Hil was soon conked out, snoring on my shoulder. It was snowing when we passed through Lourdes. I never pictured snow in Lourdes. I'd always envisioned a girl by a shady well on a sunny day. The train didn't stop there.

In Toulouse we had to change trains. Somehow we missed our connection while we were shopping for bread and cheese. We caught the next train and shared a compartment and a smoke with a French revolutionary anarchist.
Finally we arrived in Grenoble. I felt I was almost home. I searched for a place to sleep. There was a bridge by the river but it was too ratty. The local park was a little too active in the wee hours. So in the end we decided to doze close to the highway. We wrapped ourselves like burritos and got a frigid hour or two of rest.

In the morning there was frost everywhere. The mountains were snow capped and the world seemed filmed in Sepia.
We hitched into Annecy and I was busking in my old tunnel by 10 am.

Later on, walking through the old town, I met the Fox. He immediately asked "Ou est John?" I said, "en Eccosse."
He said, "Suive moi."
Which translated as, "Where is John?"
"In Scotland."
"Follow me."

He took us to his new home: a converted barn / farmhouse which was sparsely furnished but very cozy.
He had friends over for dinner and it all seemed very civilized.
When I pulled out a couple of bottles of 5 star plonk he got a fright and swiftly bundled them out of view. "Pour la cuisine",(For cooking) he whispered. It hadn't been for the kitchen last time we'd been drinking together.
The Fox was a perfect host. He put us up for the night and the next day we drove to a chalet up the Semnoz Mountain. We stayed the night there, painting, talking, smoking and drinking. But next day, much recovered, we were back on the street. The Fox had done his bit for society. Hil was happy and the weather had turned warm.

We were content to sleep out on the edge of town by the tennis courts. The lake was just across the street.
We'd sit out on the dock relaxing late at night before crossing the street to sleep in the shadows of some tall pines behind a hedge.
One late night 2 cars screeched to a halt on the street right in front of our hideaway. Doors flew open and bodies sprang out. There was angry yelling and cursing. There seemed to be two disputing factions chasing one other.
I sat up silently in my sleeping bag as a young man dived through the hedges barely 3 metres away. He lay still, hidden in shadow, while just inches away, on the other side, searchers were shouting orders. "Find him. Find him." The hunted man did not move as his angry pursuers closed in.
I slowly drew out my knife. I didn't know what I was thinking but these guys seemed intent on spilling blood. Somehow we'd found ourselves caught in the middle of a gang fight.
Suddenly the hedge guy took off like a rabbit. Everyone went racing back to their cars or charging through bushes or down the middle of the road. There was more tire screeching and engines revving as they all varruumed off South round the lake. Then all was quiet again.
Across the street, a figure emerged from the bushes. He looked cautiously both ways, lit a cigarette and began walking quickly towards town.

……………………………………..

After a few more days in Annecy we decided to hitch across Switzerland back home to Germany. As we were walking towards the North edge of town I was telling Hil about a guy called Jonathon who used to empty his wallet into my case every time he saw me busking in the tunnel.
Right then there was a shout from a bus stop across the street and a man waved and dodged through traffic towards us.
"Hello James" he said as he plugged a cigarette into each of our mouths. "Still broke?"
He opened his wallet and gave me 200 francs. "There's my bus" he added.
Then he was gone. We just stood there dumbfounded and started laughing.
Jonathon waved from his bus and was never seen again.

I can't recall much of the journey back to Bavaria. We may have stayed overnight in Schaffhausen with the Spengler family. From there I think we went straight to Munich and out to Gogland in Pasing where JB and Jan along with half of Dublin were living on Bodensee Strasse.
The lads were all out on the roof when we showed up. It was a scorcher of a day. They had a bucket of water with luke warm Ottinger beers floating in it. A half dozen spliffs were going round. Radio Gong was blaring the classics. The lads were obviously looking hard for gainful employment.
I had to yell up a few times before I heard shushing from the roof. Then I saw Kieron's face peer cautiously over the edge.
Shortly we were all up on the roof and joining in with the search for work.

So ended the tale of the golfing umbrella tent.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band at Grahams in Glacier.

Good gig.
Me, Donald, Phil and Chuck.

This time round we were more attune to the comings and goings of the venue's inhabitants.
So we weren't worried when the place emptied out after the first set. Sure enough an hour later it had filled back up again.
Being the eve of the 4th of July, there were fireworks going off randomly outside. Some sounded like serious dynamite. One particular firework boomed in the sky above Grahams and left an ominous mushroom cloud that lingered like flack in a bombing raid.
But I digress.

To the gig…..

Chuck on his drums adds that extra oomph that we need for this gig. He has a style that somehow manages to sound friendly. That's quite a talent. It was a shame Chris wasn't there too. Her vocals and percussion would have been icing on the cake.

We set up our stall so that we weren't staring straight out the front door like last time. All that opening and closing can be just as distracting as a bar room TV. I think too that newcomers can get scared off as they enter and see a band shouting directly at them. I guess that could appear a bit threatening.

Musically there was not much new but there was a fresh sense of fun to the gig. Might have been that cool high elevation mountain air we were breathing at the interval.
The last set was especially enjoyable as we passed midnight and moved officially into the 4th of July. To celebrate, we played Bob Dylan's 115th Dream.

There sure seems to be a tight little community out there in Glacier that revolves around Grahams. I don't think we've booked any further gigs out there but it would be nice to be back at some point.
As Chuck put it so eloquently, "Glacier Rocks!"

We finished up about 12:30 and headed back down the Mount baker Highway to Bellingham.

Thanks Hil for lending us the car. Thanks Jan for doing the door. Ozzie would have been proud.

I never realized that Jan was such a heavy metal fan. Especially Black Sabbath and extra especially Ozzie Ozbourne who was declared a,"fuckup, but a really cuddly fuckup."
Jan told me a story of Ozzy doing a Halloween TV special where he was supposed to dress as a zombie Santa Claus or something. The producers wanted bubbles to come out of his outfit. Ozzie turns round and says. "Listen mate, I'm the Prince of Fuckin' Darkness here. I don't do fuckin bubbles."
I saw him once at the Glasgow Apollo Theatre around 1985. He hardly seemed to be the bat eating satanic character I'd heard tell of. In fact he came across as a really warm hearted and sociable, friendly kind of guy who sang in a heavy metal band and was fucked up. He had the crowd swaying along to songs like Iron Man and Paranoia. It hardly seemed possible. What was most obvious was that the audience loved him for all the right reasons.

The Apollo theatre in Glasgow was an easy 9 mile train ride from my village. Me and my friends used to go regularly to see countless bands there. The only trouble was that if the bands played too long we would miss our last train home. The station was locked and the trains were all sleeping by midnight which was quite amazing for a city of about a million people.

Often I'd end up alone or with my cousin Jimmy, walking the railway tracks 9 miles home. The last third towards Neilston wasn't so bad because the city petered out and we'd find ourselves out on the moors walking along in the utter silence past silvery lakes and familiar silhouetted hills. Despite our weariness, it was magical.

………………………………………………………….

There was another time I went to an Ozzy concert. This time it wasn't at the Glasgow Apollo. In fact it wasn't even in Glasgow.
It was at the Monsters of Rock Festival which took place several hundred miles south of Neilston in the English town of Castle Donington.

This concert was also around 1985.
As I recall it was the same weekend that my cousin Michael was off to hike the West Highland Way. This was a rugged trail that went from Loch Lomond up to Fort William: a distance of about 96 miles. He asked me and our cousin Jimmy if we'd like to go along but we declined. A week of trudging through mud, midges and rain wasn't our idea of a good time. Anyway, we had other bigger plans. Monster plans.

Well on Giro day morning (a Thursday) I picked up my welfare check at the post office. After paying some dig money to my mother, I was left with 16 pounds to spend.
I went round to Jimmy's but he was still in bed. He'd had a bit of a rough night and unless his leather biker jacket and patchy jeans were his pajamas, then I'd guess he'd slept in his clothes. Beside his bed lay what looked like a pizza with carrot topping. Closer inspection revealed it to be a semi solidified pool of vomit.

It took a while to get Jimmy on his feet but after a few cigarettes he was good as new. Well as good as second hand, slightly broken and a littlie scratchy.
It turned out he hadn't got his giro because he'd slept in on signing on day. All we had now was my measly 16 pounds. That wouldn't get us far.
What to do? Our eyes settled on Jimmy's record collection.

My sister Betty kindly bought a Rolling Stones double album. It may have been a rare original edition or someone may have snipped off the 4 corners of the sleeves. Whatever the truth, we now had 22 pounds to get us to Donington and back.
It was Thursday. The gig was on Saturday. We figured that would be enough time to get us there.

Off we went to the Pakistani shop at the far end of the village. Here we bought supplies for the journey to Oz: twenty four cans of lager. Then taking turns each carrying it, we set off West down the Beach Tree Road. This was pleasant country of farmland, moors and rolling hills. It was a beautiful sunny day.
Three miles later we were sitting on a wall in the tiny hamlet of Uplawmoor. By then we'd drank a fair amount of our supplies. I think we got too comfy there and it was early evening before we set off again heading for the main road South.
We stuck our thumbs out and soon got a lift from an elderly woman. The beer had gone to our heads and we spent the journey chatting her up. She dropped us off 15 miles later at a roundabout near Kilmarnock. Jimmy promptly collapsed in the grass and crashed out. I was feeling a bit dizzy myself. At least we had no baggage left to carry.

A few lifts later and we crossed through the border town of Annan as passengers in an oil tanker. Now we were in England. It was night and we were soon walking along a 2 lane highway on the grass verge. Headlights blinded us as lorries roared by choking us with exhaust fumes. We weren't hitch hiking anymore: we were just hiking.
Sometime in the darkness, the landscape changed. As dawn broke, everything seemed greener, gentler, and lusher, with fields full of crops. This was a cozy landscape with quaint redbrick houses. It even felt warmer. In fact England looked tinder dry.

We got a lift into Manchester by some guys in an empty removal van. The driver left the shutter door open at the back so that we had some light. We started off lazing back on our elbows but with every slight uphill incline we found ourselves sliding uncontrollably towards the gaping maw of the great outdoors. We clutched like horizontal mountaineers to tiny cracks on the floor as each bounce tried to dislodge us and suck us out.
Finally missing a few fingernails, we got set down. We went immediately into a shop and bought some chocolate. The shop lady scrutinized our Scottish money with suspicion. I guess she'd never seen a Scottish bill before but thankfully she accepted it.
We walked the entire length of Manchester in searing heat. It seemed England was in a drought year. That's not something likely to ever happen in Scotland.

The next lift that picked us up was a milk van. It was an old fashioned thing that bumbled along at 10 miles an hour and looked like a parade float.
"I can only take you about a mile", the driver said cheerfully. We sat in the back. The milk van was loaded with crates of soft drinks. We eyed them enviously. Too soon the lift was over. We got out. "Help yourself to a bottle" said the driver.
"Oh no thanks", I said.
He drove off into the haze like a mirage.
I remember Jimmy cracked up. "What the fuck? We're dying of thirst here and you say no thanks? What were you thinking?"
"I was sure he'd say just take one."
Jimmy shook his head despairingly.

By Friday night we had reached Castle Donington. We swiftly made up for our recent lack of liquids. We were in and out of half the bars in town. We discovered there was a deposit back on empty glasses. People were outside drinking on the streets. We ran around collecting their empties (and some not so empties) and managed to continue drinking till closing time even though we'd ran out of funds hours earlier.

Nexy morning I woke up in a small tent as the flap opened and a shoe came flying in. It hit me on the chin. I let out a long torrent of bad language. A foreign voice asked, "Wott did ee say?" Then I heard Jimmy's voice outside translating. "He said ouch."
Jimmy'd been up early mingling with the natives and bumming cigarettes and beer. People seemed both fascinated and wary of us. Who were these strange beings who come out of the distant North lands fueled on alcohol with their unkempt ways and strange guttural language?
I remember strolling away from the tent. Jimmy had just bummed a swig of lager from someone and then just walked off with the can. "Can I borrow this" he'd asked the stranger?

As we walked along, I turned to him and asked how we'd ended up at that tent. "No idea" he said puffing happily on a borrowed cigarette.

…………………………………….

Castle Donington was a small town. Every year it hosted the biggest heavy metal festival in Europe. (I think) An enormous stage was constructed in the grounds of a Grand Prix racing track .The area was then fenced in and would hold 80,000 heavy metal fans. This particular year there would be 80,002. This was our destination and the reason we'd hitched South for hundreds of miles.
To be honest we hadn't come all that way to see Ozzy, we'd come to see/hear ACDC.
There was a good line-up that year. I can't remember them all but there was ACDC of course: also Van Halen, Motley Crew, Ozzie, Accept and Garry Moore. All good bands in their own right but ACDC were the headliners.

And so through the festival gates we went armed with 37 pence. Fortunately we'd had the foresight to buy our tickets a long time in advance.
I think fatigue was beginning to catch up with us as the day wore on. As each band came and went, we slumped lower and lower into the ground. We dozed on and off for most of the day. Occasionally a joint came our way. I was starving and I went round the extortionately priced food stalls looking for something for 37 pence. Not a hope. Thirty seven pence wouldn't buy a sniff of a burger.
By the time Garry Moore had held the longest sustained note in history and Ozzie had finished kicking rubber bats off stage and Accept had finished posing and Eddie Van Halen had finished his umpteenth guitar solo that sounded like a motorbike, we were bollox tired.
Nevertheless when the sun finally sank, we were both right up the front determined to enjoy ACDC's show. The band was of course great and we did enjoy it till half way through the gig, when we were both hit by colossal waves of yawning dizziness. We stumbled off to the side where the noise was less intense. There were some camp fires and we stood around one staring blankly into its flames.

An unspoken decision was reached and we were suddenly shuffling towards the exit.
ACDC were actually still playing but we were mentally somewhere else. They sounded like they were singing out the wrong end of a telescope.
It was time to go. Time to hit the Highway To Hell.

I think we figured if we left early we might get a lift somewhere North from some driver going our way. But in the confusion outside the arena we had no idea where we were. Cars and crowds were criss-crossing to and fro. Headlights were blinding us. Car horns blared while every car radio blasted a different heavy metal song. It was mayhem. We were lucky to keep track of each other. We did not get a lift.
We set off walking, unsure even of what compass direction we were going.

That night, I believe we walked 35 miles. We didn't talk much. There was nothing to say. Walk don't talk. Glasgow was hundreds of vague miles to the North.

We began to have bouts of hallucination due to over fatigue. I saw comfy cloud like bushes and vine shaped people lying in the hedgerows. Jimmy saw sausages and fried eggs. We constantly were pulling each other out of the way of oncoming traffic as we were drawn moth like to their headlights. Luckily we seemed to alternate our halicegenic lapses. I'd save him then I'd start to waver then he'd save me. It was a dangerous moment as we quite literally sleepwalked for 35 miles.

No car stopped for us during that insane march but the following day we had more luck. Somehow by late afternoon we arrived in the ancient walled city of York. We knew that York was fairly North and on the English East coast. We had no map and no water. The day had been a scorcher and we were parched with thirst. In a graveyard we found an old plastic container. It was dented and full of dead spiders and flies and cobwebs. We took it to a chip shop and waited in the queue. The delicious aroma of fish n chips almost made us faint. When it came to our turn we handed the chip lady our container and asked her if she'd fill it with water for us. For a long moment I thought she was going to say no. She just stood there looking at the container in my outstretched hand like I was presenting her with road kill and asking if she'd fry it up for me. Finally she half filled it and handed it back. We thanked her gratefully and left.
The container was still filled with dead bugs but we didn't care. We both took long swigs then set off again. A voice from behind made us turn round. "That's a big bottle of gin" it said merrily. We just stared: too tired to change expression. The guy swiftly crossed the road. We seemed to have an odd effect on strangers.

Apparently because England was in the middle of a drought, water was in short supply. I guess the chip shop woman had been very kind to give us a ration of water.

York was also famous for its horse racing track. As we continued our odyssey this track appeared on our left and the highway was on our right. Horses thundered along the turf just a few metres away while cars were zooming along on our right. I'd no idea how we'd gotten there. I turned to Jimmy and said, "I wish we had a map."
And I'm not joking or exaggerating when I say that at that very second, a map appeared in front of us, spread open and flapping in a bush. It was even the right map.
We looked at one another and Jimmy said, "Next time wish for some money."
Well we studied it and found where we were.
We decided to head towards a motorway in the neighbourhood of Leeds. And so we left York and its well defended chip shop behind.

We figured there was about 200 miles to go.
Jimmy groaned. "Two hundred miles! Without cigarettes? It can't be done."
But there was nothing to do but keep walking.

We were plodding along on country roads with the sun beating down on us, when we came to a wee shop. It was one of those little grocery stores that sell a few tins of this and that: The kind with an old lady behind a counter who calculates costs on a piece of paper.
The time had come to spend the 37 pence.
What could be bought with 37 pence? Not much. Jimmy sat outside while I went in. "get something that'll last" He said.
I came back out with 5 bubble gums. Now we were broke.
Two bubble gums each and one left over.
"Will I just eat this last one", I said to jimmy?
"Will ye fuck."
Knives flashed out in a second. It looked like there's about to be a blood bath.
I cut the bubblegum in two. We both oversaw the procedure like it was a heavy drug deal.

Later that night the temperature dropped and a fog came down. We sheltered for a little while under a highway bridge. Something was crawling about in the hedgerow. It was an albino bat. "Ozzie must be around here somewhere" muttered Jimmy. And I do believe we laughed.

But by now Ozzie was far behind, all tucked in, fast asleep in his bat cave. We on the other hand were wandering hopelessly North towards Scotland in the middle of some anonymous night.
We were now both on automatic pilot mode, sticking our thumbs in the air at regular intervals even though the highway was deserted. This was a psychological condition referred to as Hitcher's Hike or Hitcher's Twitch. It's known to occur when someone has been severely over exposed to bad hitching conditions for too long. The slightest noise can cause the victim's thumb to go up: the tweet of a bird, a rustle of a tree: sometimes nothing at all. The only cure is time and rehab.

The highway was deserted. Uninhabited. Everything had turned eerily silent. Jimmy stooped and picked up a soggy, ragged cigarette butt. "Oh wow", he croaked in what sounded like a tired exclamation of joy. I though he was going to weep, He'd been reduced to smoking roadside butts for some time. He'd found a damp packet of roll up papers somewhere. They were all stuck together but he'd used them anyway. This new butt was a good specimen. Someone had only taken a few puffs then tossed it from a car window.
Jimmy put it in a pocket to dry off.

We were only half a mile past the the albino bat when Jimmy slumped to the ground. He simply curled up on the verge like road kill.
I stood beside him like a scene from the Irish Potato Famine picture that hangs in Catholic living rooms everywhere. A grim depiction of despair and failure. A very sorry sight.
After a few minutes, I helped him to his feet. He was completely exhausted and babbling incoherently about cigarettes and how they keep you warm and can ward off evil spirits.
It looked like the bitter end. But even if it was, there was no where to turn. There was no off switch. No changing the channel. We could only keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Then, from nowhere a battered old VW bus appeared. It pulled over and we stumbled in the side door. Unbelievably we were moving. The interior was dark except for some luminous green dashboard lights. Up front separated from the back by a driftwood barricade, I saw 2 male silhouettes. Through the windshield, two headlights sniffed the road.
We sat gratefully on a wooden bench along the side. I remember I moved my foot and discovered there was someone in a sleeping bag on the floor.
The engine roared like an aeroplane and made any thought of talk with our rescuers impossible. Not that we were feeling chatty. Jimmy pulled the soggy cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He handed it to me and indicated that I should ask one of the pilots to light it. I held it up gingerly. It had drooped like an "n" shape. I held it by one leg and passed it through the barricade and asked the passenger to light it. I wasn't sure he understood my accent. He turned his head and looked at the droopy cigarette then took it slowly and held it up ceremoniously for the driver to see. They both looked at it then at one another. It resembled a large dead maggot. It was a rather surreal moment: sort of eerie and slow motion. After the cigarette had been thoroughly looked at, the passenger passed it back the way it had come, unlit. A grubby hand came out of the shadows and drew it back into the abyss.

We were dropped off at Scotch Corner in the wee wee hours. This place boasted a large rather grand looking hotel and a Y junction. The East road went towards Newcastle, the West road headed for Scotland. The car left us there and went East. We walked into the dawn on the West road and were still walking right into the scorching afternoon. We were starving, thirsty and dilusional. Not that different than back home perhaps but home was far far away.

By then it was about Tuesday. We'd left Neilston on Thursday and had our last real meal on Wednesday. Jimmy's last meal had probably crawled under his bed by then. That was almost a week ago. At this rate of progress we'd be still hitching North for a month. We were feeling justifyably mean and cranky and a bit violent. Knives would be cutting more than gum next time they came out.

In actual fact we were making progress. We were now in the Scottish Borders area. Glasgow was only about 100 miles further North but though there were plenty of cars on the highway, none were stopping.

We discussed calling Jimmy's father and asking him for a lift home. It was a long shot but we were desperate.
So we stopped outside a quant little roadside cottage with a bright rosy garden and began to argue.
Jimmy said, "You go knock on that door and ask to use the phone."
To which I replied angrily, "it's your dad we're calling. Shouldn't you knock on the door?"
"Well maybe I will. And maybe he'll pick me up and leave you here."
Then I growled in exasperation and marched furiously up the garden path towards the ivy framed doorway. I knocked on the door then turned back to Jimmy who waited at the gate kicking stones. I pointed at him and in a rage I shouted, "Jimmy, you're just a pri…"
Then the door opened. A girl stood there. Skinny, maybe 16 years old, tank top, shorts.
"….Can I use your telephone please?"

Shortly, we were all 3 in the kitchen. Jimmy made the call to a neighbour in Neilston who had to run round to Jimmy's place, relay the message, then call us back.
In between the calls we stood around awkwardly. The girl kept her suspicious eyes on us.
Can I have a drink of water" I asked?
She pointed to the sink.
The phone rang. She picked it up and handed it to Jimmy.
I could hear tinny laughing on the line and a far metallic voice saying something like "…Not the f***ing Lone Ranger." Jimmy hung up. We left and started walking again.
During the episode, we never heard the girl speak. Maybe she couldn't.

A few thirsty miles later, we were walking on high bankings beside the increasingly noisy road. There was heavy duty road works going on. The country side normally would have been a picture of rural serenity but on this day it was an industrial eruption of jack hammers, drilling and steam rollers that drowned all other country noises.
The high banking verge we were on put us at good eye contact level with passing lorry drivers but as ever no one stopped for us.
By then we were resigned to walking all the way to Neilston. My mind was pondering the idea that I could get a dishwashing job somewhere nearby and save for a bus fare back home. It would probably be faster.

Once again though we were parched with thirst. Glancing over a dry stone wall we both spotted a cow trough in the middle of a field. It appeared to contain water. A little muddy perhaps. A little stagnant. A little E Coli. But to us it was like an oasis.
We leapt the wall and made a B-line straight for the trough, ready to battle cows and drink that tankard dry.
Out of the blue we heard a honk. It stopped us in our tracks. It was a lorry. The driver was beckoning to us. A few seconds later we were in his cab. He was a middle aged English man. His voice was jovial. "I saw you two heading for that trough and I said to myself, those 2 need a lift."

He hadn't any water but he had a large piece of cardboard and a magic marker pen. By the time he dropped us off at a roundabout in Dumfries, we had a big sign that read, "Glasgow."

Two English yuppies picked us up and said they are driving all the way to Glasgow airport. This was great news. Glasgow airport is only a few miles from Neilston. Unfortunately they were convinced that Glasgow had 2 airports. I tried to tell him otherwise but in the end we were dropped out at Glasgow Central Train Station.
We appreciated the lift but were exasperated because we now had a nine mile hike instead of a four mile hike.
There was nothing to do but start walking. We couldn't follow the train tracks this time as it was still only early evening and the tracks were still in use.
Out through the housing schemes we plodded. Past the Gorbals, Pollockshields East, Queens Park, Langside, Pollock, The Hurlet, past the turn off for the airport, and across the breadth of Barrhead.
Finally, unbelievably we were on the last turn off to Neilston. A mere two miles to go. On we trudged in grim silence. Up the Kirk Hill Brae, that killer 45 degree gradient that went up, up, up to Neilston.
We reached the summit just as a neighbour drove by and asked if we wanted a lift. We declined.

At the junction of our streets, we parted without words. Swirls of starlings were flocking around the trees at the Manse, alternately roosting and taking off. Twilight was settling in.
The village was very quiet. No ticker tape parade. Then I heard what sounded like an echo of thunder resonating around the hills. Jimmy had slammed his front door. Jimmy was home.
Rumour has it that he devoured an entire loaf of bread then hibernated for two days.

The next Giro Day, me, Jimmy and Michael were in the Killock Bar.
Michael asked, "How was the concert?"
"Fine. How was the West Highland Way?"
"Oh I gave up after 2 days. It was raining."

Fish Fry Friday
Boundary Bay Beer Garden.

It's a funny thing that there's never much to say about good gigs. They were good and that's it. Not much happened: kinda like package holiday tours to Sweden.

It was a sunny day and the beer garden was buzzing. The whole Muddy Boots band was on stage for this one: Myself, Donald, Charlie and Phil. Tree was there too, making one of his last obligatory drumming appearances.

As usual not a practice in sight. I've lost track of when the last one occurred. These days, they're rare as eclipses or monkey tusks.
Despite this handicap, we had a great gig. There was an occasional rogue note but we had good energy right from song one.

There was a decent sized crowd who indulged in lots of free-style hoola-hooping and dancing. I figured that our usual starter "Who'll Rock That Cradle" wasn't going to cut it with this crowd. So we kicked off with Wang Dang Doodle.

In the second half we played all our "hits", Blowing Down the River, Chuckanut, Henhouse, Annecy, Injara, Cardboard box.
I guess the alcohol must have been kicking in to the crowd. A lot of them were boogying around and when we finished they wanted a couple more. Which was nice. So we played, Mojo Working and All by Myself. Everyone went home happy.

In short: Good gig. Quite tight. Lot's of fun.
The fish and chips weren't bad either.
…………………………..

Talking of fish……..

I was never much of a fisherman. When we were kids we did go fishing around Neilston quite often but I never reeled in a fish. Once I caught a waterlogged rusty motorbike. Another time, same place, I caught a garden shed. Not bad for 6 lb breaking strain.
I believe my plastic bubble still hangs where it snagged 30 years ago on a pylon wire by the Black Adder Dam. I never had any luck. Not even one that got away.

Wullie, a fellow Neilstonian, on the other hand was a good fisherman. He'd reel them in like he was using magnets for bait. He'd make it look as easy as dipping a ladle in a soup bowl.
One day he was fishing up at the Lint Mill Dam and he kept catching useless half sized fish. This went on all afternoon and he began to get frustrated and a bit angry. Finally when the umpteenth little fish came up, he grabbed it in a fit of rage and bit its head off. He spat it venomously out into the water and yelled threateningly at the headless body in his fist, "Tell yer fuckin pals it's the same for them if they come up here again." Then he threw it back.
I guess that's catch and release.

Beach Store Café
Lummi Island.

