Shipe in Sandpoint – Eichardt’s

Most of the