We (me, Hil and Ronan) went back up to the Highland games in Ferndale. Hovander Park sure was a lot noisier than it had been the previous day. There's nothing like a couple of thousand bagpipers to bring a different perspective to a quiet country park.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. We wandered around amidst the skirl of the pipes, watched the caber tossing, and checked out the clan booths. There were plenty of clans but no Higgins. We saw, Clan MacDonald, McKenzie, Campbell, and Clan Kettle Corn. The latter not so well known and luckily not spelt with three "K"s. We heard the Wicked Tinkers playing. We checked out the medieval swords, shields and axes tent. Ronan bought a foam sword and I got some miniature bagpipes. We couldn't stay long but it was a good family outing for the Clan Higgins.

We headed out to Gooseberry Point and picked up Charlie and met up with Donald, Phil and Chuck before heading over on the ferry to Lummi Island.

The Beach Store Café is just around the corner from the ferry landing. It is owned by Arizona Joe who plays with Wide Open, a band who have been around forever. We set up on the stage in the beer garden out back. Joe was really hospitable and helpful and made us feel right at home.

We started about 7pm and got off to the worst possible start with half the band playing "Rock That Cradle" while the other half played "Please Don't Go." That must have raised a few eyebrows. We got the next few right till "Fontainebleau" went completely wonky at the first bridge. We fumbled through that until we came to its second bridge which crashed and burned spectacularly but we made it across.

Jeez. We really need to get back to some regular practicing. It's time to pull ourselves up by our Muddy Boot straps. I think we can manage that.

Luckily the mistakes were mostly confined to the first half hour. We weathered them and by the second set we were gaining momentum and hitting our old familiar stride. Feet were tapping and hands were clapping. By the 3rd set we were full steam ahead and there was dancing on table tops and whooping all around the garden. The locals were on fine form. Sadly we had to cut it a tiny bit short so we could pack up and catch the last ferry back.
In the end we had a great evening and our earlier troubles were forgotten. Chuck was an inspiration. Charlie was back, alive and percolating. Donald and Phil were thumping and a-sliding.
I guess two disasters from a possible 40 isn't too bad in the end. But it did make me think.

I believe I like Lummi Island. We always have fun out there. It's soothing to get away from the ever present traffic noise. Even though it's only a short ferry ride to Lummi, it feels like another country.
As we were hurrying for the midnight ferry, one local laughed and said, "Don't worry. There'll be no queue. Who'd be going to America at this time of night?"

Highland Games.
Ferndale. WA.

This was a gig for the overnight campers at the Highland Games. They were a friendly bunch of maybe 150 souls all decked out in tartan.
In true Scottish tradition it had been raining for about 3 weeks but by a miracle the sky cleared an hour before we were to play.
The stage was kind of strange. It had no roof or canopy and was set up in the middle of an empty field. We looked like we were adrift on a raft.

I guess it was a decent enough gig. We had Yan playing mandolin with us. Chris and Chuck were on drums and percussion. They all played great. We had some fine moments like Injara, Cardboard Box and Ride on but we had some fundamental mess ups (not their fault) that really highlighted The Muddy Boots' lack of recent practice.

An unexpectedly entertaining song was There Ain't No Bugs On Me which evolved spontaneously from a loose jam and went for a nice long walk with one chord.
A lot of fun but as a wise man said, "A man cannot live on jam alone."

The real highlight of the night though must have been when Chuck and his daughter Isabel got 2nd place in the talent contest (Scottish Idol). They did a Go-Gos' song. She played drums and Chuck played Bass. "Face it", said Chuck into the microphone, "What could be more Scottish than The Go Gos?"

Afterward, Glen the event organizer gave us all tickets to the real Highland Games that officially started the following day. That was a real bonus and everyone was delighted. On top of that, we even got paid.

Harvey Haggard Hoedown.

This was certainly a gig of 2 halves.

Part 1 took place outside on the green behind Graham's restaurant. (Graham Green). Unfortunately the drizzling rain had kept the people away. Actually it got a little busy for a time but the poor brave souls hovered under the tent canopies around the edges of the field while soggy kids ran around playing football.
We'd played on this same little stage a few years back. Last time we'd been out in the blistering sun and I'd got burnt to a crisp. This time we were under a claustrophobic canopy with flaps closed down on 3 sides. I wouldn't have minded a flap down the front too.

The people were friendly though. They were disappointed in the weather too but were determined to make the most of the circumstances. They'd been looking forward to this event. There was a hot dog stand and a social tent, a face painting tent and some art work for sale.
I guess there was live music too. We played for about an hour until it was mutually decided to continue playing unplugged inside Graham's restaurant next door. I think everyone agreed that this was a fine idea.

Funny in all the years I've gone up and down the Mount Baker Highway, I'd never actually gone into Grahams.
Well it had a warm, cozy and lively atmosphere that reminded me of Christmas. Behind the bar counter was a huge saloon style mirror. The walls were adorned with old black and white photographs and posters. Apparently The Call of the Wild was filmed out near here years ago: the version that starred Clark Gable. Some of the supporting actors are still missing.

The tables and chairs were of rustic design and it seemed everyone was eating cake. There was a huge wood stove beside our "stage". It looked like an enormous can of beans. In an adjoining room was a pool table which will now go down in history as the table where Ronan first played pool.
So we played the second part of our gig. Tree was playing a watered down drum kit with no bass drum. Donald, Charlie and Phil were plugged in quietly. I wasn't plugged into anything.
A lot of familiar faces from outside had made the short commute. We were like old friends now. We had a great night.
And so we played for about an hour. We focused our energy into that hour and played a tight bunch of material that had the folks on their feet and dancing around creating a merry atmosphere in the place. There was even a phantom harmonica player.
I'm not sure if we gave the folks a good time or if they gave us a good time. But who ever was to blame, there were certainly a lot of contented people. Maybe it was the cake.

I think we finished about 10pm by which time I was completely hoarse. I think the Boots enjoyed it all too. It was certainly a fun gig with a good bunch of people.

………………………

People are always fascinated by my cazumpet. A man near the front asked me, "How did you drill a hole through that curly piece of wood?"
"Ah" I said." You see, the wood was originally straight when I drilled the tunnel through its length. Then I bent the wood afterwards."
"Aha. I see" he said.
"Do you believe me", I asked?
"Yes I do" he said. Then he looked at me more closely and laughed. "I mean no. Well eh … maybe?"

So outside on the front deck after the gig, Tree told us he was quitting the Muddy Boots. "My time with this band is over." he announced.
That's a shame because, I really relied on Tree's steady thump to keep me from wavering out of rhythm which I am prone to do when I'm singing, guitaring, harmonica-ing, conducting, cazumpeting and trying to remember lyrics all at the same time. He laid down a good solid beat that said, "get on board or F@@k off."

So now that Charlie is heading to Yakima after the Summer, it looks like Muddy boots are dropping like flies. Looks like we'll literally have to regroup.

……………

As far as I remember The Harvey Haggard story went something like this…..
Harvey Haggard was either the first man on the moon or the first guy to do the Ski to Sea race such as it was about a hundred years ago. I think there were about 14 competitors in that race. Among them were Bob Dylan and Bela Lugosi.
Harvey was first off the mountain and somehow got on a train back to Bellingham. On board, he was apparently naked and getting a massage (that's his story anyway) when the train hit a red bull and was derailed. The naked Harvey was then put on horseback but the horse threw him. He then hitched a lift into Bellingham where the locals passed the hat for him and later the good people of Glacier announced him King of Glacier. They celebrated by BBQ ing the red bull.

He was Harvey at the start but he was Haggard by the end.
That's what Shannon said anyway.


Well all that Ski to Sea talk has put me in mind of my own thankfully brief athletic career.

The Legendary Neilston Pad Race had no cycling section or canoe or kayak portions. Certainly no train ride back to town. This race was a straight forward murderous slog. There and back again.

The Neilston Pad is a big plateau hill that is as part of Neilston as the People. It looms in the distance a few miles beyond the village to the south west. It rises about 800 feet above sea level and it is the shape of Ayres Rock in Australia. The North side is completely bare of trees yet the South is forested. This gave the Pad the appearance of a sprawling lion with a mane of pine.
Its flanks are so steep that when you climb it you use your hands as much as your feet: hauling yourself up by grasping long tufts of grass for handholds.

The shortest route to the Pad from Neilston was to take the high street out of town then cut across some fields at the old quarry past the water tower. This was the Kingston Road and it was famed for inducing birth contractions in overdue mothers. It rose and fell like a rollercoaster. Cars often left the ground as they skimmed over the crest of each hill. If it didn't induce births it could at least induce vomiting.

There was also the cross country route used once a year in May by the entrants of the Pad Race. This course cut across fields and bogs and anything that got in the way. It went over cows and through bushes and rivers and farmyards.

The first time I signed up for the Pad race I was just a wee skelf of a lad with hardly a muscle to my name. I was about 12 years old and thus I have the excuses of being young, impressionable and naive. That year, there were about 14 runners. Quite a low turn out. But at least if I finished last, I could say I was 14th. That sounded more respectable than saying I was last. If anyone asked how many had raced, I would say, "Oh I don't know".

The Pad race is part of the spectacle of The Neilston Cattle show. This Fair is always held on the first Saturday in May. Farmers parade their livestock, Pipe bands play, there is a beer tent and there are carousels and dodgems and candy apples and gold fish to be won. It's a big event. Tradition dictates that it shall always rain. That year was true to form. Wellies and umbrellas were the fashion of the day.
I remember the pipe band gathered round the open hood of a car where someone had hooked up a TV to the battery and the Scottish Cup final was on.

I remember wandering around feeling damp and hungry. Then quite suddenly I'm on the starting line. Me and my fellow self condemned idiots, set to tackle the Pad.

Then we were running. Running far too fast to have any hope of even reaching the Pad before keeling over of a heart attack. But there were more serious things in life than mere heart attacks on the moors. We had to look good as we did a lap of the field before heading off under the train tunnel and into the unknown.
The course was poorly marked as I recall. I think the organizers assumed that we all knew where the Pad was and we were expected to simply follow the path of least resistance.
That path involved about four miles of barbed wire fences, angry cows, mud, ice, sleet, rain, toxic dumps and the occasional ambush from nutters in the bushes who'd lob half empty cans of pissed in lager and cigarette butts at the runners. Who knows maybe that was the en route refreshments?

I'd been completely out of breathe by the time we'd sprinted through the train tunnel. My skinny wee milk bottle legs were weighed down by football sized clumps of mud. I had no idea what race position I was in but I never saw another runner for the whole first half of the run. When I did finally see them, they were all coming the other way heading back to Neilston. There were about a dozen of them spread out over a quarter mile. My brain was too starved of oxygen to attempt to count past 2. Each as he passed me had a wild feral stare in his glazed eyes.
I tried to make a calculation in my addled head as to my relative position in the race. "Eleven plus one equals twelve. Plus me. Equals? Was there 14? Am I last? Was there one more ahead? Was there one behind me. Was there 2 behind me? "I couldn't think straight at all. That meant there was another runner unaccounted for. "Or was it two?" All I could do was keep running and assure myself that it made no difference whatsoever. It would be a miracle if I even finished the race intact. Still, no one likes to be last.

Long distance running plays odd tricks on the mind. Picture a book. On page one, written in scrawled black ink, there is a half formed question followed by some nonsensical phrase. Turn the page and there it'll be again. Page after page of the same gibberish. In your head you try to change the words but they keep returning to the same chewed up group of words that jumble around as you run. It could be anything: "what's the where do I kamooshka, kamooshka rink a mooshka…" A chant. A spell to ward off evil. A charm. Maybe a prayer.

As I neared the Pad my mind was speaking in feverish tongues. I saw a big red five bar gate in the distance. It grew steadily larger and larger in my flooded vision. There, before it, slouched a weary figure on the ground, elbow on knee, forehead in hand, eyes down. I ran past then stopped on top of the gate with a leg on either side. "Are you ok" I asked?
His body made no movement. "Aye", came the quiet reply. Then I turned and looked at the Pad.

It rose up before me like a giant grassy wall. An immobile close-up of a tsunami wave. My route was about to make right angle turn up into the sky.
I jumped off the gate which rattled metallically behind me like a dog on a chain. I splashed across a brown pothole and began the ascent. Only a little while ago I'd been exhausted running round the cattle show field. And yet here I was; 2 miles later, still going. But I was living strictly in the tormented rinkamooshka moment. The Fair could have been a million years ago. Returning there was just an abstract theory.

Up and up I went. How could I still be putting one foot in front of the other? Maybe I feared that the figure at the gate had gotten up and was chasing me. I was not last and I was determined not to be Skitterywinter. I was too afraid to look back. For all I knew he could have been right behind my shoulder. By this stage I too had that wild haunted expression I'd seen on the faces of the other runners.

What caused it? Was it that inborn stubborn Scottish streak that dictates that if a task is impossible, then at least we'll die trying? We could all have dropped out at any time but no one did. Anyway once you are well on your way to the Pad, where else are you going to go. After all, the race ended back where we'd started.
Were these the faces of men going to their execution? Was this torture and execution combined? Death by Pad Race. Was this the anguish that McPherson took to the gallows when he broke his fiddle in two after playing one last tune? Were these the grim blank masks worn by the "Ladies From Hell" as they climbed from the trenches and marched across No Man's Land playing their deafening bagpipes? No wonder the enemy shot at them. I guess Scots must like to die with a tune in their head. It would indeed be a shame to die without a song in your head. Better than a bullet I suppose. I can only speculate.
Were they simply the exposed alarmed expressions of farm raised couch potatoes who'd never ran farther than to the bus stop in their life's, now suddenly realizing that they were no longer the sprites of their youths? Certain TV truths are lies. The bionic man doesn't exist. Those feats are not possible. The man from Atlantis cannot hold his breath all day. Edmund Hilary probably did not get up from watching a soap opera and go off to the top of the world without any acclimatization.
Or could it just be that we, as a nation, are fundamentally insane.
I can picture a Scottish Tombstone inscription: Here Lies So and So: Died Trying. R.I.P.

Up the hillside I went, using all 4 limbs like a little spider crawling up the great lions flank. I followed the tree line, grabbing at tufts of grass and heaving myself upward. Finally I stood on the withers of the beast. The wind roared in my ears. A man (Billy Wilson) ticked my name off a list then wandered off without a word into the shelter of the trees. I looked back over the expanse of moor and hill. Neilston was far off in the distance. To my left there rose the Ferenese Braes. Behind them sifting in and out of cloud were the Highlands. Beyond Neilston was the giant metropolis of Glasgow. Slightly to my right and a few miles distant stood the dromedary Siamese peaks of The Craigie hill reflected in the Glanderson Dam hemmed in by The Toad Wood.
When I gazed down to the red gate directly below me, there was no sign of the fallen runner. He must have limped home.

And so I descended the great Pad without the haunted face of the other runners. They, engaged in battle and stumbling towards a distant finishing line: me, jogging home. Just a wee Neilston lad in the rain with the moors to himself.

It was down hill all the way to Neilston. I met no one. I can't recall much. It was still a grueling toil but I didn't feel I had to over exert my self. (I couldn't have if I tried.)

But suddenly my tranquillity was disrupted. Right before the end, someone jumped out of a bush just at the tunnel. For a moment I thought I was being mugged. "Wait for me" he yelled as I ran by. He raced after me and fell in beside me as we entered the tunnel. A figure dressed in track suit and hooded sweatshirt and hiking boots. What was this? Death itself come to take me? For sure this must be Hell.
When the finishing line came into view at the other end of the tunnel, the hooded figure suddenly raced ahead, fresh as a daisy. I found myself involved in an unexpected competitive moment. I tried to speed up but I had nothing left. I'd been idling along in a daydream. I was empty. The mystery runner may well have been one of last year's runners who had gone feral or (Most likely) he may just have chickened out of this year's race after the start. He figured he'd pretend he'd gone all the way up the Pad and back. Who'd know? I guess he was unaware of the man who was ticking off names at the top of the Pad.
None of this mattered to the crowd who watched the drama unfold as 2 runners emerged neck and neck from the tunnel. One appeared to still be remarkably fresh and even looked quite clean, but the other had a haunted look on his face. He looked like he may topple over at any second. He was covered in mud, his eyes were vacant and he was lagging further behind. The hooded runner was practically dancing towards the finish line. The crowd was clapping and yelling encouragement.
Was this to be my final shaming? The long slow death of the long distance runner had seemed finally over. I felt like Christ at the Stations of the Cross, aiming for a moving target. It just wasn't fair. I'd already been tagged as last. Now I was really last. No, not fair at all…….Rinka mooshka…. Rinka mooska….

…….The Mud Ball Kid's head went down, his little arms pumped like a death twitch and his muscleless limbs drained his fuel tank to empty and beyond. His mind went to a place beyond pain and marsh. A place where resides an inner whip. The astonished intruder felt, too late, a presence on his shoulder. For a moment he thought an angry bull was charging him. He leapt aside and with 2 steps to go he was passed by a life size claymation figure.

I remember bending double and being incapable of getting enough air into my lungs. I couldn't breathe fast enough. Between my heaving gasps, I managed to squeeze out the words, "Going to be sick". A friend of mine (Paul Murphy) who was waiting at the finish for me was laughing and laughing while the phantom runner was complaining that he'd been swindled.

And so ended my first Pad Race. In my head I still picture that I finished last yet in the end I was actually 3rd last. I'd finished ahead of the injured figure at the gate and the bush man. I have no idea who won.

Epilogue.

The following year I entered again. I don't know why. It's like the mystery of child birth amnesia. If women could remember how excruciating a birth is, then they'd never have a second child.
But there I was. Of this race I remember nothing at all. I know that I finished 6th out of 26. My time over the 4 mile course was 23 minutes. The 5 guys who finished before me were all adults.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots minus Tree.

As the sun went down over the bay, it really felt like Summer had arrived. The Honeymoon had its doors flung open and the terrace was quite busy. There were even mosquitoes. Yes the place was certainly buzzing. Yup. Buzzin' and a-swattin'.
By 9:30pm most clientele had moved inside.

As we know by now, the Honey moon is a small place. It doesn't take long to get intimate. So there was a sociable and lively atmosphere.
Whatever it is they drink in there, it sure makes folks happy and chatty. Or perhaps it's the cheese.
We set up at the back and I do declare we had a great night.
Sound was good, the bar was full and we even got fed and paid a little. A fairly relaxed gig. Didn't really feel like work at all. Which is how it should be.

………………………..

A few days earlier, I'd taken my guitar to a guy called David Payne to get fixed. I think (hope) that the problem is finally sorted. Apparently it had a dodgy jack plug. He also moved the battery to a more accessible place. With luck I'll have no more embarrassing guitar malfunctions in mid gig. Nor will I have to loosen all my strings to replace dead batteries. Ah luxury. Thanks Dave.

I almost didn't get to test it because after I set up the PA. I noticed I was missing the mixer cable. We were on the verge of an acoustic evening when Charlie turned around and handed me the missing cable. It turned out he'd packed it up last time by accident.

Over all it was an evening well spent. There were a few musical clangers but it was a good gig. The audience was very forgiving to the point of complimentary. I forget sometimes how much fun the Muddy Boots have, playing music together. I guess certain songs like Injara and Dandelion are great canvases for solos. Fortunately Phil and Charlie are great at pulling them off. Other songs like Spoonful and Smokestack Lightning have great grooves. And as we can all appreciate, Groove beats Lyric any day in the Gollum game of Rock, Paper, Scissors

We also played "I will go". I definitely like playing this old Scottish classic. Charlie's backing vocals sure help at the chorus and Donald's bass line is right in the middle between melodic and angry. This song seems to gather life the longer it goes on. It only hits its stride around the 3rd verse.
It might be interesting to end each set with a Scottish song.

Thanks to everyone who showed up. Maybe see you all again next time.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots
The Fairhaven Martini Bar.

Good gig. Nobody there.
A familiar story.
The Fairhaven is a big place. All the bigger when it's empty. Nice chairs though.

We were preceded by a comedian. I use the word loosely. I don't want to put the lad down, so let's skip past him and his act which comprised of crude verbal diarrhea. I can appreciate the artistic value of toilet humour as much as the next guy but I can safely say I've heard far, far superior stuff whilst actually sitting on a toilet pan.

Our Gig was scheduled to last an hour but due to a lack of everything from audience to live music, we played a while longer. It was good practice and I think we were all on decent form. The whole band had showed up. It was a nice big stage too. We started with Rock that Cradle for a sound check then played Spoonful and Blowing Down the River. Then my guitar crackled and died. After some head scratching we got it miked up but lost the volume on the monitor. After that the gig was fine but I'd lost my enthusiasm a bit because I couldn't hear my guitar. Everybody else sounded fine though. The word on the floor was that we were still coming across solid. So that was encouraging. We actually stuck fairly close to our set list which is most unusual.

I'm really getting fed up with empty bars especially when we play well and there's no one there to hear it. There's no denying there are some great musicians in this band with years of experience yet bad luck transpires against us again and again and keeps us surviving off tips, free drinks and menial jobs. Why do we do it? I guess we enjoy it.

Anyway, we played a bunch of original songs with some blues thrown in and we had a blast. When Chuck the host asked us to play a bit longer, it was nice to see the band all nod and agree to continue to enjoy ourselves.

After us, there was another short act. A ventriloquist. He wasn't side-splittingly funny but he came across well and was quite fascinating to watch. He seemed friendly and relaxed and at least acknowledged the intelligence of his tiny crowd. He appeared a far more likeable character than the comedian (Even his dummies were more likeable).
I think his name was Leonardi. Not sure though but it was certainly something Italian.
One of his dummies was a Gorilla dummy. He gave it a Scottish accent. Ironically, afterwards I'd swear Leonardi couldn't understand a word I said.

Thanks to Bruce Hendler for showing up and pitching in to help when my guitar died. At least he got a good seat: right at the front. Sorry we couldn't play Guernica. Maybe I should try work out a band version of it. Thanks also to Hil and Janice for yelling encouragement. (Janice, please remember, if you must graffiti, please sign your own name.) Super thanks to Chuck the host who did a great job setting us all up and making it sound great.

Thank you. Goodnight. You've been a great bunch of chairs.

………………….

But it just wouldn't be right not to end with some toilet humour.
Me and Peter and another Irish guy were waiting for a train in the Furth Bahnhof bar.
We were talking about food handler permits which are required for everyone who works in bars and restaurants in Germany. As part of the procedure the applicant must give a poop sample. The powers that be (The Ampt) send out all the proper equipment so that this procedure can be done in the comfort of home. They supply 2 small plastic jars; one slightly larger than the other. The first is for the sample; the second is to enclose the first for extra security as it travels by post to the head office. They also provide a small plastic spoon, some paperwork and a large brown envelope to seal it in.
My Irish friend was telling us about two friends who were discussing this. The first guy says," Did you get your sample sent off alright?"
The second guy says," I did."
Then the first guy says, "Jeez it's a bastard trying to scoop all that poop into the wee jars before sticking it in the envelope."
The second guy looks at him and says, "What jars was that?"

………………………………….

Paddy's Day
James Higgins
Solo Gigs at the Boundary Bay.

Lunchtime.
So this Scots guy walks in to a bar with a guitar….

Despite the ungodly hour, a troop of high stepping Irish dancing girls were River Dancing athletically around the bar. The crowd was already fired up and enthusiastically clapping along to some traditional Irish techno music. The young ladies gave quite a spectacular performance. I guess it was a sort of kung fu, tap dancing, jigging, Can Can. Just the thing to help the corned beef and cabbage go down well.
Most definitely a tough act to follow (the dancers: not so much the corned beef. Though that can be tricky too.)

So, me and the soundman Mike (not mic), set up the stage in the corner and I played an hour of Irish and Scottish standards.
A fine line exists between keeping an atmosphere lively whilst maintaining a semblance of digestible lunch time entertainment. Thankfully they were a forgiving sort of audience who were going to be happy with or without my intervention. Bearing this in mind, I mixed sing-along songs such as The Star of the County Down, Whiskey in the Jar and Cockles and Mussels in with more laid back tunes like, The Wild Mountain Thyme and Jock Stewart. In a rebellious moment, I threw in The Foggy Dew. There were no objections.

My set was about an hour long and I had a lot of fun. There were some familiar faces around too, which was appreciated. Jim and Sally were there, and Hil of course, and her friend Barb.

……………………..

Later that Same Day back at the Boundary Bay.

I had a second solo gig there scheduled for 8:30pm.
When I arrived, the Irish dancers were bouncing around again. The crowd were even rowdier then before. There was whooping and shouting and all the usual Paddy's night clatter and chaos. It was difficult just to get in the door. It felt like New Years Eve.
I thought to myself again, "Yup. This'll be a tough act to follow." The dancing girls finished up to rapturous applause. But just as I thought I was to play, up piped a pipe band trio. They commenced to blast the room apart while the crowd got even more worked up. I thought to myself, "Yup, This'll be a hard act to follow too. Perhaps I should just invest in a snug pair of concrete shoes and a vat of quicksand." I was beginning to feel like the incredible shrinking man. Why hadn't I invested in bagpipes instead of a guitar?

Finally, the pipers finished up and I squeezed through the crowd to the stage. There sat Robert Blake and band having a casual dinner of corned beef and cabbage. There'd been nowhere else to sit. A band on stage eating corned beef! Well that looked like an act I might be able to follow. Though as I stated earlier, you never know.

I let them lick their plates before I plugged in. I was in no real hurry. I figured the more time that elapsed between my act and the dancers and pipers, the better.


When I did finally start, I dispensed with anything resembling a ballad and went straight for the sing-along jugular. Naturally this involved a half hour of such inevitable classics as Cockles and Mussels and The Wild Rover. Yan got onstage during Whiskey in the jar O and played some harmonica. Then quite suddenly my St Pat's night was over for another year.

…………………..

I guess the organizers knew that Paddy's Night attendees have a short attention span. Hence the evening program had comprised of a snappy bout of Irish Jigging, followed by a calamitous outburst of bagpiping, followed by a crazy indecipherable screaming Scots guy, followed by the star attraction. Yes, quite an extravaganza and cheap at half the price.
Really it's all about the atmosphere and the craic. I would have liked to stay longer but it was wee Ronan's bed time.

James Higgins and the Muddy boots.
St Paddy's Parade.
Boundary Bay Brewery Pub

Thanks to the luck of the Irish, the noon day sun shone upon the St Pat's parade. After a colourful noisy meander around town, it all ended outside the Boundary Bay and the thirsty multitudes piled into the beer garden. This fun afternoon was a warm up event to celebrate the upcoming St Patrick's Day and it proved to be a successful dress rehearsal. There was plenty of emerald green on display with a collage of imaginative costumes with Irish themes. I saw 2 people dressed as enormous beach balls in kilts and red haired Tammy hats. Leprechauns were well represented. There was also a guy putting on the ritz with a top hat, coat and tails. Was Fred Astaire Irish? It wasn't till the end that I realized it was Dave from the Irish pub (with Molly there too.) Long time no see.

All members of the Muddy boots Band were present for this one. I'd say we had a good gig: up-tempo and lighthearted. But it was far too short. We didn't even get to play half of our Celtic material. We had tonnes of songs still to play but our one hour slot flashed past.
I wish we could have started 20 minutes later. Most of our audience was watching from a long slow moving beer queue that filed past the stage like a communion line. The majority were just getting comfy when we finished. Everyone though was in good spirits and all out for enjoyment. Their needs were simple: Beer and entertainment. The more beer they drank, the more entertained they felt.

We started with "When Will We Be Married Molly." That got things moving in the right direction. We followed that with Whiskey in the Jar and Donald Where's Yer Troozers. And many more. Well actually not so many more because we didn't have time to get to stuff like The Black and Tans, I Will Go or Whiskey in the Jar O (Yes that's a different song). Due to circumstances beyond my control, we were reduced to a mere skeleton gig.
Originally we'd been scheduled to play for 2 hours but an extra band had been added to the program at the last minute. They took up a half of our original gig time. Then the country dancers upstairs wanted us to stop 10 minutes early so they could jig to their own music.
I guess for us, our gig was kind of anti-climatic; sort of like the last lines had been erased from a short story and replaced with the words, "etc, etc, etc."

We had barely finished our set and were still onstage, when a duo with a fiddle and guitar jumped up and hijacked the moment. They just started playing some apparently unscheduled old timey music. Normally I wouldn't mind, but they were kind of rude: sort of took over our space and never spoke a word to me even when I said hello. I had to pack up around them while they launched into their pre emptive unannounced gig. Yip, welcome to Paddy's Parade fever. Where it's every man for himself.
On top of that, I left without my tips.
But we did get paid.

So it was compact chaos as would be expected in the home strait into Paddy's Night. But we all knew what we'd signed up for. All things considered, I'd say everyone had an enjoyable warm up experience. Roll on Paddy's Night proper.

It's a jungle out there.

James Higgins and The One Muddy Boot.

An interesting gig. What do you do when the band don't show up? Charlie had completely spaced it out. We kept waiting for him to show up but by 9pm it was clear he wasn't coming. Phil was busy elsewhere and Tree and his drum kit skip this venue as it's too small. Thus it was only me and Donald on stage. We'd pulled off duet gigs like this before but we hadn't expected to be stuck on stage completely unrehearsed. We had to rethink our whole approach. Normally a band with 5 musicians can drag a 2 minute song into a 5 minute epic without even trying. So a 2 hour gig might only require about 24 songs. But when all the soloists are removed, the song returns to its bare boned 2 minute self. We figured we'd need twice as many songs as usual. Best thing to do was take it all one set at a time and see what would happen.

We eased into it with a bunch of semi acoustic tunes that at least had some twiddly guitar parts. Rock That Cradle, Bootlegger Blues, Stone River, and Please Don't Go. Some songs such as Can't keep me with its threadbare arrangement of bass, guitar and harmonica actually sounded quite haunting. In fact we began to fairly enjoy ourselves. It was all very pleasant but there were 2 more sets still to go.

In the second set, we threw in a few Irish tunes. Someone then requested some Dylan. So we played You Ain't Going Nowhere, and Bob Dylan's 115th Dream. We also played Willie Dixon's Spoonful which somehow managed to end up as long as ever.

By this time we had ad-libbed our way to the final set. We played The Henhouse with an extra long cazumpet solo, Cardboard Box with a couple of Bass solos and I even twanged a guitar solo on Any Old Time. Suddenly the evening was over. Time flies when your improvising. It had been quite a musical trip. Well done Donald. Thanks Jan for the ride home. Thanks Darla for babysitting Ronan. Thanks also to all those kind mead drinkers who shared our little adventure.

I've never tried mead. Which is odd because I've drank about every alcoholic beverage that's crossed my path. Jan said it is very sickly sweet. Like extra sugary apple juice. It's made from honey. I doubt I'd like it, but I imagine bears could drink a barrel load.

The 3 Ds
Chuckanut Brewery.
Feb.20.

I guess there were five of us. I'm not sure if it was the 3Ds or was it the 3 Denneys plus a mix of Whiskey Galore and The Muddy Boots Band. Whoever it was, they entertained a happy crowd with a bunch of Irish tunes and some bluegrass. Occasionally we'd toss in an unusual ditty like What a Wonderful World. Obviously it's a classic and I love it but it's a bit out of place. Louis Armstrong jazz can be like that when set in the midst of a set of traditional Irish jigs. If you've never heard Wonderful World played on a washtub bass then you better get to a 3 Ds gig at a cinema near you soon.

There were plenty of instruments on show at this gig: Violin, mandolin, banjo, flute, guitar, bouron, tambourine and wash tub bass. I think they were mostly in the capable hands of the Denney Clan while Phil played his acoustic guitar and I twanged away on my wash tub bass. Usually the tub's sound carries really well, but for this gig I literally heard nothing coming out all night. It all got swallowed up by the other ambient noises around the bar.

The wedding party (from Stuarts) showed up again to confirm us as their reception band. I think they wanted another listen before they committed to it. The Bride To Be was approached and was asked, "Do you take this band to be your lawful wedding entertainment?"
"I do", she replied. And everybody cheered and wept tears of joyous abandon.
But just in case… maybe we should do a pre-nup contract in the event that the groom backs out and leaves us waiting at the altar.
At least Wonderful World is a nice song for a wedding party.

Anyway, it was a compact little gig at the Chuckanut Brewery. No real sound check or anything to worry about. We started around 7:30 and ended at 10:00.

Outside during the break, Donald was having a cigarette when a guy emerged out of the shadows of the neighbouring freight yard and bummed a smoke. His voice was one of those gravelly sand paper drawls. He lifted up his shirt and showed us the fresh blood encrusted stitches on his belly. Said he was new in town; had gotten stabbed. Didn't even know the guy who'd attacked him.
The wound looked severe: like someone had etched a game of X and Os on his abdomen with a serious blade. Perhaps some crazy Zorro type with an X motif. Maybe he couldn't sign his name. Probably never heard of "What a Wonderful World".
We wished the stabbed guy better luck and headed back inside. Jan had caught the tail end of the conversation. "Who was that" she asked?
"Friend of Phil's", said Donald.

When all is said and done, I'd say this was fine easy going gig. Not well paid but it was a local venue with minimal hassle: tasty food, good company and generous tips.

What a wonderful world.

………………………

Speaking of, "What a Wonderful World", I guess I first learned it from Peter, way back about 1990. He had a way of knowing unusual songs and pulling them out unexpectedly. Coincidently his main repertoire was also Irish music. It seems Wonderful World could have some Irish ancestry.

Alan Green was an American working for Bayerish radio back then. Somehow he heard I knew the chords for Wonderful World. (News travels fast in Regensburg.) I'd written the chords down from Peter's book. That practically made me an expert. Alan wanted to learn it on his keyboard. So I wrote out the chords for him at the bar in the Harp. He got back to me the next day and launched into an attack about how the chords were all wrong and how they weren't even the right key. He was very upset and vowed to return the following week and submit to me the correct chords. Well I was all a-tremble as you can imagine.
So the next week he handed me a piece of paper. "These are the proper chords" he said.
I thanked him and compared them to my set of chords. Apart from the handwriting, they were identical. I scratched my chin and said, "These are the exact same chords."
"Listen James", he said. "I don't feel comfortable talking to you."
"Well I'll get you a cushion", I offered……

Well that's what I get for trying to be helpful.
…………………………………

I think Peter's father had given him a book of miscellaneous busking hits. It had contained Wonderful World and the Wabash Cannonball. It also had the Carpenters song, "On Top of the World"; a sugary happy smiley hit from the seventies.
I recall Peter had started learning this song around the time we set off on a wee busking tour up around Heidelberg and Frankfurt one summer. At least I think that's where we were headed. These dates and towns and places have all blended into one very confused collage. I remember we set off on countless little tours that meandered from here to there and back again. Once upon a time we set off for Norway but Peter ended up in Eastern Europe. Another time we set off for France but keeled over in an alcoholic stupor near Offenberg thanks to 3 jumbo sized bottles of plonk that we'd carted 5 miles up a vine yard hill. I recall the view was quite spectacular then it grew hazy then it went black.

Whichever tour it was, somehow we ended up in the tiny town of Lohr; a little picturesque fairy tale place with a large population of Italians.

The way I remember it, we arrived on foot. The local train had dropped us off about a mile outside of town. The walk into Lohr was quite pleasant. The road was fairly deserted though the heat was intense. We stopped to buy some take away beers at a roadside kiosk. Then we back tracked to a shady picnic bench we'd passed earlier. Being in no real hurry, we soon had the guitars out. Peter started picking away at The Carpenter's song, On Top of the World. Shortly we were both working out the chords and laughing about this song's chances as a money maker on the street. We must have looked a sight: 2 unshaven hairy bums dressed in dusty rags, swigging Weizen and singing, "I'm on top of the world looking down on creation."
Not to mention our strange accents. Peter's lilting Irish mixed with my guttural West of Scotland dialect. "Am oan tap o the wurruld lookin doon oan crea-aishin."
Scary stuff.

I remember that day was a Saturday because the shops were all closed by 2pm. We had busked right outside an Aldi supermarket. Aldi supermarkets are dirt cheap. They sell stuff still in their packing boxes. Labels are plain. The Beer brands are obscure. Just before it closed for the weekend, I entered and bought a 6 pack of beer.
Peter was still busking when I came out. There was a little street urchin standing in front of him. He looked up at Peter and Said, "Me, Italiano." To which Peter asked, "Can you sing, O Solo Mio?" The kid launched straight into it. "Oooo Sooolooo Miooo". He had all the actions too. I think he wanted money.

We left him there and found a quiet park to sit and enjoy a leisurely count of the day's takings. Lohr had been very kind. I took a long swig of beer then spat it out. "What the…" It tasted like vinegar. I studied the label. "Berliner Weisse Bier".
That sounded right. Weizen beer from Berlin. I figured it would grow on me. I'd never yet found a beer I couldn’t drink. But this day was the first. Peter's taste buds agreed. A few more goose pimple sips later and the whole 6 pack was in the garbage can being swarmed by wasps.

The yucky beer was a small setback. We had planned to relax there for the rest of the afternoon. The park was deserted. We played in the sandpit for a while then we decided to have a race. Twice around the park. Off we went. Peter set a good pace and I kept just behind his shoulder. The first lap was full of giggles and smart comments and sniggers but by the second lap, we were grim faced and focused. Peter stayed in the lead till the last 20 metres when I over-took him and won. I apologized and he called me a bastard. I should have mentioned that I used to run the 800 metres. Peter had done a couple of marathons in his time and had been understandably confident. If our race had been a marathon, he'd have won. I doubt I could have even ran another lap.

So we went into town and had a real beer on a terrace. I posted some money back to Regensburg so I wouldn't be tempted to blow it all.
As early evening settled in we headed back towards the train station. German train stations often seem to be on the edge of town. We checked the schedule to see if any trains were going anywhere. Nothing. We crossed the deserted street and sat on a bench for a think.
There was a freight train sitting a little way out of the station down the tracks. One of the box cars was open. I strolled innocently over and peered casually inside. The whole car was filled with old clothes. It was like striking gold. This demanded closer inspection.

We decided to wait till it got darker before venturing inside for a serious rummage. There were a few houses that directly overlooked the yard. We didn't want to draw attention to our movements. We weren't sure how illegal we were about to be.

The long twilight finally faded. All was quiet. We stashed our gear behind the bench and approached the wagon. We jumped silently in. It was completely dark even though the far door was open too. Using my lighter for illumination, we moved quickly. There was no time to scrounge in detail. We couldn't be fussy. Peter got a pair of shoes and a sleeping bag and a pair of jeans. I got a pair of jeans. In less than two minutes, we were leaping triumphantly out the far door and skulking back to our bench.
On a nearby bike trail we studied our swag properly. Peter was pleased with his new sleeping bag but the jeans didn't fit. The shoes were an inch too big but would do. My jeans didn't fit either. We were both standing half naked on the path and looking very guilty. When we swapped my new jeans for his new jeans we discovered they fitted perfectly. My old jeans had been the same ones I'd dropped battery acid on in Kyle of Lochalsh. They had been visibly dissolving a little more every day. Now I'd scored a new pair, I was feeling great. Peter danced a jig.

Me and Peter are basically honest people. We don't mug or kill people. So taking the stuff from the train made us feel a little guilty. We'd noticed it had been marked for charity. We figured we were so poor that it was coming to us eventually anyway. But to ease our weeping hearts we decided the least we could do was to put our old jeans and the old sleeping bag in the train car as a small token of our appreciation. But when we returned to the freight train we found that the wagon's door was closed.

We swaggered into town that evening feeling like 2 sharp dressed bums. We plunked ourselves up on some bar stools and I have to say that when we left at closing time I could barely stand in a straight line. Our swagger had crumbled to a stagger. Must have been that sip of Berliner Weise Beer in the afternoon.
Down the road we zigzagged towards a bridge we'd discovered earlier on our rambles. We planned to sleep under it.
It was a long walk but at least the cool evening air sobered us up a bit. Soon we were singing the filthiest version of On top of the World, you can imagine.

But looking back now I think how simple our lifes were. We wanted nothing but freedom to do nothing. For years, our movements were dictated by whim and by mood and by innocent curiosity. I loved it.

I awoke the next morning and I was lying in my sleeping bag staring at the bright blue sky. It took me some minutes to realize I should have been looking at the underbelly of a bridge and not the open sky. Something wasn't right. I sat up suddenly and found I was in the middle of the highway. Apparently I'd rolled down a slope in the night. Fortunately it was a Sunday morning and the road was empty.
I thought myself lucky because just a few days earlier in Erlangen town in a similar stupor, we'd slept on a ledge under a bridge behind the main train station. The ledge was about 12 feet above the street and barely 3 feet wide. To even reach it, we'd balanced precariously on bicycles and back packs and had somehow jumped and scrambled and hauled each other up. If I'd fallen off that ledge that night I'd have killed myself for sure. It was vertical straight down onto solid concrete and a pile of bicycles.

…..And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

PS. It turned out that Berliner Weisse Beer is supposed to be served with a sweet flavouring as a kind of dessert drink. It's not supposed to be drank "straight".

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
Rockfish Grill.
Anacortes.
January 30 2010

Good gig…. I think.
Yup. All the right ingredients were there. Everyone played well, the sound was decent, we had a nice big stage, there was an appreciating audience, there was dancing, and we even got paid.
A three hour gig though is a long night and my voice sighed, cracked and died right on the last song. Good timing I guess.
But I think we all enjoyed ourselves. Amazing to have the whole band together for 2 gigs in a row.

We seemed to have ironed out a lot of the dodgy moments we'd discovered at the Green Frog on Thursday. Still, we took no chances as this gig was a new venue for us. So, One Step Ahead of the Blues, Christiana, and Smokestack Lightning were all dropped. Neither did we risk playing Tramper Ticket in its speculative untried new key of G. We did keep Cardboard Box, King Bee, Fontainebleau, and Dandelion.

The only real near disaster was the forgetting of the speaker cables. But luckily a whip round within the band produced enough spare wires to string it all together for the evening.

Considering that this was kind of an important gig, it was surprisingly non descript. I feel I should have more to say but nothing comes to mind.

………………………

Décor wise, The Rockfish kind of reminded me of the Archer Ale House in Fairhaven but maybe a little bigger. Mentally I couldn't help but be reminded of the Irish Harp in Regensburg. I wonder how many of the guys propping up the Rockfish bar counter were resident musicians. All in all though, I got positive vibes from the staff and clientele.
One of the servers who was dancing enthusiastically to Driving Down Chuckanut deserves the Quote of the Night Award. He came up to me afterwards and said with a beaming smile, "Me and Chuckanut are tight." I'm not sure what that meant but he was sincere; like he was prepared to die for Chuckanut Drive. Good man.

Special thanks to the kind folks who keep showing up in odd venues and give us a cheer. It's always great to see friendly faces.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots
Green Frog Acoustic Tavern.
Thursday January 28 2010.

For the first time in about 5 months, the entire official Muddy Boots Band were on stage together. We certainly had a lot of catching up to do.
We had another gig coming up at the weekend so we really had to have a real full scale live practice. A rare event. Tree had never heard of half the songs on the list so we just dived straight in and zipped through as many as we could.
I enjoyed the gig a lot but we had a few hysterical bad moments. Not least of which was when I started singing the Board House song in the key of A# while everybody else was in A major. One line in to it, I realized my mistake. I grabbed my capo from the 3rd fret and clamped it on to the 2nd fret then slid my voice down a notch all in one foul swoop. How I managed to land in key for the 2nd line was a feat indeed. Somehow the song just carried on. I wonder how that must have looked and sounded to the audience. Probably like someone had slowed down an L.P. record for a second with their finger then let it go again. Well it made me laugh. That'll teach me to concentrate on music instead of waffling on about babies sleeping in drawers.
On top of that fine clanger, the battery on my guitar died on the first note of the gig. Luckily, Donald had a spare one but it took me 15 minutes to loosen all the strings and grope about blindly inside the sound hole like a mad gynecologist before I managed to get the new battery in and the guitar retuned.

Despite my determination to sabotage this gig, we did get some good practice in. Overall I think we were quite tight. The sound wasn't bad. We got to premiere Fontainebleau and Christiana plus we got to dust down a bunch of other stuff such as Broadway.

Right at the end we played Smokestack Lightning at a pace that would have bored a snail. It was so slow that it was unsingable. We persevered though and just took it for a walk (more like a plod) to see where it would go. Which in the end was nowhere at all. Sometimes you lay an egg and you just can't unfry it. I burst out laughing about 3 times during its long tedious lifespan and its long death speech. "…...uuu…ugh…Rosebud…ugh….thank you goodnight."

I guess if these comical errors had occurred at a higher paying venue, we would not have been laughing so hard. But as it was, we live to giggle another day.

…………………………………..

I guess I mentioned before that the green Frog reminded me of the Seoben in Munich.
Me and Peter used to go there quite often. It was like the last bastion of insanity in the Schwabing District.
It was a tiny place: dark, smoky and full of hidden corners. Heavy rock music blasted (and I mean blasted. BLASTED) from the walls. The walls were… well I don't know what they were. It was too dark to see them. The tables were ancient but solid. They may have once been work benches or dinner tables. They were scrawled with names and pictures. One huge table about the size of a snooker table just fitted into one of the alcoves. Around it there was just space for benches to squeeze about 20 people in against the wall. If someone wanted out to the toilet they simply spelunkered under the table or else everyone picked up their beer and the person leaving would simply walk across the table as casual as he was crossing a street.

I remember we were crammed in there one cacophonous evening when a woman with a weather beaten face across from me began building a miniature Stonehenge from cigarettes. She balanced them carefully on end in a little circle then laid some half cigarettes across the top. Her motions were sleepy and deliberate: almost like slow motion. Structurally, her creation looked quite sound. Steadier than her in fact. After a while she put a cigarette to her lips but didn't light it. She then put one up each nostril and one in each ear. The guy beside her smiled and pulled out a lighter. He ignited the one in the ear closest to him. He didn't appear to know her. She didn't laugh but she pulled it out and took a puff of it before climbing up on the table where in a teetering trance like state, she proceeded to do a strip tease. At this point the barman quickly appeared and jumped up on the table. He didn't burst into a John Travolta routine as you'd expect; instead he squeezed her back into her clothing before propping her back in her space. He then patted her head and returned to the bar while the dancer turned to the stranger with the lighter and suddenly kissed him so passionately that they fell under the table never to be seen again that evening.

I miss the Seoben. Hardly a trip went by to Munchen that we didn't pop in for a pint and bask in its unique atmosphere. It wasn't so much a dive; it was more of a gopher hole where a colony of lunatics sat blinking in the dim light with license to drink.
In my mind I still picture me and Peter, sitting up at the bar, tall beers in hand, big silly smiles on our faces. Pissed as farts.

I guess I said the Green Frog reminded me of the Schwabinger Seoben but actually …..actually they're nothing alike at all.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
Stuart's Coffee Shop.

Actually it was just me and Donald doing this one.
I didn't bring any amplification though Donald had the bass plugged in at room temperature. Normally that's plenty loud but tonight I became aware of the enormous drone given off by the ice cream machine next to the stage. It sounded like a vacuum cleaner. Though I could sing over its hum, it rendered any talking with the audience as obsolete.

So we played through a bunch of stuff and got a few practice songs in too.
A night of low drama. I even got a free coffee.
Golly.

Washtub Bass with the 3Ds at Stuarts.

Just Donald, Jan, Dale and me having a quiet session of bluegrass stuff. Not much of a crowd but it was still fun. In fact I hardly noticed the lack of people.

A girl spoke to Donald about playing her wedding on the 4th of July. She liked what she'd heard. I'm glad we didn't know she was there evaluating us or we'd have gotten a bit nervous. She left happy but half an hour later her Mother came in with what seemed to be her husband and some bonified in-laws. She introduced herself then sat to listen. I figured they were going to be the ones to foot the bill at the wedding and she'd obviously want her moneys worth from the band.
Naturally we all got instantly really nervous. We'd been fine up till then: happily playing away and minding our own business. But now, the pressure was on.
A few notes into this ambush audition, Jan's bouron drum stick flicked right out of her hand as she was playing. It went twirling across the room like a boomerang. All relevant chords were momentarily suspended in mid air. Fingers fumbled, washtubs clanged and great rivers ran backwards.

It was comical. Jan started laughing. We all started laughing.
Anyway, after some furtive onstage whispering and giggling, we decided to just play what the Bride-To-Be had heard and liked. The Mother and entourage left after about 15 minutes. They gave no clues as to what they thought of us except they were adamant that they wanted a fiddle involved.

I don't think there's been that much excitement at a 3D gig as long as I remember.
Then the waitress insisted I pay for my coffee. Things were getting down right controversial. Obviously she didn't realize that the wash tub bass was a very serious instrument.

22nd December
Allied Arts Fair

Me and Donald were set to play then Dale showed up with his mandolin. So we had ourselves a jam.
I guess this was probably the last gig of the year. I think it was the quietest I've seen the fair yet. But 1pm on a Tuesday isn't an inspiring time of week.
Not much to say. It was enjoyable but non descript.
There was an odd moment when we played Fontainebleu. A woman came rushing up all excited, saying "Where can I buy this song? I want to buy it. Now! Who wrote it? Was it you? Do you have more?" She was all a-fluster. "I want it! I want it! I want it!" We were a bit taken aback because we'd just been mucking about. Dale had never even heard Fontainebleu before and I was calling out the chord changes.
In the end she asked us to play something from Driftwood. We played Chocolate Girl. Then she breezed out the door without buying anything.

A few minutes later a woman came up and said that she recognized me. Turns out that during last year's snow storms she'd picked me, Hil and Ronan up somewhere in the Happy Valley and driven us home. It was a pleasant surprise to see her again. I think her name was McBride related. Not only did she give us a lift last year but I think she even bought a CD this time round. Double thank you.

Allied Arts Fair
Dec 20

A casual hour trying out a few tunes with Donald, Jan and a friend of Jan's from her work.
We put the emphasis on the Irish and Scottish material like, Jock Stewart, I Will Go and The County Down. We even played my old nemesis, Whiskey in the Jar.

It was lucky I'd checked my email this morning. There was a message from Donald saying he'd see me there at one o clock. I'd thought we were scheduled for 3 o clock. It was a shock to the system because I was barely awake by noon. I have to admire how cockerels manage to get straight out of bed and start crowing every day at the crack of dawn? I need to get one of those old hand cranks that cars used to have. That might get me jump started.

Well our one hour set flew past and I think we all had a good time. Toes were tapping.
Cock a doodle doo.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
The Honeymoon.


The Honeymoon is not a sloppy drunk of a place. It's has a merry rowdiness that resonates from a purring clientele who snack on platters of cheese and sip wine and mead. Their contentment rubs off on us musicians which makes this venue a pleasure to play.
We don't generally play our rockier material there but we do still keep things moving along at a fair clip.
Yan dropped in with his mandolin and jammed the last set. It was good to see him again.
We gave Cardboard Box its first public performance. It went down well enough but I still trip over the lyrics. I may have to edit them a little.

All in all it was positive night considering our practicing has dropped off to a trickle since we voted to drop the unpaid gigs.Those freebie shows at least kept us tight, confident and in the public eye.
Fortunately, Donald, Charlie, Phil and Tree are all excellent musicians. Even on bad nights they can still pull off a good gig.
Hopefully we'll get back on track again. Charlie was really ill recently and the Donald has so much family and Christmas stuff to deal with at the moment. All the recent North West storms, gales and floods haven't helped either. I guess it's only natural that band practice drops out of life's priorities.

Thanks to all the friendly faces that showed up. We appreciate the moral support.
Special super thanks to Barb for taking some great band pictures for us. I hope we weren't too hard to work with.
…………………………

Anyway, about the song, Cardboard Box.

Cardboard is a very useful commodity when sleeping rough. A simple layer of cardboard between your sleeping bag and the ground makes an incredible difference in comfort level. It forms a shield from the cold ground and stops the dew soaking the underside of the bag. It is cheap and easy to find. Thus it is also easily discardable: meaning it doesn't have to be carted about everywhere as perma-luggage.
Back when I was hanging out happily homeless in Annecy in the Alps, I always kept an eye open for a piece of cardboard for the evening.

When me and SJ had returned to "Our" (the Fox's) apartment that April from Scotland, the Fox was not pleased to have us move back in. In fact he'd already rented the place out in our absence. Well if that's not a hint, then what is? Looking back, I see his point but at the time, I was a bit angry and the whole affair almost turned kung fu nasty.
So we found ourselves back on the street which was nothing new. The real trouble was that it wouldn't stop raining. It had been pouring incessantly for weeks. It was very depressing.
We'd busk every day in the subway and then haunt cafes and bars till evening when we'd scurry around Annecy like rats, searching for some dry corner to curl up in.
One desperate evening we crept under the stage in the Rue Royal Park but the rain dripped through the planks till by midnight we were in an underground river. My cardboard floated off. I remember watching it going over the top stair of the park steps and down onto the Rue Royal like a paddleless kayaker shooting a waterfall. The rain fell in sheets from the sky. Gutters overflowed. Streets became torrents. SJ ran off screaming into the night. All was despair. The flying hat was lost.
Later, in dire misery, I sneaked into the Fox's shared landing bathroom. He discovered me there as I was drying myself off on the shower curtains. "Ou est John", (Where's John?) he asked?
Shais pas", (Don't know.) I shrugged.
He shook his head and quietly invited me in. He had a good heart but next day I was back outside.

The rain continued without pause for breath. Day after day it rained and rained and rained. All we could do was live with it.

Late one afternoon after busking, I was squelching aimlessly up some medieval alley, when I found an enormous cardboard box. It was chest height tall and cubed. I looked into it and knew exactly what I was going to do. I quickly scoured the neighbourhood and filled the box with every large piece of cardboard I could find. This included a second box almost as large as the original one. Then I put my guitar and sleeping bag and groceries in it and began to push, shuffle and carry it through town. I wove through the crowded pedestrian zones all the way through the old town till I saw SJ who was busking under an archway.
He had noticed this enormous box coming down the street towards him and had been watching it warily through the corner of his eye. Then it stopped beside him like it was listening. He was a little apprehensive. Then my smiling face poked out from behind it. "What do ye think" I asked?
"It's a big box."
"It's a mobile home."
He laughed and then we both pushed it on out of town. We didn't go along the lake road past the Hotel Du Police. Instead we went uphill towards the Visitation church which overlooked the town. There was a small park enroute where we'd often eaten lunch in previous Summers. Across the street, lived an old man. He too frequented the little park. In Summers past, he'd often hobbled over and sat with us and spoke of his resistance fighting days in the war. One afternoon when we were sitting up in the park, two girls strolled by on the street; he pointed and said, "Hollandaise." (Dutch).
"How do you know? He made a motion with his forefinger as if he was wiping butter from his crotch. Then he sniffed his finger, pointed at the girls and said, "Hollandaise."
Yes indeed. A regular Dirty Old Man.

We parked our box at the park entrance and went in for a discreet smoke which gave us the giggles. Then we continued on up the steep hill, with big smiles on our faces; literally out of our box with a big box. The dirty old man waved out his balcony window and a few little kids buzzed around us but it was surprising how little attention anyone actually paid us. We were just two everyday, ferociously stoned, hippy freaks from Scotland, pushing a giant box up a steep hill in the French Alps in torrential rain.
Finally we arrived at our destination: a seldom trodden pathway just below the Visitation. On one side of the path was a high wall of perhaps 15 feet tall. On the other side were bushes. The path was unlit and formed part of a pedestrian shortcut up the Semnoz Mountain. As it was almost dark and pouring with rain, we figured no one would come by that night.
So we set to building our shelter. We placed the two biggest boxes on their sides with the open tops facing one another. Next we piled lots of the extra bits on top as waterproofing. We placed a lot around the sides to prevent the rain from turning the supporting sides all soggy. Finally we cut a little cat box door and we crawled in. It was pitch dark as a coffin, so we cut a letter box sized hole to let a little light come in. Satisfied with our little cave, we spread out our sleeping bags to sit on, and ate pate sandwiches and drank cinque etoile vin extrordinaire. We laughed and laughed and paid no more heed to the rain pounding angrily outside.

All that night, and all across the mountains, it rained and rained and rained.
For the first time in a month we were immune to the fury of the elements; safe and dry in our cardboard cocoon.

We awoke next morning and heard a gruff voice outside. Footsteps were shuffling nosily around. We sat very still till they walked off. Ten minutes later we emerged. The coast was clear.
"I think we'll just leave that there for tonight" I said.
We nodded in agreement and started heading into town. We were feeling good.
Then we saw the garbage truck at the end of the path. There were 4 burly unshaven, gauloise smoking, garbage men lounging around it. "Oh oh." Was this what was meant by a Visitation?
"Salut", we said cheerfully as we walked past. But we knew we weren't getting away that easy. The chief garbage man spoke. "Pas si vite" (Not so fast). He pointed back at our creation. "La France est pas une peubelle" (France is not a garbage can), he declared authoratively as he crushed an ironic cigarette underfoot. He ushered us back up the path and made us demolish our precious cardboard mansion and toss it into the truck.
Once again we were back on the street.
But it had stopped raining.

…………………………….

There was another irrelevant cardboard box caper some weeks later which I record here just for posterity…..

We'd found this latest box in town and dragged it to the same spot. Not wishing a repeat of the garbage men incident, we decided this time to hide it in the bushes and not on the path. It turned out that these bushes formed a perimeter around Annecy's official campground. Our friend Michael, the English violinist was staying there (on an official capacity). He'd invited us up for a big party. Not wishing to be homeless at the party's end, we'd cleverly brought along a box. Very smart.

There were quite a few folks at the party, mainly buskers and other street artisans but I really can't remember who. I remember an English speaking person laughing about our box idea. "Why don't you stay in a hotel?" he'd asked me skeptically.
"No money", I said.
"Don't you have a tent?"
"No. But I do have a sleeping bag."
"Where do you normally sleep" he asked?
"Sometimes in the woods by a fire. Which is nice. Sometimes by the lake. That's nice but not as nice as the woods. Sometimes at girls' houses. That's very nice. Sometimes I just fall over. Sometimes I sleep in a box."
"Ha! A box", He laughed. "That's crazy. That's dumb. Dumb and crazy."

I also recall a tall German one man band who kept talking about how Germans could hold their beer and how he challenged us to a beer drinking contest. He was still muttering about it just as he passed-out while we were carrying him back to his camper van. I guess he really could hold his beer; he just liked to sleep while he was doing it. But we've all been there, haven't we.

Since our original box episode, the weather had improved but on this particular night, the rain was lashing down again. We were determined not to let it ruin our evening. Michael cooked up a blood red Harissa noodle soup and we stood around it like double dipping cannibals and slurped straight from the pot.
The rain turned torrential. Even as we wolfed down the food, the pot wouldn't empty. It kept overflowing like Manna from heaven till finally with strained taut bellies, we gave up. Somehow it seemed hysterically funny. In the end the party fizzled out. The fire place looked like a tide pool. The rain hissed like white noise. The pot was abandoned. The soup turned to broth and the broth turned to water. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We slopped off, drenched, to our box in the bushes.

There were two problems with this new box. First we'd set it up on a slope. This caused us to keep sliding down to the bottom. Secondly, this box was oblong shaped like a giant cornflake packet. There was no headroom. The night turned into an uncomfortable, grumpy and bad tempered experience.
When a familiar English voice came staggering by and asked apologetically, "Excuse me, is there room for one more?" He was greeted with three short answers. "F@@k @ff."
"Who's laughing noo ya plonker?" And "Get yer own box."
The absurdity of that situation did make us laugh though. People have sought room at the inn or asylum from politics but a voice on a stormy night asking, "Is there room for one more in your box?" That's definitely different.

For a few minutes he continued pleading his soggy case. "My ride into town hasn't worked out as planned".
I could picture him bent over our box speaking to it. It would have looked crazy to a passerby. "Oh please Mr. Box please let me in".
"Not by the hair of my chinny f@@@ing chin chin" scoffed the box.
He gave up and wandered off.

………………………….

There's more.

Our final box mischief happened spontaneously one Autumn evening in Annecy's deserted old town.
In High Summer, Annecy is a carnival. The streets and terraces are packed with sight seeing visitors. There is street music on every corner. Fire eaters on unicycles singe waiters' waxed moustaches. Gypsies walk barefoot over broken glass. There is copulation of strangers in chestnut groves and gravel car parks. Ensembling orchestras gather to tune up in the park every available sunset. Boat loads of tourists patrol the lake night and day. There are fetes and festivals and parades. In short, it's a monkey house.
Off season, Annecy presents a different face. By 7PM her streets are devoid of life. This Jekyll to Hyde quick change occurs in a blink: like someone suddenly switched off a hundred radio stations.

Anyway we were walking along, minding our own biz, when we saw a fair sized empty box beside a garbage can. It was about the size of something you'd pack a large badger in.
We didn't have much to do so we climbed in and waited till a passerby came within range. Then we burst out with a yell and scared the hell out of them. The only hint that there was life in the box was a few wisps of smoke and much muffled laughter.

Not satisfied with that drama level, we then moved the box into the centre of the pedestrian zone where it looked like it had been blown there. Anyone coming along the street had a good long time to casually view the innocent box. Plenty of time to register it as non aggressive. When we jumped out, it made it all the more unexpected. We took shots each at leaping out while the other watched the victim's reaction from out of sight. Sometimes we'd pop out like we'd been just sitting watching TV or something. We wouldn't even look at the passerby but they still got a shock. It was all great fun till one victim threatened to punch our heads in.
The non Summer months of Annecy were very boring.

I think it was shortly afterwards that we set off for Amsterdam.
There were no more cardboard box adventures after that. Though there was the umbrella tent.
……………………

Small Notes about Boxes.

I wonder if anyone ever booked into a campground and set up a cardboard box. I imagine that an A frame bivouac would be quite east to erect. If a complete slit was cut down one corner of a large square box, then the 2 end parts could be placed under the sleeping bag while the rest would form an A frame. How to close the ends would be a problem but at least there'd be roof and 2 layers underneath.
I imagine the family deluxe model might be trickier.

I went to the Bellingham museum yesterday. There were plenty of "Artistic Chancer" pieces on display. They say art is never wrong. Well some of the pieces on display were stretching the boundaries a bit. Just because it has a frame around it seems to give something the right to be called art.
Back when I was studying SYS Art at school, I took an old car tyre and painted a section of treads various colours. While the paint was still wet, I rolled it across a piece of paper. The treads left marks on the paper which I proudly framed. I showed it to my teacher who summed it up in a word: "Rubbish." The experience stuck in my mind. So as I perused the Bellingham Art Gallery and saw a piece that was created by someone who'd put graphite on a rubber ball and bounced it on a page to see what mark resulted, my old teacher's word came back to me. "Rubbish."

Another "Artist" had stacked a pile of used tea bags in a long box."

But amidst this disappointing flotsam, someone had constructed a cardboard motorbike. A moped actually. This piece stood out a mile to me. There was nothing random about it. Hands and mind had been at work here. This was humour and skill blended in the act of creation. I'd suspected maybe there was a real moped encased within it but I was informed there was not.

It all brings me back to my Alpine Cardboard house. Was it art? It took time and effort, and imagination to construct. Was it art? Was it art through desperation as opposed to art for arts sake? It was practical art. In that respect was it architecture? Whatever it was, it was garbage in the end. But was it rubbish?

James Higgins
Allied Arts Fair
December 12 2009.

It certainly feels like a long time since I did a solo gig. I kept if folky with the emphasis on the Scots / Irish material. It was a casual hour spent dusting off a bunch of obscurities and rare oldies. The Cow Cow Hicky song hadn't surfaced in ages. Same with Cluck old Hen. I don't think I'd sang Peggy Gordon since I recorded it about 3 or 4 years ago. I even threw in The Star of the County Down and, Donald Where's Yer Troozers.
Someone came up to me later and asked, "What's this word you sing, troozers?" When I explained it, he said, "Ah, trousers", and then went off muttering, "Trousers, troozers, trousers troozers".

James, Donald and Jan at the Allied Arts.

A relaxing hour of eclectic songs. Some Scottish, some Irish, some original and some odds and ends.
This new venue up the Meridian feels less cheap and dumpy than last years place on Cornwall. Quite cozy actually. The people were friendly. Store detectives have always been some of my best audiences.

The 3 Ds at the Allied Arts Fair.

A sociable wee gig playing my washtub with the 3Ds. It definately feels like Christmas is looming. Everything seems to suddenly bloom very red. "Commercial Red", should be an official colour. (Trimmed by Furry White of course). Do decorated Christmas trees grow from little light bulbs planted on the third Thursday of November?

But anyway, It was an agreeable afternoon. I think the shoppers enjoyed it too. It's always nice to sit in (or stand on one leg) with the 3Ds. One day I hope to be able to connect the titles to the music.

3Ds at the Chuckanut Brewery.


As ever a pleasant night "Tubbing" with the 3Ds. These days they should be called Dale and the Denneys.
The place was quite busy and the 3Ds', Irish, bluegrass style really blends perfectly into the atmosphere of a lively bar without ever being obtrusive. I'd brought my guitar along as an emergency back up because Dale had hurt his hand and I may have had to croak out a few tunes. But it turned out well in the end with Dale picking away on his mandolin as good as ever.
I always enjoy playing with the 3Ds. Wash tub bass playing is a hoot. Seems the less strings I have, the better I sound.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
Green Frog.

Green Frog November 18

A gale has been on the rampage these past few days. Feels like it's blown the days of the week out of order. The neighbourhood lost power around 7pm. A tree crashed down as we were setting off for the gig. It landed across the drive way.
Charlie didn't make it to the gig at all. He was up at Gooseberry Point, being pummelled by winds, floods, falling trees, plagues of locusts and evil spirits.
Jason never made it either. Not sure why. Perhaps he was up at Gooseberry Point, spooking Charlie.

So it was a skeleton crew of a Muddy Boots Band who blew into town. Me, Donald and Phil.
The gig went fine. We tried out a couple of new songs and some oldies. Dandelion made it's first appearance. Can't Keep Me was resurrected.
There were a few rusty moments but overall we were on good form.
There'd been another beer fest closing down when we showed up. Donald staggered out at the end looking a bit rough. Phil kindly gave me a lift home. (Thanks Phil).
The house was still standing when I got back. I'm not sure though if it was in the exact same spot where we'd left it. At least I had a home to go to.....

The Honeymoon. Bellingham. (The Almost Rowdy Town)
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

The Honeymoon is a cozy little wine bar tucked away in an alley off State Street. We'd played in there a couple of times before and always enjoyed it.
Previously we'd played it unplugged but this time we set up my wee P.A. system with the volume down low.

The space quickly filled up with what proved to be a warmly enthusiastic crowd. They (and a decent sound check) put us on good form. At times the atmosphere was almost rowdy. But it was a sophisticated kind of rowdiness. We breezed through the evening playing mainly our more laid back stuff. When I looked at the set list, I realized there were 16 original songs written on it. Quite a lot. The rest were mainly old spooky blues.

……………………………….

It had been raining all day long. Charlie had had to detour to avoid flooded roads as he drove into town from Gooseberry Point. He could easily have cancelled but he didn't. Thanks Charlie. Phil made a last minute appearance too which filled out our sound nicely. So with Donald on bass and with Jan yelling encouragement we rounded off a great little night around 10:15.

We didn't mean to finish so early. Someone had whispered to me in urgent tones that it was getting late. I had no idea what time it was. But I got the impression I was being told to stop. Unfortunately it turned out we'd packed up a half hour too early. A shame really as I think we had been enjoying ourselves. So apologies to the establishment for the misunderstanding.

In the end though, a good time was had by one and all. Lot's of wines and cheeses were consumed. We were even invited back.

………………………….

Scotland is not a country renowned for its fine wines. We probably have few true wine connoisseurs but we do have plenty of Winos. The word "Wino" sort of sums up Scotland's view of the grape juice. It evokes dour images of bearded hoboes dressed in filthy trench coats, passed out in Glasgow Central train station.
I'd never really drank wine till I went abroad. For us, as young men in Scotland, wine was not about taste, it was about price and alcohol content. My first few encounters with wine in France involved refundable bottles (Cinque Etoile) with plastic tops. We'd open these bottles, toss away the lids and go for a stroll. We'd swig that rotgut down like it was cola though it tasted like cold black sugarless tea. Unidentified things floated in its depths and it left a sandpaper aftertaste on the tongue. The adventure generally ended with me passed out on the street: face down, palms up. I guess I wasn't so different from the Glasgow bums.

I remember when my old Scottish friend Julie came to visit me and Hil in Regensburg, Germany. We went into a supermarket to get some wine. Hil said "Let's get a bottle". I said,"Mmm, there's three of us. Better get two". Julie said, " Mmm, three of us. Shouldn't we get three?" So we got four.
Then we went for a pint.

…………………………………

Green Frog Acoustic Tavern.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.


The Green Frog was hosting a beer fest when we arrived. This was the busiest I'd ever seen the place. Plenty of beer was getting swigged and the place was loud and boisterous.

As usual it took us a few songs to come to terms with our sound check. With 5 of us playing, it was all a bit murky. There were amps all over the tiny stage in no particular order. The Donald's bass amp was sitting right beside me though Donald was off stage across the breadth of the room away. Naturally he couldn't hear it from that distance so he had it blasting. That drowned me out completely. I actually jumped with fright when he played his first note. Charlie's amps were set up right behind him practically in his back pocket while at the back, Phil had his amp wired up to be heard over the bass. He was behind Charlie's amps so he probably didn't catch much of what Charlie was playing. Jason was in the corner right behind me with his drum kit. He needed to hear the bass amp to give him something to groove with. I couldn't hear him at all but I bet he could hear the bass. So it was a confusing evening. As we stood amid the amps, it felt like we were in a fortress of noise. Or maybe more of a barnyard of din. Amp-Henge. Remember The Bashstreet Kids? All par for the course I guess.
As usual nobody in the crowd seemed to notice. Perhaps the alcohol had numbed their hearing.

Despite the mania, there were some good moments through it all. The slower songs had better resilience against the ragged sound check we'd cooked ourselves into. Chuckanut went well. So did Blowing Down the River, Spoonful and Smokestack Lightning. They were all a little faster than usual but still had a groove. Most of our endings were chaotic but at least we nailed the ending of Annecy. As shows go, it wasn't bad. Jason last played drums with us way back last year some time. We'd had a quick practice in the cabin on the eve of this gig.
Once again it was dodgy sound issues that marred the evening for me (and probably everyone else). Though it wasn't as bad as last time, it was still very distracting. Bad sound makes a gig too much like hard work. I want to ride the sound waves not be drowned by them.

Bruce Hendler dropped in and he got up and sang Dylan's, "It Takes a Train to Cry". He's a big Dylan aficionado who just wanted to sing a Dylan song. He did pretty good and seemed to enjoy the experience.

But my lasting vision of the evening must be while we were playing Wang Dang Doodle. I looked over at Donald who was on a stool by the front door. He was playing his bass but was simultaneously checking IDs and taking money from customers as they came in. He was haggling and giving people change while still keeping that pounding riff going on. I don't think he missed a beat. That's multi tasking.
……………………………….

I guess the Green Frog beer fest was some sort of honourary Oktoberfest. Most people are surprised to learn that the real German Oktoberfest actually takes place mainly in September. Shouldn't it be called Septemberfest?
Over the years I guess I've been there about 4 times. It was always a laugh but gets a bit repetitive after a few visits.

The first time I went to Oktoberfest I was coming from Venice on the 6 P.M. train North via Innsbruck, Austria. Oktoberfest was the last thing on my mind.

Stepping off the train in Innsbruck was like looking up in New York, except it wasn't tall buildings but towering mountains I was gaping up at. They hemmed the town in: ominous, jagged and already streaked with snow.

Back in Venice I'd exchanged the 100 pounds Scottish that I'd swapped with John B in Annecy a few days earlier. I thought I was doing him a favour but at the Venetian exchange office I was informed that my Scottish money was only worth 60 pounds. I'd given John a thousand francs. Now it had shrunk to 600. Well I needed Lire quick if I wanted to buy a train ticket, so I accepted their miserly exchange rate. That made a further nasty dent in my cash.
I was only in Venice for the day. After wandering around for some hours, I decided it was pleasant enough but kind of boring. I felt I was strolling through a still life painting. There wasn't even a busker. The old town had a sense of neglect. Plaster had tumbled from buildings like flaky skin. I was surprised by the amount of graffiti that tattooed the crumbling facades. Litter blew around the streets like flocks of dust devils till it finally gathered in corners where it accumulated in drifts of wrappers and paper cups.
It was all a little disappointing. Compared to Annecy, Venice was a dump. Here was a great work of art whose colours had faded and washed out into the elements. A trampled Mona Lisa with boot prints across her face.
Eventually I found myself seated on the front steps of the train station entrance watching the crowds and boats. The Plaza there seemed quite busy. I heard lots of languages and accents all around me on the steps. The biggest excitement was when a busker dressed in a black vampire cape set up to perform but was quickly arrested. He was literally picked up and carried off screaming by the police who appeared from nowhere like pest control. I guess that explained the lack of buskers.
As 6 PM approached, the entire population who were seated on the station steps, all got up at once and got on the Innsbruck train. Obviously they'd found Venice as enlightening as I had.
I spoke to a few back packers and the conversations were all the same.
"When did you get here?"
"This morning"
"When are you leaving"?
"Tonight".

……………………

In Innsbruck I waited all night in the station. In the morning I caught my connection to the tiny German town of Mittenwald. The train burrowed through tunnels and chugged around mountains, perilously tracing the edges of narrow cliff tops carved out of the alpine rock. Looking straight out, there was often no sign of the land we were traveling on: just blue autumn sky and a few nosey clouds. There was nothing but thin air unless I glanced nervously down where far far below was the lush green valley floor spread like a live page in an atlas.
I crossed into Southern Germany, with no border hassles. Some hitching later, I found myself in the ski town of Garmisch. It didn't seem to have a pedestrian zone so I didn't try busking.
As night fell I was tired and weary. Apart from the remains of my currently useless Scots pounds, the only money I had was a 5 mark coin that I guess someone must have dropped in my case sometime during the Summer.
I was walking out of town to sleep by the roadside when I passed a gas station (Tankstelle). I went in and with the 5 marks I purchased 4 beers. When the attendant handed me my change he eyed me with distrust. I smiled and was about to leave when I realized I had money enough for one more can of beer. He fetched it for me and shook his head as I left. I guess I must have looked kind of bedraggled, shifty and suspicious. So armed, I went merrily down the road till I came to some tennis courts. There was a picnic bench under a tree with a beautiful view of the mountains. I parked myself and cracked a beer. Oh boy it tasted so good. What a long day. But now here I was happy as a tramp. Sunset, beer, tobacco and what looked like a quiet corner to sleep.
I sat lost in my thoughts and drew a sketch of the mountains. It was a peaceful moment, blowing smoke rings towards the peaks and enjoying the beer and the alpine panorama.

So, why was I in Germany and where was I going, I hear you ask? Yes there was method to my wandering. I'd recently left France where I'd been hanging out. I'd taken a night train to Venice just for a change of scenery. I had no real solid plan, but on arrival in Venice as you now know, I quickly deduced that Italy was not compatible with a bum like me. So I'd immediately headed North in search of cheaper climes.
There'd been a girl I'd met in France who had given me her address in Schwabisch Hall in Germany where she was studying. She'd said that if I was ever in the neighbourhood, I should look her up.
That now looked like a very good idea.

Meanwhile back at the beer.
I'd picked up a free map at the gas station and I located Schwabisch Hall. It was a kind of out of the way place to get to. From where I was, there was no direct road. I'd have to go past Munich then west towards Ulm, then North till I could weave my way towards Schwabisch Hall. After that I had no idea what my plan was.

I must have been about half way through my 4th beer when I sensed something wasn't right. Surely by now I should be getting a bit groggy and sleepy. I flicked on my lighter and studied the can. By its light I could read the word Alcohol. So far so good but what was that word that preceded it? "Ohne" what did that mean? Only alcohol? But then under it written in French, the dreaded word, "Sans". Sans Alcohol. No alcohol!
I couldn't believe it. My only coin in the world and I spent it all on 5 cans of alcohol free beer. Now I realized why the tankstelle man had looked at me so oddly.
I was mad. I drop kicked the can across the tennis court then with a sigh of resignation I laid out my skimpy sleeping bag and climbed in. Goodnight Germany.

In the morning I was up bright and early. At least I didn't have a hangover. The day was mild and sunny but hitching was hopeless. I stood beside a noisy secondary road with a lot of construction work going on. The Autobahn was still some miles north so I walked and walked till finally a green Volkswagen bus pulled over. I was about to ask the driver where he was heading when 3 tall policemen burst out and formed a tight circle around me facing inwards and downwards. I felt like I'd suddenly fallen down a well.
"Ausweise".
"Wo hin gehen sie?"
"Wie lang bleiben sie in Deutchland?"
So many questions and I never understood a word of it.
Fortunately this routine was very familiar to me as in the past few years traveling it seemed I'd gotten frisked every second day. In fact I'd just been frisked in Italian a few days earlier and now I was being frisked in German. The words were different but the subtitles would have read the same.
When they realized I didn't speak German they switched effortlessly to English. "Palms against the car and legs apart". Electing to take the path of least resistance, I complied. My only worry was that they'd deport me for vagrancy without even drinking a proper beer.
They found my tobacco.
"Do you smoke hashish?"
"No"
"How much hashish do you smoke?"
"None"
"Open your back pack"
They put my back pack in the side door and we examined it together. Then they searched my guitar.
"Where do you buy your hashish?"
"I don't".
"Have you ever smoked hashish?"
"No".
"You look like you smoke hashish?"
I shrugged.
Now they wanted to strip search me but there seemed to be some protocol about this. They couldn't do it in the middle of this construction and traffic jam.
"Step into the car".
I ducked into the side door and they all tried to fit in with me. The scenario was getting comical. Heads bumped and eyes were poked. I started to smile at the idiocity of the scene. They got as far as taking one of my shoes off then they kicked me out and drove off. The moral of the story? Always wear your socks for a week or two before a strip search.
What pissed me off most was that the van drove off in the direction I wanted to go.

Eventually I got a lift from a young man about my age. He was a cheerful kind of guy, driving to Munich to meet a friend he hadn't seen in years. He mentioned something about having lived in Peru. He was no longer sure if he'd even recognize his friend. They had arranged to meet in the Munich Bahnhof (Train station) that day at a certain place and time. They were then going to the Oktoberfest where I was welcome to join them. When I explained I was broke, he reached in his pocket and handed me a token. He said it was worth a half chicken and a stein of beer at the fest. "Well" I said, "looks like I'm going to Oktoberfest.
At the Bahnhof we met his friend and went straight to the Fest. It was quite overwhelming. A carnival with huge beer tents and lederhosened oompa bands pumping and oomping. Glazed eyed revelers stood on tables and sang. Big bosomed waitresses carried ten huge overflowing beer mugs at a time. We sat ourselves at a long wooden table and were soon chomping chickens and slurping huge frothing beers held in two hands. My companions were chatty and amicable and at the beginning spoke English. A second round of huge beers appeared. I thanked my new friends. Soon they drifted into speaking about old times in German. I spaced out and began to think about how to leave town. I decided that when that beer was gone, I'd head for the Autobahn but they insisted that I stay for one more beer. I really had to go but they had been hatching a plan. They wanted to find some hashish and wondered if I could help. I said I didn't know Munich very well but had heard that the English Gardens might be as good a place as any for a stranger to start looking.
By the time we left the October Fest we were all completely fried. We crumpled unconscious on a lawn near a subway station. I don't know how long we lay there and I can't even remember if we went to the English Gardens.
Next I recall it was night time and I was getting off a train in Ulm, a town some distance west of Munich. I turned left outside the main entrance. Then immediately turned left again. There was a motorway bridge. I crept under it without hesitation and was asleep instantly. I guess I must have changed some more Scottish money somewhere. I can't recall.
I never saw those two guys again. T'was an exciting day though. My first Oktoberfest.

For the sake of tying a knot in this story, I made it to Schwabisch Hall. It was a beautiful little medieval town, all timber beams and cobbled streets.
I met the girl I had sought and I stayed in her student house, communal kitchen thingy for a week or so. She was studying German as were all the people there. They came from all over the world.
There was an elderly Chinese man named Dr Woo. He was a traditional noodles, raw fish, sake and ping pong kind of guy but by the time he left town he was strictly Pizza, beer and cigarettes.
One afternoon he saw me juggle 3 potatoes and he asked "can you do this with eggs?"
I said "No, I'm not very good. Maybe if they were hard boiled, I'd try it".
He said "you must try it with raw eggs. I have some". He fetched three eggs from the fridge and insisted I juggle them. I said that I couldn't but he had an impish grin on his face. "Go go go", he said.
"But I'll break them".
"No problem", he laughed. "Have many eggs".
So with a sigh, I began tossing them in the air. 1,2, 3. Splat, splat, splat. Mr. Woo howled with laughter.

It turned out that the potatoes belonged to an American named Jim. He appeared later in the communal kitchen. We got talking about how he'd searched the town for cooking oil to cook his potatoes in. He'd had no luck and was annoyed and hungry.
"…So now I've got this big bag of useless potatoes", he says to me.
"Why don't you boil them" I suggested?
"Boil them? What do you mean?"
"Just stick them in a pot and boil them till they're ready"
"Boil them? You can do that?"
"Yes".
"Boil them" he mused. I could tell this was big news to him.
"Then just add some salt for flavor and there ye go."
"Salt? Do I have salt? How long should I boil them?"
"Twenty minutes."
"How will I know if they're ready?"
"Just poke them with a fork. If they cry out then they're ready".
"What about the water?"
"Make it into potato tea".
"Really?"
No. Just joking. Pour it out".
"Oh". Then he laughed and said, "That's so funny".
I doubt he understood a word I said.

He told me that he'd just been to the October Fest.
"Me too" I said.
"Boy that beer is powerful stuff", he said. "Just about felled me. Went straight to the head. I thought I was going to throw up."
"Jeez I know", I agreed. After three I was seeing double."
"THREE" he cried out in disbelief "I only had one!"

The Green Frog Acoustic Tavern.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
The Trouble with Tripling.

Strange gig.
The sound guy was doubling as the bar tender and dishwasher. Or is that tripling? He came over as we were plugging in our stuff and asked us what we needed. He had a little note pad where he jotted a few things down. He looked like he was taking our order at a pizzeria. Which may have been of more use. I think we ordered too much of all the wrong stuff. Sadly after setting us up, he was too busy to alter his original mix. He did occasionally step out from behind his counter and tweak a knob on the mixer but we were lost in a sea of random notes. At one point I think Donald was playing a different tune than me. His bass had the weirdest sound check I'd ever heard from him. It was as if the entire bass end had been removed by suction. Each note sounded like clogs tap dancing on a wooden floor. I don't think my guitar was in tune all night. I wish I could blame that on the sound guy too but sadly that was completely my fault. I could hardly hear Charlie's guitar at all. But he seemed fairly oblivious and happy. Phil just kept his head down at the back, astride his electric chair. I can't read crowns very well, so I don't know what he thought. Slowly though we all began to realize that something was amiss. We were under attack from a shaky Steam Boat Willie sound check.

Fortunately the Mudman Mark Flanders dropped in and on witnessing our floundering confusion, came smartly to the rescue. When the sound guy returned from a world record cigarette and telephone break, Mark, fine politician that he is, shook his hand, had a word with him and the mix was thus improved slightly. If only congress moved so quickly. Thanks Mark. Thanks to the sound check man too. He really was run off his feet. I guess he did his best. Last time we played there though, he did a lot better.
But that's the trouble with tripling.

So it was kind of an indifferent gig. We thoroughly massacred Michelle Shocked's, Old Woman but did get to test drive Blackberry Pie and we tackled Creeps in a new key.
A harmonica player got up too and played along on a couple of blues tunes. His efforts got lost in the mix with the rest of us but he seemed to have had a good time.
I believe his name was Feron.

I guess we were kind of on a bit of a low when the gig was over. I counted the dollars in the spittoon tips jar. There were 12 bills in it. Eleven 1 dollar bills and one 100 dollar bill. Whoa….. What was that? Yip. A hundred dollar bill. Well that brightened up our night pretty quickly. For sure it's not a lot, but it's a hundred dollars more than what most bosses give us. I don't know where it came from (Maybe the boss) but we quickly exchanged it for four 25s. Thank you mystery donator. And if you're reading this, you are welcome to come to all our gigs.

Well that gig was yesterday. Right now it's September 2nd.
That date sticks in my mind every year…..

…………………………………………………..


Once upon a time, as we all know by now, I was a bit of a wanderer; I travelled aimlessly across Europe with my guitar. Mostly I was alone in my misadventures but from time to time I was joined by my old friend and nemesis, John Brown.
As in all genuine artistic relationships, our friendship was a pendulum of musical highs and pointless punch ups.
We were in fact from the same tiny village in Scotland yet we never actually met till we were about 17 years old. Sometimes I think it might have been better if we hadn't crossed paths. We weren't good for each other.
When we began playing music together we had all kinds of delusions of grandeur. We dreamed we'd go to Chicago and make it big playing the blues in smoky bars. If we'd known that Chicago was a cold and windy city and that (more importantly) the legal drinking age was 21, we wouldn't have entertained that scenario so enviously. Fortunately John had some kind of criminal misdemeanor on his record which forbade him entry to the States. So instead we dreamed that we’d go to the continent and be discovered on some street corner by Bob Dylan himself, who would invite us on a world tour as his backing band. We’d live the rock and roll dream and be filthy rich. It was a compact little dream but friends told me we'd "end up in the klink".
Well, we got as far as the continent but Dylan didn’t show up. Thus began my career as a street musician. I was not destined to be filthy rich. Just filthy.
If there was an autobiography of John's life, the jacket notes would read, "Based on fiction". For sure John had a natural talent for exaggeration. He also wore the biggest shoes I have ever seen outside of a circus. He used to say, he could swim at over a hundred miles an hour. I don't think he exaggerated that one. Generally though, he wore steel toe capped work boots. Theoretically he could walk with great purpose underwater, which was handy in an ambush.
But maybe most of all, he was just a dreamer who craved a constant change of mentality with never a thought for the future. It was genetically impossible for him to save a penny overnight never mind to have anything as grand as a bank account. He would have been a hopeless squirrel. As for me, I wasn’t much better but I had a tiny grain of prudence which John often found unforgivable.

There came a time in Annecy when I hadn’t seen John since he'd returned to Scotland the previous year. Together we'd busked up his fare for a local Crolard Bus. I'd elected to stay on in Annecy for that Winter.

So one summer day in the alpine town of Annecy, some months after his departure, suddenly there was John, staggering towards me like a rubber tightrope walker down the Rue Royale. Blitzed out his head and dressed all in black in an under takers suit. Top hat and tails and a pair of steel toe capped industrial boots. His dented top hat looking like someone had pried it half open with a can opener. He carried a guitar case in one hand and a half empty bottle of five star vin ordinaire in the other as a counterbalance. We came face to face in the crowd and he grinned and greeted me with a cross-eyed, "ahright brer", and we passed the first of many bottles of that Summer.
Between passing bottles and pipes and passing out, we spent that tourist season playing music with a little street band we'd assembled the previous year with some fellow down and outs.
Artistically John and I worked quite well together. He was a natural born rhythm guitarist whereas I was more of a doodler. I don't recall any disagreement ever on who should play what. We were able to nudge each other's songs just enough to bend their shape from straight lines into more interesting depths. Usually all it took was a change of one chord or one lyric. Simple things that we'd never have noticed on our own. But really what I remember most fondly about our sessions was the helpless laughter we often descended into.

Unfortunately throughout that French Summer, our amicable musical ESP did not spill into our social lives. Outside of music, we would disagree on any topic. Much of it was plainly due to our overly indulgent homeless bohemian lifestyle. We had everything but a castle. But really the lesson here was that you should never travel, live, or work with your friends. Follow that advice and you’ll remain friends.
One evening, whilst chatting up two girls in Le Munich, we degenerated into a particularly drunken argument which culminated with a guitar being hammer-thrown into the lake. The girls wisely left us to it. The guitar never resurfaced but I always wonder if anyone ever found it. I recall we'd abruptly stopped fighting to watch it sink, as if it was the Titanic or an unexpected holy moment. Then I believe that we actually laughed.

By the end of August we were sick of one another. Thus once more, we were shortly to be going our own roads. I was heading to Italy and John was going to pick grapes near Lyon.

With the arrival of September, the tourists fizzled out and a sense of tranquility descended on Annecy. With new adventures on our horizons, a ceasefire was declared.
Well a friend of ours was driving a delivery truck through Switzerland to Lake Constance in Germany on business. He offered us a free trip there and back (1000km?) if we met him promptly at six a.m next morning at his house. We jumped at the chance. We knew we had no hope of being up at that ridiculous time, so we decided to stay awake all night. We wandered up into the forest. Then we meandered around town like ghosts, chain smoking till towards dawn we found ourselves perched on a wall beside the big "Visitation" church that overlooked Annecy. John asked me for a scrap of paper. I handed him my little sketch pad. For ten minutes he scribbled inside it till it was time to go and meet the truck driver.

Our trip was a disaster. We got strip searched at the Swiss border and then kicked straight back out of the country. Our driver drove off without us. We’d only gotten forty kilometers down the road. Now we had to hitch back to Annecy. We sat by the roadside, too weary and grumpy to put our thumbs in the air. Finally we decided to split up to hitch. I got a lift back by a driver who was the first person who ever mentioned the name Andre Brugiroux to me. By evening John and I were both back in Annecy where we'd started.
Yup. A great day out.

My memory of September though, is not really of that day. A few years later I was working on the Isle of Skye up in North West Scotland. One quiet afternoon, I was sitting in my room tinkering with a tune I had been working on. I’d found some lyrics in an old sketch pad. The words were not in my hand writing but they fitted perfectly with my tune. At the bottom of the page there was a signature. John Brown. September 2nd 1986. I glanced at the calendar on my wall. September 2nd 1988. It was two years to the day that we'd sat on the wall overlooking the dawn roofs of Annecy. I was bowled over as the memory rushed back. Such an odd magical coincidence.
Every time that date comes round now, I think on those two Septembers and I wait for something supernatural to happen, but it never does.
I haven’t heard from John Brown in a few years. We are still friends. I think he is on a fishing boat off the West Coast of Scotland. Maybe he’ll call me up next September 2nd. Maybe I'll call him. Maybe we'll have a jam.
Hell, maybe even Bob Dylan will show up.

…….September takes the rope
And then she takes the strain
How I hope we blow along
Till September comes again.

Paso Del Norte

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.

A good enough gig but nobody there. Hugo wanted us to play till 1am and we obliged even though by midnight the Paso Del Norte was just about empty. Earlier, the place had been quite lively with some imaginative rubber dancing. The Muddy Boots were in good form but empty bars really sap the energy out of musicians.

Blaine seems to be such a ghost town. We arrived on the main street around 8:30pm and even then the streets were deserted. No pedestrians. No cars. Not a squawk. The view across the harbour was very picturesque but we had it all to ourselves.
We'd have been in Blaine at 8 but en route to Donald's house I realized I'd forgotten the bass amp. We had to go all the way back and get it.

Stephanie was filling in again on drums for us and she did a great job. We even managed to have a bit of a practice before the gig.

Not much to say about this night. In short: a long gig in an empty bar. Not too inspiring. There doesn't seem to be enough people in Blaine to fill a bar. On the positive side, we did get to try out some different material like Michelle Shocked's "Old Woman".

The Paso Del Norte had 3 TVs on. All were featuring different channels. The one directly ahead of me was showing an old "Saturday Night Live" show. We were singing "Tramper Ticket", when a comedy sketch began which involved a pregnant white trash girl in a bar trying to pick up some cowboy guy. Somehow the whole skit fitted perfectly with the song lyrics. Seems only me and Donald noticed but it cracked us up. A few minutes later the Saturday night Live news crew were dressed as Eskimos and dancing in perfect sync with Chuckanut Drive. They were so unbelievably in time that I dragged the song out a bit longer just so I could laugh more.
Exciting stuff.

North West Washington Fair.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots

Stephanie was sitting in on drums for us again. She hadn't played or practiced with us in over a year. There'd been no convenient time to get together before this gig at all so we literally did the rehearsal in the car during the 20 minute drive north to Lynden.

We played at 4:30 for 45 minutes and all things considered I think Stephanie did a fine job. As did Charlie and Donald as ever. (Phil sat this one out). We played some originals, some blues, and a Scottish one. Unfortunately we'd had to leave a few songs out due to lack of practice.
The gig was quickly all over. With a pat on the back and a "Next please", we were suddenly on the road south again to Bellingham.

It was quite enjoyable though. The fair is very family orientated. There were rides and games and llamas and tractors and food and drink. Loads of everything you'd expect at a fair on a massive scale. Even a ferris wheel.

Was it a good gig? Not our best but it was definitely "fair".

Majestic Inn Anacortes
In the Beer Garden.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.

By the end of the evening, this had turned into a great little gig, but by the time people began shaking their hips we'd already been going for three hours.

The trouble with this gig set up is that I think passersby thought that it was a private function. The Majestic Inn looks very formal: somewhat ritzy and a trifle aloof. I saw a lot of people come in and stand nervously by the gate as if expecting to be ejected at any moment by angry bouncers.
I saw the bbq chef trying to encourage them in but he was too far away from the gate. He explained later that they'd once had a sandwich board outside on the sidewalk advertising free live music open to the public. Unfortunately someone had stolen it. Maybe they misread it as a free sandwich board.

But to the gig…..
We began at 6 o clock. The garden was fairly empty so we played a half hour warm up set of our lesser well known stuff. An old friend of Charlie's from his early hippy days had come up with his wife to visit from Oregon. He had some pictures of them in a band back in the 60s. There was Charlie framed for posterity, looking very much a folky. He even had a mandolin in his hands. I didn't know he played. A man of surprises is Charlie.

After a break, we upped the tempo a tiny bit but still held back because by now it was only around 8 o clock. The garden had become a few bodies busier, but not much.

As dusk and alcohol settled in we began an extra long third and final set where we played all we had left. Sure enough, toes began to tap, fingers twitched and strangers snuck further into the garden.
But it was the first few catchy notes of Chuckanut Drive coinciding with the birth of the Bus Stop Shuffle that finally brought the crowd to the dance floor where they stayed for the duration.
The Bus Stop Shuffle is a dance invented especially for the shyest and least accomplished of dancers. (Such as myself). Its simple steps are based on my casual observations of bored peoples' actions at the bus up at Whatcom Community College. Here's how it goes. First slide your hands into your hip pockets with thumbs outside. Take one step forward. Lean slightly outward and look left. Then take one step backwards and check wrist watch. Replace hand in pocket. Repeat until song is over.

I guess this was a gig of two mentalities. The first half was played for a crowd who were either eating or digesting their dinner. The second half was for a crowd who had been on the town and had stumbled upon a good time. Then both camps united and it was all fun, fun, fun.

So I'd say that in the event of further gigs there, we need advertising in the papers and around town. Also a new sandwich board. Place it outside with an armed guard on duty for the night of the gig. Let the sandwich board clearly state that the garden is open to the public and that there is no cover charge. Kick off shouldn't be till about 7:30pm instead of 6pm.
Let's see what that accomplishes.

………………………..

Another odd thing about this night was the date: August 14th. It occurred to me that it was upon this date many miles and Earth orbits ago that I set off from Scotland in search of nothing in particular. If it was fortune I sought then I can officially state that I definitely did not find that. Not fame either. I guess I found a whole pile of mixed up junk and underneath it somewhere I found some interesting jigsaw pieces of myself.

It seems to me that I have been penniless my entire life. My entire existence has been hand to mouth. Some moments have been slightly more affluent than others but the breadline has never been quite as distant as I would have liked. Not that I regret or hate my circumstances but I can safely say that money is not attracted to me.
I've never been happier though than when I was homeless and sitting under a shady tree on a lazy afternoon with nothing to do. As I write, I have my life savings in my pocket: one crumpled 20 dollar bill and a few coins. So right now life is pretty good. I guess I've never been richer than when I had nothing at all.

As a young man, I think my biggest dread of all in life was the thought of a meaningless job where I would get comfy and find myself still doing it 50 years later. Perhaps I've spent my life running away from that scenario. In Scotland there is a serious pressure on a 16 year old to get out and work till you drop. I remember an uncle telling me that if I couldn't find work that I should turn up at a building site and work for free. This would supposedly impress the gaffer so much that after 6 months he might hire me.
Yikes.
So I have always found my self lurking around the fringe habitats of various international societies. I have worked a bunch of part time jobs over the years, usually in bars, restaurants or building sites but I never committed myself to anything remotely permanent. My reasoning was that the terrifying 5 day work week was surely the curse (and maybe the saviour) of modern society. Who was the Smart Alec that worked out that by devoting five 8 hour days to a job earned a man the privilege of 2 days off? If a further 8 hours sleep and a 2 hour commute and two hours for cooking, eating and bathing, are subtracted, that only leaves about four scrap hours a day that could be squeezed in as leisure time. Keep the masses busy and they'll have no time to revolt.
The sacrifice to me was not my labour for a wage but my precious time on Earth for something I was never destined to have vast amounts of anyway. But still, for many people this system is a blessing. It offers the promise of a financial safety net, food on the table and the comfort of a routine. In those terms it is in fact a sweet deal which definitely beats freezing in a cave. At times it might even be better than busking on some desperate Winter corner. I guess it could be argued that the five day work week is in itself a form of social security.

Sometimes I wish I was greedier on the material front. I have never really wanted that much. It's a sharp stick of an existence. Security versus freedom. If you can balance both at the same time then you are a lucky spud. I think I was greedy for freedom. Freedom was my addiction and I still can't seem to shake it off. Music unexpectedly gave me a chance to enjoy liberty on a level I would not have imagined. In the end, freedom comes down simply to being self employed and working when you feel like it.

In many ways a street musician has far more freedom than a bar musician. A bar musician expects more comforts. In return he has dates and schedules and must sacrifice his time. A street musician's schedule is dictated by thirst, hunger and weather. Winter and Summer are vastly different seasons for a street musician but for a bar musician there is often only night or day.
It's not that street musicians love hard times. Winters can be horrible but a trip to Spain is just a hitch hike away. I'm a lot older now than I once was. Tales of hard times on the road are great for a laugh once they've safely passed. I think most of my busking tales are now done.
Was it Andre Brugiroux who said, "The road is just a street"? I'm not sure but I have come to believe that "The Road" is in fact a roundabout.

It was probably Mr. Springsteen who best summed up playing music for a living. "Beats working".

………………………………………..

It was raining torrential in the West of Scotland that August night. My brother Gerry was on his bed reading the newspaper. He looked up just as I was closing the door and said, "See ye in 2 weeks".
I was traveling light: a tiny backpack containing a sleeping bag, some underwear, a spare T-shirt, a pair of socks and a toothbrush. In my pocket I had 20 pounds from a welfare check and some money from selling half my scratchy record collection. I also had a little guitar. Hardly a toy. My good friend John Bee was bringing a much larger backpack. It had a metal frame and a million pockets. He too had a cheap little guitar. I guess in the back of our heads we must have been planning to busk at some point.

Two buses, a ferry and a day later, me and John Bee, were in Calais, France, trying to hitch a lift vaguely South in search of grape picking work. But the first car to stop was heading North into Belgium. Calais was flat, sandy and desolate with no sign of the actual town. An old lady trundled by on a clunky bike. We jumped into the car.

The driver was a black man from Louisiana whom we'd met earlier on the boat. His car was some kind of Porsche. His name was Dave. He was in the US army and he was stationed in Prum in Germany. His car tore off up the road like a rocket.
The windows were open and the wind whipped noisily through the car like a gale. "How fast can this thing go", yelled John in awe?
"Hell Ah don't know. Jist bought the thang", laughed Dave.

Dave dropped us off near St Vith in Belgium where the road suddenly changed into a motorcycle race track. We camped there a few days. There seemed to be a big racing event going on. We didn't know it, but during our first night there, a fence had been erected around the area. We were in the inside. Thus we had gotten ourselves accidental free entry. We wondered freely around the bike pits for a couple of days till one morning we were asked for our passes. We were then swiftly booted out.
We found ourselves hitching through some picturesque rolling hills on one lane roads where we got a lift from an Asian man who stopped at a farm full of rabbits and he did an operation on a sheep's hoof while we watched. It was quite gory. Blood was spilled. Back in his car afterwards I said conversationally that I'd once wanted to be a vet. He said, "I'm not a vet".

Later we found ourselves in the little town of Coo. The scenery had turned a bit alpine which was a bit unexpected. I'd never heard of any Belgian highlands. We lazed in the town square in the late afternoon. Some local kids were pouring washing up liquid into the fountain. Soon clouds of soap suds were blowing all over the town. By now after a few days on the road, we were getting fairly ripe. I guess we could have used a few of those soap suds.

By twilight we were on another deserted highway with dark forest pressing in all around. We were just plodding along looking for some shadow to sleep in. Soon the Milky Way was spread out spectacularly above us in our ribbon of visible sky. We had no idea where we were. Then a van pulled over. We dived in and explained where we wanted to go. The driver spoke no English. We tried our hysterical French. "Je cherche travaille" and "Il est quelle heure?" Comment tu t' appelle".* He got his map out and pointed here and there till we figured out that he hadn't stopped for us at all. In fact he hadn't even seen us. He was lost too. We piled back out and the car did a u turn and disappeared. We plodded on. Clueless, in more ways than one.

(* I look for work. What time is it? What is your name?)

A while later we heard a moped approaching. We'd stopped walking and were just loitering aimlessly in the leafy shadows. The moped came closer. We stuck our thumbs out jokingly as it passed but it slowed and spun in a wide arc and stopped beside us. The driver was a girl about our age. She introduced herself as Lolita. We asked her where Luxemburg was. She said it was all around us. She told us there was a small town just down the road and offered to bring us there on her moped. So one at a time she took us into town. John went first. Being more experienced with motorcycles than I was, he shouldered my small pack and took a guitar in each hand. Off they zoomed with a whoop. When Lolita returned about 20 minutes later, I hoisted John's pack onto my shoulders. I swear that at first I couldn't get it off the ground. It was so heavy that it felt like someone had nailed it down. I had no idea what was in it. Perhaps a slab of tarmac. Anyway I heaved it on my back and staggered to sit astride the little moped. The poor little thing spluttered and gasped as we set off, involuntarily wheellying down the road, heading for darkest Luxemburg.

Shortly, we came screaming downhill like a runaway hairdryer into the sleepy little village of Goovey. Lolita was steering crazily, trying to keep the moped upright. Suddenly directly ahead there was an abrupt left hand turn and a looming high wall. We didn't turn as abruptly as the road and my right shoulder slammed into the wall even as I was already leaping backwards off the wobbling moped. I found myself clattering wildly down the street, bouncing erratically off the wall, while Lolita wrestled her jelly bike back to her will. We all came to a halt outside a bar. John was waiting and he was doubled over laughing. Quite an entrance. We must have woke the whole country. Welcome to Goovey.
Oooh…a bar.

………………………………..

With tearful goodbyes to Lolita and her friends, we tumbled blearily out of that bar in the wee hours and went to the train station. Via Luxemburg City we arrived in Metz, France. I recall that as we crossed the border from Luxemburg to France that John had had a piece of very illegal hash in his tobacco tin. A roving band of French border guards appeared from nowhere. They ignored everyone in the busy carriage except me and John. They put our hands up against the wall, legs apart and frisked us top to bottom. At one heart stopping point a guard held the tobacco tin in his hand whilst groping in John's jacket pocket. He examined various pieces of scrap paper then stuffed the tin back in the pocket without opening it. Then they swarmed off. That could have been the end of our wee trip right there.

We found ourselves heading slowly South. Hitching was diabolical. We weren't really sure where we were. At some point a map came into our lifes. A map is a useful thing. Each new day we passed through a number of its towns. Macon, where John left his hat in a car and by a miracle got it back. Dijon, Langres, and Vaucaleurs where the natives spoke in awe of an eerie cult figure known as John Dark.

In the middle of one balmy night we came into Lyon, the second largest city in France. The Autoroute was hemmed in by high rise apartments. Our ride sped between them like a tiny boat caught in the rapids of a canyon. I remember a window blind not 2 lanes distant being lifted and 2 frightened eyes peering out. We flashed past as it snapped shut. Then our road flowed underground like a vast rumbling torrent, directly below Perrache Train Station where we were spat out into the bowels of Lyon.
By now we really were francless. Busking time had arrived. The sun had just risen and its heat was instant. We decided to split up and see if 2 pitches were better than one. So I went into town where I found a pedestrian zone. I guess I did my very first official solo busking pitch there. It was terrible. Talk about stage fright! I was like a deer in the headlights. I was terrified but I survived. John seemed to have taken to it a bit easier than me. We stayed there for about 2 weeks and fell in with a band of English Dickensian rogues about our age. We busked on the underground trains and slept in the park or below bridges. But Lyon was too big for us. Sleeping rough was too dangerous. John had his hat stolen off his head but others weren't so lucky.

It took us 3 days to hitch out of Lyon. Between us we'd busked up a 200 franc nest egg. Things were looking good and we had no regrets about leaving Scotland. We lit a fire one night near the roadside where I ceremonially burnt my old shoes. They'd been falling apart anyway so I'd bought a pair of really cheap sandshoes.

We finally got out of town and got stuck half way to the Alps in a place called Coirainne. A couple returning from India picked us up and drove us to Aix les Baines.
We did a little busking and camped outside a camp ground where we sneaked in and used their showers and toilets. Till one morning the boss discovered us and made us empty our pockets.
Now we were flat broke. But as we were being yelled off the premises, a camper came up and kindly gave us 50 francs. A gesture that was much appreciated.

………………

So we found ourselves walking along a pleasant country road. We came to a crossroads where a small river bubbled under a quant little stone bridge. It was decision time. Where to now? Having used our map up as toilet paper with each passing mile we now had only 2 squares left. I guess that ruled out going back. I studied the tattered remnants. On the one square was Annecy. On the other was Grenoble. I disappeared behind a bush where after an intense period of meditation, I returned but Grenoble did not. As I mentioned earlier, a map is a useful thing. We were off to Annecy.

A car pulled over as I returned to the roadside. I swear Albert Einstein was at the wheel. He drove us all the way to Annecy and on the way there we discovered that he really was a scientist. He dropped us on a corner near the pedestrian zone. We didn't know it then but our fortunes were bound up with Annecy for the next few years.

From time to time after that day we'd run into Einstein. He always had a smile for us. He'd shake his head and laugh. I think he found it hilarious that he had picked us up and set us down where and when he did: like he'd set in motion a Big Bang Theory kind of event. Well maybe it was more of a random fizzle than a huge boom. But in youth, nothing seemed important but everything was relevant.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.
La Bella Strada. Arts Fair Bellingham.

This was a great morning and a thoroughly enjoyable gig. But before I tell you about it, I want to waffle off track about what makes bad gigs bad.

Though I love playing live music, I am amazed how often a gig can be more negative than positive. Or at best a "so so" experience. The most common failure is the bad sound check. But there are often other factors such as empty bars and grumpy bar owners who seem to think that live music should be a miracle cure for their ailing business. And when it doesn't help, they blame the musician. It's like blaming a doctor for the fact that you have a terminal disease. Which isn't his fault unless he did actually give it to you directly.

Too often, musicians and artists must bare their souls to the wrong people. Bar owners are not necessarily music lovers, they are business men. They see music as a commodity. Usually it's the people around the musicians who are making the profits. People selling instruments, people renting equipment, selling records, making movies etc.
I believe I mentioned before that if a musician is making money, you can be sure there is someone in the background making a whole lot more.

So why do we do it? Sometimes I think we're afraid to stop. We fear that if we cease to play, then we lose part of our identity. All those years of practicing and learning are engrained into our being. if we were to forget it, it would be like a slow leak in a boat. Imagine a musician who knows 500 songs: that's like memorising a novel by heart. Well that isn't easy info to retain for years without reciting it regularly. No one likes to lose pages from their book.

What are musicians looking for? I don't know. But me, personally: I'd just like to be able to make a humble living doing what I enjoy. It would be nice to tour through some scenic places and play music with friends in venues to audiences who are there to enjoy themselves.
Not that much to ask really. I don't have to get rich and famous. I just need to get by.
Throw in a bit of hiking, camping and skeching and I'm happy as Clamland. I guess I'm really still a bum at heart.

Anyway. Please forgive that little detour. Let's get back to the gig.

This was a great day. The outdoor stage was erected at the end of Cornwall Avenue. Stalls displaying local artists work were set up the entire length of the street. The sun shone. Kids were chalk painting on the sidewalks and there was even an Art Bar.

Scott Peterson and his assistant Bruce Hendler did an excellent sound check and it was a pleasure to play. We did a tight hour and a half of our greatest hits. In fact it was such fun, we could have played longer.
As we were the opening band of the day, there wasn't a huge crowd but there was a pleasant atmosphere. Those folks who sat around did seem to be quietly enjoying themselves. We were done by 12:30. Who would have thought people would be grooving to Smokestack Lightning at that unearthly hour? In fact the organizer said that she wished she'd booked us as a later afternoon band. She'd had no idea what we sounded like. I think it was Beth at BIMA who had suggested us. Thanks Beth.

I'd been a bit apprehensive about this gig because my guitar has been so temperamental recently. It's been crackling and distorting at some gigs yet perfectly fine at others. I think it is allergic to certain PA systems. Whatever the problem is, it wasn't a problem today. In fact we had a great sound which was inspiring. I think we were all on good form. Maybe the morning gigs suit us better. Just being able to play and be assured that we're sounding good to the listeners is like luxury. Or to be able to hear each other clearly too is as rare as monkey tusks. As rare as a smile from Tree. An eye-witness reported that he was seen smiling during this gig.

Anyway, today was a very positive experience which restored my sometimes shaky faith in live music.

What makes a good gig? Good soundcheck. Monitors. Low profile bar owners or organisers. Pay. Good music. Receptive crowd with a high percentage of couples or women. (seriously, almost without fail, it is always women who instigate dancing.) Good musicians. Alcohol and good luck.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
Bellingham Saturday Market.

This was such a short notice affair that we couldn't rouse any drummers from slumber. So me, Charlie and Donald set up with my little PA at 1pm and played about an hour and a half. It was just our luck that the one time they wanted us to play loud, my PA system refused to be cranked up. I don't know what is going wrong with it but it distorted the vocal mics while my temperamental guitar seemed fine.

The gig was fair enough but no great shakes. We played about an hour and a half on a stage area outside the Boundary Bay across the road from the actual market. Thus with the low volume and distance issue, this gig got walked past by a lot of people going somewhere else. But I was pleasantly surprised to see some faces from the Anacortes gig show up. Unfortunately, they went into the Boundary Bay for lunch.

Donald tweaked away at the PA for the whole gig but could not get it to behave.
Not to worry. I'd say it was a good little gig but ultimately an anonymous performance.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.
Anacortes Majestic Inn.


Nice place. Immaculate and a bit more upscale from our usual haunts but the staff were helpful and very friendly and seemed very down to earth.
We played out in their manicured beergarden on a permanent stage built of stone.
The crowd were a bit sparse but quite chatty and sociable. They were an older crowd and they seemed to be mainly there to enjoy the comforts and healing magic of the inn.
We were scheduled to play 4 hours. That's a lot of music. Understandably some of our repertoire was a bit rusty. Most notably, Wang Dang Doodle and Comes a Time which went way off track.
But in general we got most of it right. We were fed, watered and fairly payed for our troubles.
Anacortes seems quite a pleasant town. On all my previous visits, I'd been en route to the ferry or heading down Whidbey Island. People there (Anacortezians? Cortezones? Tezies?) were talking about "Island Time". Which seems to be a slower pace that approximizes and decelerates the time zones around it. A definate "Manana" attitude. I can live with that. From the outside though, this building didn't quite ooze good gig vibes. But it turned out to be a good night.

The place kind of reminded me of a gastehauf I played years ago in Bad Kissingen. The Izzy Skint Band were in one of their latter day formats. Me, Rick and Roman were the featured artists this night. Izzy Skint had changed their style a bit since their early more riotous days. Peter, who had sang most of our songs had headed off to Spain and Rick had banned the use of capos from all songs. He also banned B minor chords from the song, Knocking on Heavens Door. And I quote;" There is not, never has been and never will be a B minor chord in Knocking On Heaven's Door", unquote.
Thomas, the drummer had also disappeared somewhere. He had the most unfortunate last name I'd heard in a while. Fischdick. "Oh come on", I hear you say! Yes indeed. Thomas Fischdick. No wonder he disappeared. Actually I hear from Thomas now and again. I believe he is living and still playing quite happily in Vienna. He was an excellent drummer. I don't know what he was doing with izzy Skint.

So the band needed reshuffling. Roman was borrowed from his band the Travelling Beerbellies and we didn't bother with drums. Previously I'd been the bass player but now I was suddenly elevated to guitarist and singer. In this new esteemed position, I found myself attempting (and failing) to sing ridiculously inappropriate songs for my limited vocal range. Run to You by Brian Adams comes to mind. What were we thinking? And another one; Run Like the Wind by some guy called Christopher Cross. He sounds like a war medal. I should have been awarded one too for going beyond the call of duty. Either that or I should have been shot. We certainly played some serious crap. Izzy Skint had been a semi punk Irish folk band of dubious musicianship but good craic who had a reputation for just being nuts. Now we were just going through the required motions as we waited to fizzle and die. We'd not cry on our death beds. We'd just say,"Thank f@@k.
Rick had a strict rehearsal policy that he stuck to religiously: Namely, that the band will practice but once in its lifetime. Whatever gets played at that one and only rehearsal is the set for the duration, no matter what. Hence the pile of slop that I was forced to dredge through every gig. To be honest though we did play a few good songs that I enjoyed. None spring to mind though.

Well we turned up at this Gasthauf place and the crowd had paid to see a different band who had cancelled. I don't think the management had broken the news to them yet. They were expecting reels and jigs and bluegrass music. Instead, they got me, Rick and Roman. Most of the crowd were middle aged Bavarians dressed in their traditional Sunday bests. Ruddy cheeked and plump as dumplings, they sat at two long banquet tables and glowered at us as we set up.
We found ourselves outside pre gig, muttering and whispering. I thought Roman was going to pee his pants in fright. Rick strutted about sniffing and saying, "I knew it man, I knew it. We're doomed."
I racked my brain in desperation and had to agree with Rick's analysis: we were indeed gef***ked.

When we were set to play, the Bavarians hushed one another to silence and I timidly said hello.
In fairness, they did listen to us for a few songs then the talking volume rose and we began to get drowned out. The boss scowled from the kitchen. It was time for some drastic action. I knew a bunch of Irish stuff so I just started singing it acopella. That got their attention and suddenly they were all engaged again.
At one point I was singing Jock Stewart and I got to the line, "I took out my dog and him I did shoot", when a little Jack Russell dog leapt out of the crowd and started snapping at my ankles. The crowd thought it was the funniest thing ever. They were roaring with laughter.
By break time we were all feeling more relaxed and relieved. Taking to the stage again I remember saying, "Wir sind …Verrucht." The crowd lapped it up and guffawed heartily. For non German speakers "wir sind verrucht" translates as, "we are mad." I must have been getting the hang of the German language stuff. The joke being a play on words verucht (mad) and zurueck (Back). I think it was funnier too because I believe the audience had quickly deciphered that we were not the Irish band they'd hoped for but were doing their best. They found our struggles to come up with appropriate songs hilarious.
Afterwards the boss was happy that the crowd were happy but he was disappointed that we weren't the complete authentic Irish band he'd hoped for. Rick was blind drunk by that stage and waffled away to the poor guy for about an hour about the pros and cons of Irish music in a post war economy. "Hey man, it's prostitution of the arts."
We were given rooms for the night. I went to bed with a bottle of beer. Rick and Roman went out looking for some entertainment. They ended up in some disco and by 4am Rick was standing gloriously naked outside on his balcony, addressing the town with an old Hitler speech. Something about "Ein reich, ein volke, ein land." A man a plan, a canal, Bavaria.
Exciting stuff.
Stepping out of the Irish scene we found an unexpectedly enjoyable gig. Though we were never invited back. So Anacortez was a brief step outside of the Bellingham scene. They asked us back too. In fact some of the crowd even showed up in Bellingham the next day.

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I must say though that Bavarians have consistantly proven to be good audiences. I lived and worked in the Irish pub scene for a long time. Those gigs payed low wages but were regular work. Most of those Irish pub gigs were fairly average: probably because I'm an average musician but they definitely weren't very spiritually rewarding. Outside of that bubble of gossip lay the continent of Europe. Here lay the international cultures I'd left home to discover. I'd never even heard of an Irish Pub till I met my good friend Peter Jordan from Dublin. Once I got in on that scene it was easy to become musically complacent. Most of those gigs fell into the same category of blandness but whenever we ventured away from the Irish circuit, this was when the real stimulating gigs were to be found.

Lummi Island Arts Festival.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.


I'd forgotten we'd played this gig. Not that it was particularly forgettable, it was just that I went home afterwards and we (me, Hil and Ronan) started packing for our trip out to Montana.

The gig went fine. I always enjoy going over to Lummi Island. It kind of reminds me of my time in Scotland working out on the Isle of Skye. The Ferry trip over was about the same length of time too. A quick five minutes.
On arrival at the gig site, even before we were unpacked, a woman came up saying, "You look like you need a broken clarinet." A beer would have been better but she only wanted 50 cents for it, so I took it. We haggled over the price and I talked her up to a dollar. She also had an ancient yellow racer bicycle for sale. It was so heavy, I could have sworn it was constructed of granite. I didn't buy that. I'd have needed a squad of workmen to carry it home for me.

We set up and played a half hour then there was a brief outbreak of Highland dancing. When that was over we played another hour and departed.
All in all it had been a happy family day out. We'd perused the stalls, walked on the beach, checked out the beer garden, sampled the food and bought some junk.

Next stop Montana. Or thereabouts. Hil's Mother and sister were off to Europe to cruise the Mediterranean, so Hil wanted to visit them in Montana before they headed off.

Monday morning, we set off down Interstate 5. At Seattle we turned left on to the 90. At the Columbia River in Vantage we picnicked up at the petrified tree monument park. From up there we could look across at the wild horses statue on the far side ridge of the canyon. Then on we went across treeless Eastern Washington and into Idaho, We spent the night in a motel behind a dive bar in St Regis.
We'd also stopped earlier in the town of Wallace for dinner. Strangely, a few years ago I snapped a random picture in some anonymous little town we were passing through. I don't know why. Anyway it turned out it had been Wallace. Thus we had an unexpected moment of déjà vu and we found a great playground there for Ronan to enjoy. All the stuff was made up from old mining equipment. It was sort of half playground, half museum exhibit.
Wallace boasted 2 motels; both apparently owned by the same guy. One was far too expensive and the other looked rancid. So though it was getting late, we decided to drive on.

………………………………

The room in St Regis was compact, but cheap and clean enough. Ronan slept on his camping mat on the floor and despite the oppressive heat we slept well enough. Before we turned in for the night, we relaxed on the creaky old cowboy deck and had a midnight picnic of Bread, cheese and fresh Rocky mountain air.

………………………

Last time we'd been in Missoula we'd had Huk the dog with us. Missoula still had its big M on the hill. We'd climbed up there once with Huk. This time we stayed in the lower elevations where we tracked down another play park for Ronan to climb about in. We realized traveling with a little boy wasn't much different than traveling with the dog. Instead of looking for walking trails en route we now looked for playgrounds.

"What does the M stand for", I asked Ronan. "Monkey" he said.

…………………………….

We drove past a couple more sweltering towns. One had a big F on the hill. I had a few suggestions what it stood for but kept quiet.

We arrived in Bozeman the following evening. The heat was ferocious: a merciless arid fury that pounded down like a red hot sledgehammer on our dehydrating craniums. Shade could be auctioned in this state as prime real estate.
Hil's Mother lived up near Peet's hill, near the big water tower. From up there we could look across Bozeman and the see the whole valley. To the North there was a Hill with a big white M near the top. I was expecting a B but there wasn't one. So I guess M stood for Montana. Or M for mountain.

…………………………………………..

Before we'd even reached Bozeman, our car CD music selection was just about exhausted. We noted too that that same country singer was still haunting the radio airwaves after all these years. So for stretches of time we drove in thoughful silence. Hil had told me she'd had a musical education on road trips with her parents. As an impressionable kid, she'd been introduced to John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel on those outings. Now she hoped to give Ronan the same "captive audience meets omnipotent front seat D.J." treatment. So far, he hadn't really shown much interest in music. His teachers at school all say he loves to sing but I guess he doesn't bring it home from school. He has actually made a CD with his classmates. His teacher, Steve, recorded the kids singing a bunch of children's songs. So at the age of 5, Ronan has already released his first album. He's way ahead of me.

First up in the car stereo, he got the usual kid's stuff about animals jumping on beds and honking in farm yards but then as night fell he graduated onto Tom Waits. That was too much too soon. So we eased back a bit on the scary pedal. It was time for Simon and Garfunkel. "Hello darkness my old friend…." Aha. That got his attention but it only held it for about 3 songs. Off went the CD player. Down went the windows.


…………………..

We spent the next few days enjoying the town and surrounding valleys. Hil did some cycling (I even did a little too). We did some hiking but it was really limited by the heat. We visited a few lakes and went to the Museum of the Rockies. We went to the Bozeman Ale Works Bar and to The Leaf and Bean coffee shop where I'd played a gig a few years back. We also found a swing park for Ronan to enjoy where he had his first real tree climbing experience.
And of course we went to Yellowstone National Park where despite the vast herds of free ranging tourists, it wasn't quite as claustrophobic as I'd expected. We managed to find a few quiet corners for picnics. We saw some buffalo, some geysers and some elk. We didn't see Yogi but we did see a black bear with cubs.
Yellowstone though feels more like a safari park than a National Park. I guess when the busy loop roads are left behind, the sense of wilderness intensifies. For me, the best corner we found was up in the North East in the Lamar Valley. Here was a huge wide valley with a slow moving river lazing through like it wasn't going anywhere in particular. As far as the eye could see, it was devoid of tourism except for 2 fishermen. We sat on a rock and while Ronan skimmed stones, we had a coffee from our flask.

The return trip back to Bozeman from Yellowstone was long and hot. I looked through all our CDs and put on the only one we hadn't played yet. From the first note, a slow unstoppable smile spread like an incoming tide across Ronan's face. I knew he was hearing magic. The song? "It's a Long Way to the Top if you Want to Rock n Roll", by AC/DC. From there it was but a small jump to "TNT". Within 45 minutes, Ronan's musical education was complete. The transition to Neil Young's "Live Rust" would be child's play.

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I guess by now I've been in this region of the States several times. The first time was back in 1994 when we'd come over from Regensburg with Michael and Zigi. We'd stayed with Hil's cousin Gardener and family on Malcolm Forbes' ranch of all places because Gardener had gotten a job there as a caretaker. We'd had a great trip, spending most of our time on the south side of Yellowstone, in the Tetons and around Jackson Town. I remember a great hike to Phelps Lake where we saw a moose. We also got stoned one night and went hiking around the Forbes property in the moonlight. "Reckon you'll scare up some big critters", said Gardener. He had quite a sense of drama. We did scare up a large lumbering shadow which shuffled off grumbling across our path. It may have been a bear. It may have been a drunk. It may have been Malcolm Forbes. I don't know. We forded that river twice in the dark. It was only knee deep but it was wide and deceptively powerful. One slip and a person would be tumbling head over heels down stream. We braced ourselves against the current as we crossed using branches as improvised walking sticks.

Back on dry land, I remember some plovers on the pebbly shores. I guess I'd accidentally flushed out the mother bird and she ran off to one side. I walked in the opposite direction till she came and stood in front of me again. Then I'd repeatedly walk away from her in the opposite direction (the same distance) till each time she grew closer and closer as I neared her unseen nest. It took me about 10 minutes of zig zagging till the Mother bird was standing a mere arms length away and I was suddenly looking down at her tiny family of plover chicks. They scattered off with their heads down in all directions looking like a troop of feathery pebbles. Their fight or flight distance wasn't far though and I knew that their mother would soon have them rounded up again. It was kind of magical. Such perfect camouflage on the run. Such tiny wildness. I stroked one on the back of its head then I left them to regroup from my intrusion.

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Between Jackson Town and the Teton Park entrance back in 1994, there was a bar called Dornan's. I don't know if it's still there. I recall it had huge windows that looked out at the magnificently in your face, Teton Mountains. On Tuesday evenings, Dornan's had what was known as a Hootnannie. Here in Bellingham we'd call it an open mic night but a Hootnannie does sound like a lot more fun. Somehow I got talked into playing a slot. Typically it turned into one of those long hanging around nights that involve too much pre-gig smoking and drinking. By the time I went on I was having trouble seeing my guitar. I think I was having trouble standing up too.
I vaguely remember playing a Leadbelly song then I staggered off babbling into the Wyoming night. Luckily the crowd seemed as wasted as I was. Sure, what else would they be doing out in the Wild West?

Over the years, I've collected a lot of fond memories of that valley: camping, white water rafting, hiking, sketching, playing music, encountering wildlife, drinking, walking with Huk the dog, hanging out with Nina and Peter. It makes me sound like a real outdoor sports guy but I'm not. I feel no urge to scale peaks or hunt or hurtle down hills on snow boards or skis. I am an outdoor guy but without the sport part. I'd rather sit under a tree than a roof. I'd rather sketch a moose than shoot it. But that's just me.

I don't know what Jackson Hole is like now. We didn't go there this time round. I hear it's become all private property and very elitist. I guess it was always heading that way. Shame.
Nice place though. A nice place to be Rich. Can't blame wealthy folk for moving there. The Tetons are a spectacular back drop to any postcard. They'd look good in Paris.

………………………….

I remember years ago, watching an old movie about the Lewis and Clarke explorers who mapped much of the North West and traveled all the way to the Pacific. Charlton Heston was in this movie. He may in fact have been on the original expedition too. Each scene from their departure by canoe (Missouri?) to their arrival at the mouth of the Columbia River showed the same backdrop scene of the Teton Mountains. No matter if it was South Dakota, Wyoming or Oregon. That's artistic license I guess. The world was bigger in the 60s. Didn't Shakespeare write about the dark stormy mountains of Denmark? The world was even bigger back then.

I always thought it was fortunate that Lewis and Clarke had such photogenic names, especially as they named a bunch of places after themselves. Imagine instead of the Lewis and Clarke expedition, it had been the Sparky and Fleishman expedition. There'd be towns like Sparkytown and Fleishman's pass. Not quite so poetic really.

……………

Meanwhile back now in 2009 Bozeman, we decided that before we left town we had to climb up to the big M on the mountain side. We weren't sure if Ronan would be up to the task. At the bottom we spoke to a hiker who said there was an easy way up and a hard way up. We opted for the easy way up which apparently offered more shade. A few minutes later we realized we'd accidentally taken the more difficult route. We were making good progress though so we decided to forge ahead. But the terrain steepened and became more scree than solid. Ronan began to tire so we set ourselves small goals and stopped at every 20 metres or so under whatever shade we could find.
Each time we stopped and looked down, it became more apparent that the easiest way back to base camp was to reach the M and then descend by the easy path. We staggered on. Poor Ronan was such a wee trooper. He was obviously suffering. His legs were tiny and sometimes the hillside was so steep he was using his hands and feet. I had to walk behind him in case he fell and just kept tumbling all the way to the bottom.

Finally we made it to the big white M. It was an incredible achievement for a 5 year old. In blazing heat, at altitude and scrambling for footholds on slippery rubble for over an hour. I was very proud of the wee man. We stayed up there for a half hour or so singing, "It's a long way to the top if you want to reach the M". His face looked beat but he was smiling.
The view was spectacular. That's not unusual for Montana. We took the easy way down which proved to be almost as difficult as the other way.
We went into town and rewarded Ronan with a cool refreshing treat.
"What does M stand for?"
"M is for ice cream".

James Higgins and The Muddy Boots Band
4th of July Tour.

Three gigs in one day.

The first gig was at the Saturday Farmers' Market.
We started around noon and played till 2. Chuck and Chris both played drums with us which produced a great stereo shuffling backbone that chugged us along nicely. Between them they had all kinds of implements: wash boards, cow bells, tambourines, wood blocks, road blocks, and even some drums. They made quite a spectacle.
As for the gig itself, I think everyone had a good time. This was the biggest Muddy Boots ensemble to date: two drummers plus Charlie, Donald, Phil and Myself. Having never practiced in this particular line up, there was obviously space for plenty of spontanious musical moments. We mixed it with humour and soaked it in sunshine which resulted in a heap of fun for crowd and band alike. This was a very organic performance which was apt for a farmers' market.

The second gig was at Zuanich Park down by the marina. Mr. Tree was back on drums for this one.
This show was a little jinxed. After just one song, I had to mic my guitar as it began to crackle. Unfortunately the mic failed to give the guitar any volume so in the end I gave up and played my guitar totally unplugged. It wasn't any more that a prop really. Just to rub in the bad luck, I accidentally left my plectrum in the house. I had to borrow one off Charlie. Then the plectrum broke. Understandably I didn't put my heart into this performance. I lost track of the times I messed up the lyrics while concentrating on not bumping into mic stands and mics. Fortunately, this gig was only an hour long.
As often happens in these Gremlin matters, nobody in the band noticed except me. According to Hil, the crowd never noticed either.

This gig was some kind of Haggen Supermarket 4th of July celebration. Haggen had provided no pay for any of the bands so Hil had campaigned for tip boxes to be set up around the park for people to donate tips for the music. We thought this would make it easier for listeners to casually tip as they left the area or moved around.
After I completed a pre-gig tour of the vicinity, I saw only one donation box. It was set up in front of the stage. We might as well have just brought our own. It was opened and emptied after each act. It even had a key. After our set, Beth from BIMA opened it up. Inside was one crumpled dollar. Twenty cents each. We're living the dream. Almost enough to get Donald a cheap cigar.
The strange thing was that the box seemed brand new: hand crafted from solid shiny wood inscribed boldly with the word, "Donations". I heard that local school kids had constructed it as a community project. I guess Haggen couldn't even be bothered paying for that either. I bet the materials cost more than a dollar. Even the padlock must have cost a few dollars.
So, I don't feel so bad about messing bits of this gig up because in the end, you get what you pay for.

The 3rd gig was at the Paso Del Norte up in Blaine.
Other than constant arrests at the border crossing, not much seems to happen in Blaine but it does seem a pleasant enough little town. A few years ago there was a movement to change its name to Blaine Harbour. The idea being that it sounded a little more inviting than Blaine. The motion failed but I think the idea was good. The word "Blaine" conjures up other words like, plain, bland, bla or bleak. Not very romantic.
But on the night of the 4th of July, Blaine had a spectacular fireworks display at sunset.

We started our gig around 9:30 and took a break after 45 minutes to let people go watch the fireworks. I'd never seen Blaine so busy. It was a warm still night. The sidewalks were bustling with families. The Café Del Norte's terrace was full. The fireworks went on for about an hour. After a while they all began to look like exploding dandelion pollen.
We started up playing again around 10:30 till after midnight. For this second set we threw in some better known songs like Cocaine and Heaven's Door. The place actually got quite busy and there was a fair bout of dancing. One woman played a set of spoons and she spoon danced everyone in the room which was fun till she stood on my cazumpet whilst trying to kiss the whole band.
On the whole this was probably our best gig up there so far. I guess Hugo had never seen the whole official Muddy Boots Band play. He seemed happy enough though understandably frustrated by the turnout. It was heartening to see customers in the place at last. Once again the dancing mood was set by the women in the house.

I doubt Hugo made a profit from this venture but it couldn't have been a complete disaster either. It is sadly ironic that Haggen the chain store wouldn't pay us but could easily afford to, yet the Paso Del Norte did pay us though it must have hurt.

It was a long day for everyone. I bet there were some sore fingers in the band. Our songs tend to be a little longer now that there are several lead instruments at large. We'll be keeping Tree fit.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots
Wild Buffalo
June 30 2009

Me, Donald, Charlie and Phil went on stage about 9PM. We played Who'll Rock That Cradle, Spoonful and Holy Smoke.
I think it was a solid enough little performance. My guitar developed a crackle during Spoonful. I'll need to get it seen to. It has been acting strange recently. I played the 3rd song with it actually turned off. There's always something to go wrong in this 15 minute slot. I guess if it was a full length gig then we'd call this a sound check which we'd have sorted out by the first 20 minutes.
Anyway, it was still a good night. Often it's more sociable than musical.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band
June 27 2009
Paso Del Norte

Going through the motions. That's how I'd describe us at this gig. At its busiest there were perhaps 10 people. Most of them were lined up at the bar with their backsides facing us. We played 2 one hour sets which were devoid of any real enthusiasm. In fact some of the songs almost died in their sleep. I can't really blame the Boots for this. I reckon it was my fault for watching TV whilst singing. The television was directly in front of me and constantly distracted me from the job at hand. Once again Rodeo Riding and Ice hockey were the TV choices. Obviously the television was offering more than we could give.
It is an odd mixture: live music and television both competing in one room. I mean who would listen to the radio and watch TV simultaneously at home? Obviously one or the other would be better switched off. At the Paso Del Norte, the clientele chose to watch TV whilst The Muddy Boots Band were condemned to be muted.

I guess our performance wasn't helped either by the fact that I was up till dawn the previous night for no other reason than insomnia. Then I spent the afternoon, renovating my cabin studio space.
I felt a bit disjointed and seemingly incapable of playing in time. It was annoying and exasperating. But you know what they say…? A bad workman blames his television.

On the bright side, Hugo was his usual ever helpful self and had us all set up and sound checked in no time. Alas it was all in vain.

But the experience did spark some debate: whether it would be better to die death by cricket chirps or death by lonesome tumbleweed. This gig was death by over exposure to Bar Stool Butt Crack Syndrome.

So what is the secret of a good gig? It's simple. No TV and more women.

As an afterthought, I find it fascinating that the highway I 5 travels 1381.29 miles from Mexico to Canada and runs right past our house in Bellingham. A mere 5 minute walk and I could hitch all the way to Central America. It's kind of ironic that the very last eatery before the Canadian border should turn out to be a Mexican restaurant. I wonder if the first Californian eatery down by the Southern border is also a Mexican restaurant. Maybe it's called the Paso Del Sud. Or maybe it's a Canadian restaurant. Wonder if they have live music?

I guess that after the rousing stuff at the Green Frog gig the other day, this gig was always going to be a let down. It's funny how gigs can be so different in short succession.
Years ago I played a gig in an enormous circus sized tent in Straubing in Bavaria. It was for a volleyball tournament. People came from all over Germany to compete. In the evening there was live music. That's where I came in. I'd gotten this gig one day when a man approached me in Straubing as I was busking. He gave me the details and said be there on a certain date at a certain time. I remember I'd been playing a Dylan song at the time when I'd noticed him looking at me. I saw him nod to his companion and they came over and offered me the gig.
On the appointed day I showed up and was shown to the beer tent which was empty but filled with beer hall benches and tables. Now the organizer put his arm around my shoulders and with a dreamy look in his eyes he recalled previous evenings here with people dancing on the tables and in the aisles and singing, drinking, clapping etc. …"So James", he said. "I want you to have these people up on the tables and dancing and singing. You can do this, ya?"
Well what is a poor penniless busker supposed to say? "Eh? What? Me? Ya. No problem."
Then he left me to my sound check: me, my guitar and then 1500 thirsty Germans.
Thirsty for beer or thirsty for blood?
Never underestimate the power of a stein of German beer. The crowd filtered in. The organizer joined me on stage and introduced me to the crowd. "Mein Damen und Herren…James Higgins. I gulped and stepped up to the microphone. Somehow I knew that Bob Dylan wasn't going to win the day.
So in desperation I launched into every conceivable rock n roll standard I could think of. Within 3 guitar strums, the folk were already on the tables. Obviously they'd played before. The organizers could have put a monkey on stage with a rattle and the masses would have danced to it.
I must have played 2 hours of songs I didn't know I knew. I did Bobby McGee, Johnny B Goode, A Horse with no Name, Country Roads, Ticket to Ride, Get Back, Get up Stand Up, The list went on and on. The people danced and prosted and sang their hearts out until out of the blue…. TWANG. What the… Disaster struck. T'was the dreaded broken string. I was in the middle of a rocking version of If I had a Hammer. The crowd was at the sing-along bit and they just kept singing. They probably hadn't even noticed I'd stopped playing. So I looked for a spare string but couldn't find one. I should have been singing," If I had a String". Then I found an old rusty one. I hastily put it on and it snapped. Jeez. I'm up on the stage with 1500 Germans all singing and I am on my knees like a surgeon sewing up a patient. I sensed the singing begin to ebb. Then I heard a drum beat. I looked behind and it was the band leader from the headline band stomping on the bass pedal of the drum kit. The crowd were rejuvenated and got into the song again. Meanwhile about 15 minutes had passed. The string was finally tied. I'd discovered I had accidentally put the wrong string on. I now had 2 Ds. There was no time to change it now, even if I could. I got up, went to the microphone and we were off again. There was a huge cheer. Maybe it was a sigh of relief. The crowd was rowdier than ever and so, with the drums and sing-along we carried on happily for another ten minutes.
When that escapade of a song was over, I still had to keep the crowds adrenalin flowing. So I played Hey Jude. I skipped the verses completely and went straight to the catchy sing-along bit. That kept them busy for a few minutes while I racked my brain for something else. Just in time, I switched over to Sweet Home Alabama. By then I was mentally exhausted. All that thinking on my feet. Rockin' All over The World morphed into the American Pie chorus. Then it was all over. Everyone was happy. I was even invited back for next year's tournament.
It had been a helluva night. Obviously it wasn't that I played that good, it's just that the crowd were that drunk.

There'd been 1500 people there and incredibly they really did dance on the tables and had sung every song. I never would have believed it. It made for a good memory.

The next evening I played at a venue called the Alte Malzerei in Regensburg. I stood on the stage and looked out at the room. Not a soul was in sight except the barmaid perusing a magazine at the bar. But even if I didn't play If I had a Hammer that night, I did play another song that would set a strange chain of events in motion.

3 Ds at Stewarts
June26

A pleasant little gig. Dale, Donald, Chris and myself meandered our way casually through some Irish tunes and some bluegrass tunes. Sitting in with the3Ds is always a very relaxing event. Very informal and chatty.
Someone had left an armchair on the stage. Donald sat in it during the gig which made thinngs even more casual than usual.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots at the Green Frog Acoustic Tavern.

June 22.

I think I speak for everyone in the band and in the audience when I say that this was a very satisfactory episode. A very enjoyable evening for one and all.

This gig wound its way from Ronan's favourite school song, "Ain't No Bugs On Me" and culminated deep within the psychedelic intensity of Hawkwind's "Orgone Accumulator". Mmm. Sounds like a case for Kermit the Freud. It certainly was an interesting trip.

On the night, the band comprised of Donald, Charlie, Phil and myself. We decided against drums as the Green Frog is such a small venue.

When we showed up, the place was almost empty. Out of the house PA, some finger picking Appalachian mountain music was lulling the darkened interior of the Green Frog into a lazy hilbilliac stupor. This was pleasant enough, but a hard act to follow without fair warning to the public.

Thus, we eased gently into this gig: ingratiating ourselves into the bar's atmosphere like an anonymous car merging with traffic.
Instead of starting with the usual bluesy Baby Please Don't Go, we played an old spooky Appalachian tune ourselves. "Who'll Rock that Cradle". We continued in a folky vein with "In the Boardhouse and Bootlegger Blues. Then we baited the waters with something more adventurous; Blowing Down the River. The signs were encouraging and we carried on taking two cautious musical steps forward then one small step back. We may have tiptoed our way into this gig but we charged out.....

By the break, the place was brimming with keen and friendly faces. At this point in the tale, I should say a big thank you to all those kind souls who showed up to give spiritual support to The Boots (even generously paying the 2 dollar entrance fee).
It's a well known fact that musicians rely on the positive vibtations generated by audiences in order to exist. This is the oxygen that artists breathe inside the vaccumous limbo of society where they dwell. Without this life force (also known as feedback) they would swiftly turn blue, then black, then shrivel like old potatoes and fade. Tips help too.

We started the second set and the Muddy Boots really hit their stride. Charlie and Phil began to swap solos. The Cazumpet was out, the harmonica was blowing. Even I did a guitar solo (golly). We were finishing up with a Vampire Blues / Tears Tears Tears medley complete with Donald's bass solo when we unexpectedly thrust ourselves into the suicidal overdriven chaos of the Orgone Accumulator. This song is like a mix of Booker T's "Green Onions" and The Dr Who theme tune. It can go on forever and often does.

Earlier on, I'd seen one of the local musicians walk in during our sound check while we were playing Ain't No Bugs On Me to an empty bar. He'd given us an odd look, then turned swiftly around and left. He returned a few hours later and seemed somewhat taken aback to see the place had transformed into some kind of psychedelic heavy grooving mayhem. Yes it had been quite a subtle trip via the likes of, Enjara, The Henhouse, Smokestack Lightning, La Ville D'Annecy, Good Morning Little School Girl, Chuckanut Drive, Chocolate girl, (Hi Maggie), spoonful, Any Old Time.

We put a lot of energy into this one.

Anyway thanks to everyone who turned up and tuned in. We had a blast.

The quote of the night? "Here's 5 dollars. Go buy yourself some Lego".

Ain't no bugs on me.

The Band Currently known as Bob's Yer Uncle.
The Bagelry.

This gig was a lot of fun. Really I just plucked my washtub bass and enjoyed the novelty of listening to great musicians play around me. Chris on her drums, Phil on guitar, Donald on bass and mandolin.
The Bagelry is a café on Railroad Avenue. They sell bagels. Before I came to the States, I had no idea what a bagel was. I'd heard Bob Dylan sing about them in a song from the 60s. "He's eating bagels". That was the lyric. I'd no idea what he was talking about. Was it something celebritys ate? Then I saw one. It looked like a doughnut and tasted like plain tasteless bread. Such a disappointment at the time but you get used to them. Cheese ones aren't bad. Or warm with melted butter dipped in coffee works too. As long as your not expecting excitement then they suffice as a chewing exercise.

We set up outside on the pacement and played from 11am till 2pm. The sun was shining like a big friendly bagel in the sky. A lively ambience wafted down the street and a general good mood was abuzzin' round downtown Bellingham.

We started off with some Irish jigs followed by some bluegrass tunes. Then me and Chris sung a few before we took a break. The second half was the same format.

Song flavour of the month seems to be the ditty, "Jump at the Sun": a very odd jiggy tune that Donald dug up somewhere in his basement. It actually reminds me of the first few notes of the theme music to Roobarb the cartoon. It also seems to be public domain. I wonder if we could record it and incorporate it into ,"Living in a Trashcan" or something?

Like I said, this little gig was a lot of fun. Very relaxed and sociable. The day was warm, the boss was unseen and we were left to our own musical discretion. Very good for the brain. Let's do it again.

University Faculty Gig.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band at the Boundary Bay.

This was a bit of a short notice gig which left us scrambling to scare up a drummer. Finally though we got through to Tree and he agreed to do it.
When we arrived at the Boundary Bay Beer Garden, the sound man had left us with a semi assembled pile of gear while he went off to mix another gig. This wasn't a good sign. But somehow Tree and Donald doggedly sorted out the flotsam of cables. An unpredictable crosswind was blowing feedback around while my guitar stubbornly refused to stay in tune. Thus it took us the whole first half hour of the gig to iron the gremlins out of the mix. It was a nervy period of knob twiddling until we emerged suddenly from the swill and hit our stride. I guess the upward turning point came when we played Bootlegger Blues and Rock That Cradle. At this juncture we began to enjoy ourselves. And that's what it's all about.
It was great to have Tree back on drums again. It's been a few gigs since last he played. There is something reassuring and familiar about his beat.

This gig was an End of Year party for the university faculty staff and students. For a laugh I changed the words of Factory Girl to Faculty Girl. When I spoke to one of the organizers later, she mentioned this song and how she identified with the lyric "Back Country Girl. Another faculty guy spoke up saying he had understood it as a "Fat L.A. Girl". This is the frustrating curse of the Scottish accent. This problem of misunderstanding is partially why I am reluctant to tell stories at gigs. People just hear an undecipherable mumble whereas I think I'm speaking clear English. It's comical but sometimes a little disappointing to realize no one has caught a word you've said. Maybe it's just as well. That'll teach me to be a smarty pants.

So the evening was very sociable. The people were entertained. The sunset was spectacular. Me and Hil shared some delicious fish. Ronan ran around all night. I don't know where he gets the energy. He leaves a wake of exhausted kids slumped in his wake. He'd leap on stage again and again then race across with his fingers in his ears before exiting stage left. When we got home about ten PM, he wolfed down toast and cheese, apple juice and ice cream. Then he finally collapsed into bed. I think we'll need to get him a giant hamster wheel.

There'd been a 3 piece punk band on after us. They played about a half hour and were very good. Very polite and well dressed for a punk group. Friendly too. I think D.I.A. was their name. I don't know what that stood for but there was something philosophical about it.

Fairhaven Wednesday Market Opening Day.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.

What a scorcher of a day. Luckily we had a tent canopy to provide some welcome shade.

Today's band comprised of me, Phil and Donald. Maybe we should just have called ourselves, a half of Whiskey Galore.
It was a solid enough light hearted little gig. We had only had one practice in preparation, so we kept things simple. Most of our stuff is simple anyway. We played about 2 hours with an emphasis on the bluesier material. I notice that my wee P.A. system still seems to distort even though we weren't playing very loud. Donald tweaked a few knobs and it seemed to settle down.

Enjara was the highlight song of the day in my opinion. Phil pulled off a couple of great slide solos that hit the spot. I am constantly amazed how so many musicians can put their own character into this song and still keep it rolling along within the spirit of the tune. When we introduced Steve to Enjara, a few weeks back, he and his drums brought a space and depth to the proceedings. Tree gave Enjara its original rock beat that dictated that this was to be a serious song. Charlie put his blues and backing vocals into it. Donald gave it motion and I guess I gave it a spark of precious life (and 42 dollars). I guess you could say it's jammable. No better compliment than that for a song.

The market vendors were really appreciative too. We had offers of teas and salads and sandwiches from various stalls. We all got bandanas too: gift wrapped. The tips weren't bad either though no one was tossing jewelry. Rick said he'd gotten a little money together for us and a wee check would be in the mail. That'll be useful.

There were more stalls than usual this year. Some were set up on the stage area behind us. I didn't get a really good look around the market as I had to pack up in a hurry and fetch Ronan from school.

There is a festival atmosphere to this little market: something alternative. Perhaps a little hippyish. Whatever it is, it makes for a very relaxed and sociable day.

The other market on Saturdays takes place in a downtown concrete car park. It's definitely a lot busier than the Fairhaven Wednesday Market. But the Fairhaven Wednesday market is set up around the village green which is flanked by cafes and gift shops. This lends an aura of tranquil antiquity to the afternoon which the bustling Saturday Market lacks.

A very pleasant summer's day.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band
38th Folklife Festival in Seattle.

Judging by the enthusiastic crowd (275,000 people over the weekend) and countless performances at the Folklife Festival, I'd say folk music is alive and well. What a sensory overload. There was just too much to take in all at one go. It was a bit overwhelming at first but what a beautiful day.

I'd forgotten there were so many ways to make music. Seattle was shaking with everything from cardboard boxes and bagpipes to plastic tubes, wooden crates and …well…shakers! Every second person seemed to playing a home made instrument. It was nothing short of a free-for-all carnival.
We shuffled through the crowds with no real plan of action. Every few paces there was some new spectacle to see. Belly dancers swirling to the beat of a garbage can. I saw a kid play a drum kit made of buckets. Wash tub basses were everywhere. A man on stilts was playing a squeezebox. Someone was pounding a suitcase with a drum pedal.

Our humble gig was indoors in a space called The Shaw Room: a stark windowless room with carpeted walls. At first glance, a little intimidating but after the claustrophobic sideshow frenzy of the great outdoors, this venue was somewhat soothing. We took to the stage and played a tight little set to a very appreciative audience.

We kicked off with No Hens in My Henhouse. I know that's a bit ambitious but there was no time for warming up. We followed that with Can't keep me, Hedgehog Song and Annecy. Then we finished off with Enjara. For the first time ever, at a gig, no one really saw my cazumpet as a novelty.
It was an interesting performance. The Audience was all sitting on rows of chairs like in a theatre but the room quickly filled beyond its seating capacity. Everyone stopped talking when we started playing. It was one of those do or die gigs. All too often we play in half empty bars or rowdy drunken dives, so it came as a shock to suddenly be expected to do something more than go through the motions. This audience of about 200 even looked sober. They regarded us as if they'd paid to be there and wanted their money's worth too.

It was fortunate that I'd had some previous dodgy experiences in similar situations in the past. Most notably in a tiny kitchen with a bar near a tiny town in Germany called Windisheschenbach. This Brig O Doon of a place was at the end of a dirt road somewhere in the Bayerish Forest. To be honest I have no real idea where it was. It was dark when we arrived and darker and somewhat fuzzy when I left. But anyway in this lost kitchen, a table was set up. On the table was a stool and above the stool was a spotlight. I wasn't really aware of my impending fate when I took that gig. I was a busker at the time. Passersby were my usual audience. Suddenly I'm sitting on this coffee table looking out at perhaps 40 Germans crammed in all around me. They're staring up at me and they're expecting entertainment. But me? To quote a phrase, "I gat Nothin". It was a sobering moment but by no means a sober one.

As sometimes happens in these crunchy situations, I forced myself to rise up and talk crap for two solid hours. By the end of the night we were all friends. I was speaking fluent whisky/Weisen influenced German. Not exactly Hoch Deutch: more like Hic-cup Deutch. I even had the audacity to ask if there was any song anyone would like to hear. Someone piped up with Knocking on Heaven's door. No problem. Must've been my lucky day. The stars were in alignment in the black sky outside the cosmic kitchen. The moon was passing through Jupiter and the Sun was shining out Uranus. Then some smart Alec mutters, "Play Green Sleeves". Oh oh. Sharp intake of breathe. The crowd gasp. They shuffle their feet. They know Higgins is busted. The stars stop twinkling. So near yet so far. But wait…Hold on. What's that noise? It's a miracle. Can it be true? He's playing Green Sleeves. And he plays it all the way through. He's not even strumming it either. It's the real thing. Finger twitching and all. There is weeping, hugging and ticker tape. A marching band bursts in the door playing, "Green Sleeves Reprise". Well okay maybe the marching band was pushing it a bit, but the rest was true. But how? Well, that's another story.

And for readers just joining us……

Meanwhile back in Seattle at the Shaw Room. Our half hour of glory was over. I Saw some familiar faces in the crowd but never really got to speak to anyone. Everyone was shaking hands and talking just as we were coming off stage but we were dismantling our gear and the next band were going on. Too much jostling. We were saying goodbye even as we were saying hello. We met Joe's pal, Fae. But in our confused tumble off the stage, I forgot to ask her if she'd played yet. It would have been great to go and listen. We also spoke with her friend, a film maker called Captain. Captain who? I don't know. Cook? Kirk? Coconut? Then I spoke briefly to Reuben Banjo from Whiskey Galore. I also encountered our two favourite girls from Bellingham who kindly show up regularly at many of our gigs.
And that was that.

So with our one official piece of business over with, Me, Hil, Ronan and Charlie had a picnic and wandered round till about 4pm then went home. Donald and his clan had disappeared after our show and we never met them again that day.

I left Folklife in awe of the inventive determination of human beings to create music or racket. I guess the roots of folk music can be dug out of the heart of Africa where Primitive man bashed upon logs with bones through the millennia right up to modern man plucking on a kitchen sink attached to a stick and a piece of string. Yes, plumbing's come a long way but musically we're still hooked on the same free swinging jazz of the jungles. You would imagine that with such an acutely instinctive gift for music, that Nature would have provided us with elephant sized ears and incredible hearing. But I guess she didn't and that's why we are so easily entertained by loud thumps, bumps, hoots, twangs and rattles.

Folk music travels well. It was born to wander. In many ways it is affected by travel in the same way as people. It can adapt to any culture but remain the same entity. It will take on the mantle of its environment but retain the essence of its original melody.
Omnivorous Folk music's ability to befriend new instrumentation, language, tempo and audiences is the secret of its longevity. This rich soil of creativity is what makes the North West Folklife Festival what it is: an intense magical pool of unquenchable, living, ingredients that never lies fallow. To stand in its midst, is to hear the history of civilization presented as a cacophonous immortal waterfall. Yet it's really all one song of countless strands and verses.
As songwriters, we only write one song in a lifetime. Our one song is barely a petal on the eternal beanstalk of folk music but I am honoured to be part of it.

The small seaside town of Blaine is truly the last stop on the map in the North West USA. We could not be further from Florida if we tried. The Canadian border guards could probably hear us play. The US border guards were probably in the building.
Blaine was in the middle of a beautiful sunset when we drove into town. The main street was eerily silent and deserted. The view out to sea was crimson and it was all ours.

At the Paso Del Norte, we were plugged directly into a disco PA system by Hugo who seemed to be the man to talk to. He couldn't have been more helpful and he really made the evening go smoothly.
We set up on a tiny raft of a stage big enough for Steve's drums but not much else. We had to place the mic stands on the dance floor which was marginally bigger than the stage. Donald stood offstage to one side.
We rattled through 2 one hour sets and were done by 11:30. The crowd, such as it was, had more interest in the ice hockey on TV. Thus we basically did our thing and left with a minimum of fuss.

Thanks mainly to the mind bending powers of the Hens in the Henhouse song there was a mild breakout of dancing at one point but it was short lived. I figure this could be a useful song to play in an enemy sniper zone. It would only require a few notes of this ditty to set the bushes rustling. Curtains would twitch, and floorboards would creak. Any neighbourhood snipers would quickly give away their positions: and when finally they'd been rounded up, they'd be placed in padded cells and forced to listen to it till they went insane.

Musically we played fine but with no great inspiration. There was a hush in the room and I also had a feeling of trying to behave myself. I guess it was the proximity of the border. Borders are tense, volatile places of strip searches and frayed nerves. Armed smugglers and families wait in anxious queues while border guards treat them all as equally potential threats. It's not an area conducive to musical appreciation. I also had a feeling that half the audience consisted of plain clothed border guards. They possessed those dead pan features that suggest they couldn't spot a joke in an ID parade even if it had neon flashing arrows pointing at it. The uniforms were a dead give away too.
Only joking, but No-man's-land is no place for a gig. (No-Gig-Land). Maybe we should broadcast the Henhouse song across the barriers.

Over the years I have become traumatized by border crossings. So many times I have been minding my own business just trying to get from A to B and found myself being suddenly interrogated by uniformed strangers. It wasn't so long ago that Europe had border crossings every couple of hundred miles. As a street musician, I was constantly moving from country to country and thus I came into regular contact with all nationalities of border patrols.
Often I wouldn't even be at the actual crossing when I'd be intercepted by overly frisky friskers. Once upon a wander, me and an Italian friend called Nicola were hitching out of Geneva. It was just before Christmas and freezing cold. The airport was nearby so we walked over to stand in the arrivals lounge for a quick heat. It only took about 5 minutes before we found ourselves in separate rooms, stripped to our underwear and being questioned by Swiss officials. I remember one guard rummaging manically through my affairs. He scrutinized every lining and pocket. Finally he said "remove your underwear". And here was where I got the last laugh. As my underpants dropped to my ankles and I stepped out of them I saw a look of sudden alarm cross his previously smug features. I had been a quite a few days on the road when we arrived in Geneva and thus my underwear had not been overly spoiled with soap. Even now it gives me a warm glow just thinking about that little dictator's defeated eyes as he stared helplessly down at my crumpled underwear and then up at my triumphant smiling face. I could have stashed a gold bar in there and he wouldn't have touched it.
They let us go in the end. I guess we had looked suspicious. Nicola was dressed completely in white. Must have been his Italian blood. (Leonetti) I was dressed completely in black like a chimney sweep. We looked like quite a pair. He was too clean and I was too scruffy. I bet I looked like his bodyguard. I was wearing a big heavy black coat like something that might shuffle around in a prisoner of war movie. The lining in the pockets was completely worn through. I could put something in my left pocket and pull it out of my right.
Not long after the Geneva incident, I was crossing from Germany into France at a small border post near Mulhouse. I had my guitar in a garbage bag and I was still wearing the black coat with the magic pockets (probably the same underwear too). I had some spare German change. So I decided to spend it before the border. I bought a bottle of chocolate milk and 3 leberkase sausages. The sausages each had different coloured wrappings. One was black, one was yellow and one was red. As I recall, one was made from mashed pig brains. Yea right. I also bought a loaf of bread and a small cheese. Thanks to my incredible pockets, I stuffed it all easily into the lining of my jacket. Thus armed, I marched boldly up to the border. The German guard didn't even look at me but the French guy demanded my passport. Lucky I had it handy….in my jacket pocket. I delved in but couldn't locate it fast enough for the guards liking. It must have seemed to him that I then suddenly started vigorously scratching my bum with my hands still inside my pockets.
Up went his eyebrows and once again I was ushered quickly into a generic bare room. "Empty your pockets" he ordered me. I sighed. Out came the cheese. I placed it on the counter. Next came a big black sausage, then a pencil, a loaf of bread, a penknife, some tobacco, another sausage, a sketch pad, a harmonica, a lighter, another sausage, a plastic bottle of chocolate milk, various scraps of paper, a crumpled map, a guitar strap, a harmonica holder, and some individual rusted guitar strings. A fair sized pile was amassing when finally my passport showed up in the procession. He examined it, asked me where I was going and kicked me out.

Once, crossing into Czechoslovakia with the Izzy Skint band, we rolled up to the border in a rented BMW. The guard asked us where we were going. We told him we were a band playing at a nearby festival. He asked us "What is the name of your band?" And we all cheered together, "Izzy Skint". He laughed and spread his arms. "Welcome to Czechoslovakia".
Why can't all borders be like that?

Nowadays the borders are all open in Europe. But at the moment I live in the States and sadly their borders are sealing tighter every day.

We arrived to play around 5pm. The gig was scheduled for 6pm but the place was deserted so we took the opportunity to have some of their delicious food. I think the Back Porch specializes in Cajun food: traditional dishes from the Deep South. It's addictive stuff.

At 6:30 we started playing. The place was still empty but we felt guilty sitting around. The owner Laine seems like a friendly guy. When we showed up, he greeted us openly and warmly. We were welcomed in and fed and watered and sound checked. Most certainly a nice change from some of the bars we've played where the owners barely acknowledge your existence.

In the first set we practiced a bunch of new tunes: songs like Desolation, Lean On Me, Comes a Time, This is Hip, and a few others. We eased ourselves into this gig but ultimately it was just another empty bar performance. I felt we were just warming up as we finished. I think there were 2 more bands to play after us. Must have been a late night.

The back porch Alley is still a relatively new place. It's still in Child Labour. I hope it works out for the owners. So many bars in Bellingham are stillborn. Their first and last breathe are one and the same. Well I hope this place makes it. All shall be revealed in the coming Summer months.

For us as a band, the gig went fairly well. Steve slotted in on drums and the sound was quite solid though it bounced around the room a bit. We never reached any great heights but had a few comedy moments, not least on Annecy when we tried our new ending. We must have crashed that plane about 4 times before it landed. But it was still a hoot.

Lettered Streets
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

We sat up at a high table in the corner by the window and rattled through a couple of hours of tunes. The evening flew past and I sensed that the small crowd was quite enjoying our unobtrusive wee acoustic repertoire (no drums). We tested out some new stuff and dredged up some oldies. "This Is Hip", "Play For Free", "Fontainebleau". We were spared playing The "Hens in the Henhouse".

This was more of a live practice than a gig. Still what else would we have been doing. We even made a few dollars. We felt like we were just jamming to ourselves and watching the sun go down on a beautiful evening.
I love acoustic gigs.

Tub Aches
3Ds at Stuarts

Dale on the mandolin, myself on the washtub bass, while the Donald clan playing everything else. A pleasant night as usual filled with jigs and bluegrass. Charlie sat in for a few songs near the end. All in all a low key fun night with Bellingham's least controversial band. I must say though, it's amazing how stiff I feel after playing that wash tub for an hour and a half.

The wash tub bass is an unusual instrument. It's a three part affair consisting of a stick, a string and a large tub. Like swimming or deck chair wrestling, the playing of the tub demands the use of a combination of mismatched body parts. Most musical instruments take a small physical toll on their players. Musicians with stringed instruments develop calluses on their finger tips to protect them from the cutting strings. Trumpet players develop cheek jowels and often have sore lips. Bagpipe players probably go stone deaf, but the majority of their bruises come from being struck by projectiles from their neighbours who are trying to get some sleep.
But the wash tub bass provides the player with an unfamiliar array of unexpected aches. When first I played the tub, I had rope burn after a mere 15 minutes. This swiftly blistered and left me unable to play my guitar for a few days. To avoid future rope burns, I took to wearing a gardening glove on my twanger hand. Next came a dull throb in the upper arm muscle caused by balancing the tension on the wash tub stick all evening. This sets in about half an hour into a gig. Funnily enough, I've experienced both the rope burn and the sore arm whilst doing archery. I guess the action is similar. Could I hit a target at 50 paces with an arrow fired from a wash tub bass?
The third ache is a leg cramp caused by leaning on one leg all night. I'm sure herons are familiar with this one as they play a lot of tub. I wonder if I continue playing the tub, will one side of my body become more muscular than the other. I'll be like a before and after fitness ad. I could do with a few muscles right enough.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band

This time round, our canopy tent had been moved over by the goat statue on the pavilion corner. Rick, the market chief, who seems like a fair minded person, pointed to the vendor lady at the first stall. He said that if she gestured after one song that it was too loud then try to turn it down a bit. Then he disappeared into the crowd. I turned to Charlie and said, "Well ye know what means? We'd as well turn it down now." But I knew that even if we did, she would still signal to turn it down.
I remember Steve Shorrock playing in the Irish Harp in Regensburg, Germany one night. One of the bar's upstairs neighbours, an old lady, had recently taken to complaining about the noise levels. Every night, just as the live music started, she'd telephone down to the bar's public telephone to voice her grieviance. On this particular night, Steve was expecting a long distance call from France but the upstairs lady wouldn't stop phoning down. Each time the barmaid answered it, she'd yell across the room for Steve to turn it down. The evening began to follow a recurring pattern. Song, ring-ring, "Turn it down." Song, ring-ring, "Turn it down".
Steve was getting well pissed off. Shouldn't old ladies be hard of hearing? Then the phone rang for the umpteenth time and the barmaid picked it up and yelled across the bar, "Steve. It's from Paris!" And Steve yelled back, "Ah come on, It wasn't THAT bloody loud!

Sure enough after the first song the beacons were on fire and we turned our volume down. The oddest thing though is that we are not a loud band. My little PA system is incapable of extortionate volume. I think we look loud…. Or maybe we're crap. Not to worry. We were content to be a sideshow attraction. The market belongs to the farmers, not the musicians: otherwise this event would be called the Musicians Market.

We started around 11:30am and it was soon apparent that this was a cruel, windy and shady corner. We seriously struggled to physically play music in the morning chill. My hand muscles tensed, my nose dripped and my rhythm strumming was erratic. It wasn't so much a bitter cold day; it just wasn't a day for playing unpaid music outdoors in the shade. Nevertheless, somehow the situation seemed funny and I think we had a good solid gig. Despite the elements, we all enjoyed ourselves: vendors too. In fact according to Hill, Tree actually smiled. It may have been a grimace or a chattering of teeth but there did appear to be a brief cameo of the pearly whites.
We played about an hour and a half. The market was its usual lively self. Tips were exactly the same as last time which was fine but strange.

Songwise, we kept it simple and threw in a couple of kid's songs such as Ally Ballie and Old MacDonald.

"Old MacDonald Had a Farm. E,i,e,i,o.
And on that farm he had a wife. E,i,e,i,o.
With a "Wipe yer feet" here and a "Milk the chickens" there. Here a nag there a nag and "yer dinner's in the oven…etc." Then there was something about Fred Astaire. E,i,e,i,o.

Not sure how that went over with the pre-schoolers.

We played a little bit of something for everyone so it was rewarding to see quite a lot of people dancing. Perhaps they were just trying to stay warm. But just like Tree, they were all smiling: and I guess that's what matters.

This was a late night 20 minute slot at the BIMA annual meeting. We got on stage and after a non existent sound check we dived straight into, Baby Please Don't Go. Alas we were just too late to notice that no one was in tune. Amazingly though, a happy couple got up and started dancing. Then to complete my bewilderment, everybody cheered at the end. I could only conclude that the beer had been flowing freely before our arrival. I think we played about 5 songs and zigzagged in and out of each other's tuning like speed boats in the night. Fortunately by the miracle of alcohol nobody seemed to notice our discord.
As soon as we were finished our set, the male half of the dancing couple rushed up and warmly shook our hands. As it happened, he was the bar owner and he said he loved our stuff. He wanted us to come back and play again. We said we'd be delighted.
If my disbelief hadn't yet been complete, then that just put a lid on it.

Standing up on that stage, I had a brief flashback to the stage in The Dubliner in Seattle a few weeks ago. Both stages were of similar size, shape and height. Even the grey carpeting was the same. Both stages were about 2 feet high and set up against the window. This gives musicians a good view of the interior but from the outside, we look eerily like shop window mannequins.
Up there on the Back Porch Alley stage, in mid song, I looked over at Charlie and I looked at Donald and I wondered to myself, "How many stages have we stood on during our undulating musical careers."
I can't speak for them but for sure I've performed in some dubious makeshift podiums.
I remember in the Brookdorf Mull, I used to stand on the speakers. I'd place them side by side on the floor by the bar and climb up. They were big hefty things. Concrete shoes. From up there I could actually touch the ceiling. I'd point them at the ankles of the crowd and start bashing away on my guitar. Things got a little perilous after a few drinks. On stage and off.

Up in a tiny hamlet called Staalwang somewhere in the Bayerish Wald, I played a gig in a bar. The owner was a heavy metal singer name Ritchie Rocket and he had a demo to prove it. He informed me that Staalwang was very conservative and advised me that perhaps I shouldn't wear my hat. A bogard hat: nothing too radical about that, I thought. So I looked at him then and re-appraised him. He was a squat faced little rocker with dark curly permed hair, who had squeezed himself from head to toe into black leather biker jacket and trousers lashed on with a studded belt. He wore black cowboy boots on his feet and sported a Japanese red sun bandana upon his forehead. In Glasgow he would be termed a, "Bus Stop Biker": all gear and no bike. He obviously loved his heavy metal but he could easily have sung," It's fun to stay at theYMCA".
I decided I'd take my chances with the natives.

But anyway when we got to his bar, there was no stage to be seen. When I pointed this out to Herr Rocket, he directed me to an electrical output between two slot machines. These machines were side by side' against a wall and about 4 feet apart. This space between them was to be my stage. At first I was convinced that he wanted me to plug into a slot machine but somehow through the miracle of electricity and amnesia, I got connected into the house speakers where were suspended from the ceiling. Right in front of my "stage" was a pool table. Well it was a tricky situation but I was getting paid for my troubles.
It's a very odd feeling to be singing whilst almost face to face with two intensely focused slot machinists and dodging cue sticks and cue balls. Surely this is pure invisibility. At least there weren't any anti hat people in the bar.
Most of the clientele had gathered around the bar area. If I wanted to make any eye contact I'd have to lean out and look to the right. The slot machinists would growl at me and I'd jerk my head back in. Then I'd hear puzzled German voices over at the bar asking, "Did you just see a head poke out of the slot machine?"
Now Joeys Irish bar up in Furth; whoa, what a set up. Therein sat a stage about the size of a suitcase. Behind it there was a shelf. Upon that shelf, at ear level, lurched the world's largest amplifier. Let me tell you about this brooding implement of torture. He was a monster; shackled to the very foundation of the building. Like a mysterious pagan idol, he cast a shadow of delirium over all who dared come near. When first we met, I fought an urge to pick up a stout chair and point its 4 legs up at his three steely knobs. The first knob was marked "Volume", the next was marked, "Lots More Volume", and the third just said, "Fuck Off". Pre-gig, this angry slab of Stonehenge was plugged in and cranked from slumber by cowed native bar staff who stood back and chanted," Kong, Kong, Kong".
That beast would not be tamed. Not by chair or whip, nor soothed by Irish music. This abomination needed an immediate return to his natural habitat of inhospitable bogland and mountain before someone was injured. There in the wilderness he could roar his defiance to the cruel world far from human habitation. After a period of rehab, perhaps he could find a little female amp he could connect with and maybe start a new stack.

In Irish bars you either cross the noise barrier or die ignored. Ignored means sacked. So even though the Joey's amp was a mere six inches from the back of my skull, I was forced to raise the volume so that folks near the back could hear too. The feedback alone could have driven a man insane.
Yes, the first time I played there, the unsuspecting public fell over themselves as they stampeded to the back of the room. Tables toppled and people choked. I witnessed several bemused individuals moving straight backwards like they were on fast moving skateboards, straight out onto the street. I would have joined them if I could have, but I was strapped to that looming apparatus. Desperate clients were screaming: myself included. The beast roared. Hair blew away. Laugh lines and wrinkles were sandblasted from ruddy faces while a few determined dregs, (probably Scots) grimly refusing to surrender their drinks, left vain receding claw marks etched into the bar counter as they were slowly leveraged backwards degree by degree. Their ears wiggled as fast as bee's wings till finally with an audible "ping", they were pried loose like bent nails and shot out the door still clutching their Guinnesses. It was horrendous. And all the time Joey's Dublin accent yelling like white noise in my tortured ears, "Jaiz yer brutal James. Brutal so ye are."…
And all this ado in a matter of seconds.

Nobody knows where Joey found that unearthly amp. But legend has it that an angry mob gathered around his castle one night with pitchforks and burning torches. The place was razed to the ground. No trace was afterwards found of the demonic amplifier. Joey vanished too. But… some suspiciously Joey sized footprints were discovered that led directly from the ashes to a nearby insurance office and from there they faded into nothing.

But as I was saying, the Back Porch Alley had a real stage and the sound check wasn't too bad. It looks like it'll be a fun place to play. I guess the real problem was that there were no monitors. Donald actually got offstage so he could stand in front of the speakers to hear himself.
The sound check guy did his best in the short space of time allotted. I guess we should be grateful that at least there was a sound check guy. Up at the Alte Malzerei bar, in Regensburg, the mixing desk was situated behind the bar. If the sound engineer didn't show up, then the chef would come out and have a go. He did make some interesting mixes. A bit soupy.

Funny gig.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots at the Holy Smoke.

The Mount Baker is quite a touristy stretch of road. It travels from the Pacific coast up to a dead end on Mount Baker's volcanic slopes. In general it is well tended and pleasant to drive on.
From Sunset Drive, Bellingham falls behind. At Nugent's Corner, the highway crosses the Nooksack River, curves past the Mount Baker Vineyard and past the Eagle Park. The mountains gleam snowy and clean as the highway winds closer and closer towards their roots. Past the pizza Shrine restaurant and up to the Maple Falls Junction. Everything is beautiful. At the Junction, the highway turns sharply right and continues its tranquil path into higher altitudes of tall trees and long tumbling waterfalls. It's all so very picture postcard perfect. It makes me want to stick a stamp on it and address it to a friend.
The left fork of the junction turns away from the mountains and becomes the Kendal Road. Recently Kendal Town has been more famous for its meth labs and addiction than for its scenic attractions. The Holy Smoke is on the Kendall Road.

The Kendal road is an odd place. The homes along its sides have an aura of damp dilapidation and neglect. Untended front yards are strewn with broken appliances and rusted cars. There are hand written sign posts nailed to trees. One of them read," Giggles the Clown".
The Holy Smoke is a converted church now a bar. I guess alcohol was more profitable than preaching. The main room was divided into 3 distinct sections. To the left; two pool tables. In the middle, separated by a couple of old church pews, is the dance floor and bar counter. To the right: a sort of lounge area.

We set up to play in the middle section. The place was not busy at all but the scattered inhabitants were quite appreciative. The bar owner seemed a little perturbed when I asked for the TV sound to be turned down before we begun, but he complied. It was soon clear that the listeners wanted music they were familiar with or could dance intimately to. One elderly couple requested a slow blues. We played, It Hurts Me Too. They got up and danced a cheek to cheek. The only song afterwards that anyone showed any real enthusiasm for was "Knocking on Heavens Door". I felt like I was fly-fishing, using various musical baits to reel in the scattered audience. As the night progressed, I realized we were now playing to the backs of a short row of drinkers at the bar or saying thank you to the few people who remained far to the right hand side. Between songs, I was talking to myself. We become more insular and though we stuck professionally to the set, I think there were too few women and too many men to instigate enough of a dancing atmosphere. In fact when I think on it, I think all the women danced but the men generally hugged the bar or played pool.
This was an incredibly long gig. We played from 8:30 till 12:30. People came and went but we remained. My fingers were in bits and my brain was dead when we finished. It is impossible to maintain any sense of focused cohesion for that length of time especially in Terra Incognita. But I think we played well and quite enjoyed ourselves. Most of those who were present really seemed to enjoy it too. In fact I sold quite a number of CDs.

Once again advertising let us down. Due to miscommunication, neither the Herald nor the Cascadia Weekly printed our ads. As I mentioned, the Holy Smoke lies on one hell of a bleak stretch of highway. Looking up and down that road during a break, there was just overwhelming silence and blackness. I doubt many people would travel out there to see a well known band, never mind the Muddy Boots.

I rode in the back of the pick-up truck on the way home. It was quite cozy. I had a little nest in the midst of the gear. Charlie and Donald rode up front. Two seatbelts between three didn't feel very reassuring. I was content in the back. Lucky the roof was attached or it may have been less comfy.

Years ago in the town of Schweinfurt Germany I wrote a song called Holy Smoke. It's strange to find myself playing it 10,000 kms away in a converted church off the Mount Baker Highway. Naturally, we had to play it.

It feels like it was in another lifetime that me and Peter arrived in Schweinfurt in the wee hours. We shook hands with Vince and said goodbye then stepped into a bush to sleep. Vince seemed a bit perplexed by this. I don't think he ever knew quite what to make of us. He owned a bar in Bamberg up by the U.S. barracks. The Aquarium was its name but we referred to it as the Fish Tank. We used to pop in when we were in town and play for beer. That night at closing time we told him we were hitching to Schweinfurt in the morning. There and then he offered to drive us. So we all piled into his car and off we went.
Apparently Peter had used this bush before and thus with his gift of the gab and lashings of alcohol had elevated this bush in my mind up to Taj Mahal Gold Star Hotel standards.
Anyway we woke up bright and early beside a dead crow. While we examined it, an irate German business man began yelling at us from outside our bush. "Das bush ist privat". Our grasp of the language was rudimentary at best but it didn't sound like an invitation.
We set off busking and it went fine. By evening our pockets were jingling and we were content. We'd met an East German one man band that day called Des. He lived in Norway and was presently on a busking tour. He informed us several times that the price of petrol up there was extortionate. He invited us back to his van to smoke a pipe before he headed off.

His van was huge. Inside it resembled a barn. We sat on some low stools behind the driver seat and he introduced us to an interesting technique of hash smoking which involved a drawing pin, a beer deckle and a small glass. About ten rounds later, I had an unwipeable smile on my face. Des got out his camera and snapped a picture of me and Peter, side by side, grinning like chimps into the camera. Des's van made it easy to forget that we were actually sitting in a car park on a summer's evening. Instead I felt like we were in the belly of a cargo plane. We were certainly flying but we were on the ground.
I remember joking as we all sat there, "Hey, who's driving?" I think I accidentally set Peter's cogs working overtime. He suddenly looked very serious and stood up. "Who WAS driving?". He opened the side door and the last rays of the day came pouring in. The twilight seemed very bright to us. Peter stood framed in the doorway. "Don't jump", I giggled. But Peter was flying on a higher cloud than me and I think he was a little worried. He stepped gingerly outside like he was testing hot water with his toe. Then his face popped up at the back window. "Where's Rik" he shouted? Rik was back in Regensburg. I figured we should leave. We were both incredibly stoned. I can only imagine that Des was just as stoned. Clumsily, we hoisted our packs and asked Des if he'd like to join us for a beer. He declined, stating that he didn't drink and drive. Personally at that moment I was having trouble even walking.
So we left Des and we got ourselves lost on a zebra crossing. We decided it was best to search for somewhere quiet to try come down a bit. Thus we found ourselves in a city park called Motherwell Park. Motherwell is the name of a town in Scotland. It turns out that Motherwell is a twin city of Schweinfurt.
By now it was completely dark. We sat on the see saw for a while unable to figure out how it worked. We switched to a park bench which had more stability and got out our guitars. Slowly we mellowed out and began to drift back towards our rattled senses. That was when I wrote down the first draft of Holy Smoke: sitting on that dark bench in Motherwell Park.
Later we went back to the town centre and sat in a beer garden in the main square. The beer was served from a portable kiosk which seemed to be run by a 12 year old Italian kid and his little brother.
After about 3 beers we were back on the planet and feeling relaxed with just a comfy lingering hash buzz. I guess Des had just caught us off guard.
So we got a couple more bottled beers to take away and went singing down the road back to the bush.
"Oh holy smoke how fine you look. Tips my hat and tells me jokes. My holy smoke."

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

Opening Day at the Market.

As if by magic the sun chose to shine on Bellingham today. The crowds were out and the market was buzzing. We set up to play under a canopy tent that had been erected outside the Boundary Bay Pub. Chuck from Band Zant was playing drums with us again. Since first he sat in with us, this was the first time he was actually allowed to put some volume into his drumming.

Donald had a nasty virus and was sick as a dog but made it through the gig. He had to be told about it later because he'd been so medicated. It had all been a foggy blur.
My recollection was a bit hazy too but that was just due to the shock of getting up early.
The morning was still chilly when we started around 11am. I had trouble holding my plectrum but we warmed up soon enough and breezed easily through an hour and a half set.

A few rows of benches had been set out for people to park themselves on to enjoy the sun and music. The whole market atmosphere was relaxed and easy going. Quite a festive occasion really. There were a few buskers about doing their thing. I don't think we drowned them out. Apologies if we did. They probably earned more than us anyway. I think that because we had amps, people assumed we were getting paid: which was not the case. With this economic crisis going on, many people are having money troubles. Charlie kindly offered to take some of that troublesome money off anyone's hands who felt they had more than they could cope with. Thankfully there were some folks who allowed us to share their burden. We were glad to help.

Buskers always amaze me at the market. Two busker bands will sometimes stand 20 feet apart on parallel aisles yet they seem to believe that because a flap of canvas separates them, their sounds don't merge. I pity the poor vendors with an act behind their stall and one in front: both playing completely different music. It must sound horrific.

Musically, we didn't stretch ourselves or go out of our way to play anything too heavy or new. We've barely practiced at all since about 2 months so we took no chances and stuck to a simple, tried and trusted set. We actually forgot to play a few of our regulars like, Please Don't Go and Annecy. We did play Driving Down Chuckanut at the end and I was quite amazed to see people singing along by the 2nd verse. The Chuckanut Highway is a local landmark. That means that singing along is obligatory. Support your local landmark.

So it was a positive experience. Tips were fair and I even sold some CDs. Roll on summer.

Two St Patrick's Day Gigs with Whiskey Galore.

The Dubliner
Seattle

This establishment has an odd setup. The people were 5 deep at the bar but due to a barrier that separated these people from the dance floor there was very little overspill onto the open space all around the stage. It presented a comical picture as I oversaw it from high upon the afore mentioned stage. All those people crammed elbow to elbow with their drinks clutched against their chest while right there beyond the barrier was the open range. That barrier may as well have been the Great Wall of China. Kind of reminded me of going to mass in Neilston where everyone was afraid to sit up the front. The first ten rows would always be empty while the back would be jammed. It was as if the congregation had a fear of the priest in case he put a hex on them. I don't think the Dubliner crowd had a fear of us. They had a fear of losing their grip on the bar counter.

We had a sound guy doing the mix for us. He done a fine job and thus we were all able to hear each other's racket quite clearly. Considering we had only had about 2 full practices in the past few months, we did remarkably well. Even the jig stuff worked out fairly well.
My problem with the jig stuff is being unable to connect the tune with the proper title. We are generally half way through it before I have isolated the melody. Then just as we are finishing, I finally have it worked out. Nevertheless I am making progress.
As gigs go, this was a lot of fun. Plenty of chaos.

I can't help wondering if this was the same bar I went to with Hil, Paul and Diane back in 1994. Me and Hil were on holiday and we'd all gone to an Irish bar that fitted The Dubliner's description. I remember we were playing pool and talking about the ridiculously cheap price of petrol.
It was getting late and someone yelled, "Drink up". We still had about a quarter of a pitcher of beer left on the table. Well everyone was saturated and we were being pressured to leave so I just picked it up in both hands and started glugging it down as fast as I could. It must be my Scottish heritage: can't waste good beer. Well I was swiftly down to the last drips and was staring across the bar through the blurred bottom of the pitcher when I saw a face fill the frame. I lowered the pitcher and I saw before me, a smiling Chinese man about my age. For a second I stared dumbly back at him then I realized what I'd done. "Oh Jeez" I stammered, "That was yours? I didn't know…I thought it was mine… I'll buy you another… ". But the guy just laughed and said he thought it was hilarious. I'm glad it wasn't Glasgow.

Back in present day Seattle, we finished the 3 hour gig and had to rush off to Mulleady's Irish Bar.

The Mulleady's gig was far more intense than the Dubliner. Probably because it is so much more intimate. The crowd was right there in front of us instead of fenced off like in The Dubliner. We'd played Mulleady's last year too. It is an incredibly dark bar but this time round, it didn't feel quite so dark. Perhaps they'd invested in a lightbulb. (I actually brought a torch with me.) The stage though was definitely just as cramped. I'd say Mulleady's is remeniscent of the Shamrock in Munich except with all the lights turned off.
This gig didn't start till well after 10pm. The crowd was well liquored up by this stage. They were in fine form and there was some fine imaginative dancing. This resulted in an unlucky staff member appearing like a war zone stretcher bearer with rags and mops to wipe up beer puddles whilst dodging the jigging masses who slipped and tumbled all around him.
Both gigs were a lot of fun. I'd say I enjoyed Mulleady's more than The Dubliner gig. It had a rowdier atmosphere which is where Whiskey Galore are really at their best.
Best fun songs of the night for me personally? Jack of Galway right at the end of the Mulleady's gig. I also really enjoyed Muirshin Durkin, which I can play slightly better than I can spell.

James Higgins and the Moonshine Combine.
13 and 14 March.
Paddy's Night Warm Up.

Poppe's gig 1

The Moonshine Combine was really an amalgamation of The Muddy Boots Band meets Whiskey Galore meets The Productionists, meets the 3Ds.

I'd never been in Poppe's before. It is a cocktail lounge attached to the Lakeway Inn. At first glance it seemed a little upscale. I haven't made my mind up yet.
The stage was at the far end of a circular bar counter. The lights were dim but the place looked well taken care of. The stage was inserted into the wall like a rectangular box alcove. We just managed to squeeze in. Tree was pressed into one back corner with his drums. Electric Eric was in the other back corner with his effects board and guitar.
The place was fairly hopping and there was a lively atmosphere though I don't think people were quite tuned into Paddy's Night mania yet.
Interesting to play for a crowd who were probably not going to be driving later on. I imagine a fair portion of the clientele were staying overnight at the Inn. They weren't shy about drinking.
Anyway musically we were on fair form and rattled through our first set like we almost knew what we were doing. The crowd were enthusiastic though a little distant. The second set began with a bunch of jigs. Janice got up and played her flute while Donald switched from bass to mandolin. Eric emerged from his corner and played rhythm. I got the wash tub out. Charlie and Tree took a seat. Unfortunately I forgot my wash tub glove, so I had to stop before I got rope burn.
By the third set the bar had calmed down a little but we still played for 45 minutes and put a lot of energy into it.

Second night.

Slightly busier than the first night. A few more friendly faces and a few different songs but basically a carbon copy gig.
We strayed a little from our St Patrick's night styled set as the bar emptied. There were a few diehard revelers but the night had essentially fizzled out again after the 2nd set.
On the whole I'd say we played quite good over the two nights. Three hour gigs are hard to pace. Looking back I think we should have done a half hour set then some jigs. After that we should have either played straight through or made the 2nd set the real strong gig set followed by a half hour set for the stragglers. The moral of the story? Don't listen to bar owners: listen to your instincts.

Still, both nights were a lot of fun. Understandably there were a few hiccups but nothing catastrophic. Eric had his synth guitar making flute, violin and trumpet sounds. We had a couple of comical duets which, along with some cazumpet and harmonica solos, left the audience scratching their heads in bewilderment.
Funniest moment for me was when Donald turned to Tree who was crammed in the corner behind his drums, and asked if he needed anything. A sad little voice answered, "I need a hug".
My most enjoyable songs over the piece? I'd say," I Will Go" from the 1st gig. The second night I feel we were dragging our feet on it a bit. Ally Bally on the 1st night too was fun. Funnily enough, "Whiskey in the Jar" was quite enjoyable both nights. I never thought it would be possible to wring a further drip of enjoyment out of that song. But there ye go. Another unexpected hit was "Donald Where's Yer Troosers".
Vampire Blues was great with the Batman bass solo. Even though "Tears Tears Tears" is the same tune, both songs get great responses. I always consider "Tears" as a bit of a filler but I guess it should be a regular on the First Team.
So that was Poppe's. Maybe they'll have us back in a few months. The place really reminded me of Dinky Jones's place in Ingolstadt (Le Journal). Except obviously a bit bigger and minus the sexy waitresses. Well ye can't have everything.

Last but not least: well done to all the brave musicians who took to the stage and did such a great job at such short notice.

James Higgins and the Muddy boots

It was just me and Charlie at the Honeymoon for this gig. Donald was sick and the venue wasn't very drummer friendly.
So it was an all acoustic affair and quite easy going. We played from 8 till about 10:30. Nothing spectacular happened apart from getting paid. I guess these days, that's pretty spectacular.
Afterwards we sat up at the bar and had ourselves a cheese platter. I must admit I am a slave to good cheese. Move over Wallace and Gromit, there's competition in town. I should change the lyrics of "Play for Free" to "Play for Cheese".

I recall back in Annecy busking, I'd go shopping at midday before the shops closed for lunch. I'd buy a baguette, a beer, and a camembert cheese. I'd filet the baguette and insert the entire camembert in slices. Then I'd start chomping at one end and devour the whole thing. If I was in the company of any French people, they would shake their heads and say, "Les Ecossaise sont fou" (Scots are mad). To which I had no reply because my mouth was full. But they were probably right. How was I supposed to know that a camembert was supposed to last for a week?

End of the day it was a good little gig. Nice ambience. A loud audience but not obnoxious. It can't be helped that wine does make people naturally chatty.
Towards the end we threw in a few odd songs like Norwegian Wood and Singing in the Rain. No one looked too worried.
There seemed to be a lot of folks taking our photographs throughout the evening. Maybe they thought we were someone else.
Say Cheese.

Not much to say. We played without a PA system even though we had Chuck from Band Zant sitting in on drums. I think we underestimated the crowd volume. I ended up shouting to be heard. I guess we could have plugged a mic in but the owner was there and she seemed really stressed out about everything and anything. We thought it wise not to disturb her precarious equilibrium.
We first noticed her presence when Hil was backing the van a little closer to the back door so we could unload the gear. There was a sudden bang. We thought at first we'd hit something but it turned out to be the owner shrieking and pounding on the van window. Apparently she didn't want Hil to reverse and this had set her into panic mode.

Inside the place she insisted we not leave any stuff in the hallway. She didn't exactly welcome us to her establishment. Chuck sneaked his percussion in one piece at a time. It really was one of those gigs where a band can feel so restricted and barely tolerated. We've played there before and always had good vibes from all the staff but this time there was a streak of explosive tension running round the place. Sadly, bosses often tend to have this detrimental effect on their own establishments. A shame.
After Hil and Jan had eaten we were down 30 dollars. I've never eaten there yet. You'd think they'd just put the wive's meals on a band tab. Just give us an X amount of dollars band tab for food and let us spend it on whoever we want.

So the gig was fine. There were some fun moments as we pulled out some less played songs. Jenny Grey made a rare first team appearance. Tears Tears Tears was a good jam. So was Any Old Time.
I think we are growing weary of adjusting our set for every separate gig. (Though it's a luxury to have that ability.) We just want to turn up and say, "This is who we are. This is what we play. Like it or lump it."
It's not as if we are getting paid huge sums of money. Some of these venues are difficult to prise a tea bag out of. Hard times indeed. Gigs with pay are just drying up, especially for a 4 piece outfit.

I've enjoyed just about every gig we have ever played but this gig was just disheartening. A reality check. The dishwasher left with more profit than us. And he didn't look that happy.
There are some places in town that really shouldn't have live music. Quite a few in fact.
Regensburg was bigger than Bellingham but the live music usually took place in real designated venues. Very few bars had novelty music. Restaurants relied on good food to attract customers. Bars sold good beer and had unique atmospheres. This individuality kept everyone in the proper places. Food was great, beer was delicious and the live music was of a generally high standard.
Out here in Bellingham, just about every bar has some musician, crappy or excellent sitting in a corner playing for next to nothing. Beer is often mediocre, food overpriced and unimaginative and the overall atmosphere, overly neon and lacking at best.

The Chuckanut Brewery beer garden may be fine in summer but who wants a 4 piece band in their face during their dining experience inside a small restaurant.

The second last time I saw of the owner, she was running across the car park and talking frantically to herself. Then she stopped and ran back inside. After a moment she returned. We watched her as, still babbling, she fought her way into her coat and ran off into the darkness without even saying thanks or goodnight. And that was the last I saw of her. Presumably she had more important matters on her mind. I hope it works out well.

A quirky little lunch time gig. This event was a celebration of one of Bellingham's underappreciated attractions: the rain. Me and Donald stood on the Stage at the Fairhaven Green and played some incidental music while people paraded in turn of the (19th) century costumes. There was a "Raining Queen" who sat on a huge throne and oversaw the proceedings. There was a poetry competition, a fashion contest and some strange incidental music. No rain though. Maybe we should have had a rain dance.
It was all very casual. A small semi circle of maybe 50 people had gathered to listen and cheer the participants.
I shook my rain stick. Donald made rumbling bass noises. We probably sounded like acoustic indigestion but we forged ahead as ye do with an ad-lib version of Praying for a Leap Year and an instrumental version of Traveling Bag. It was all over in a half hour.
As the little cloud of people evaporated, we hung around and did some tentative busking. We played La Ville D'Annecy and practiced Singing in the Rain, which is very addictive and hard to stop playing. Doo de doot doo, doo de doot de doot do….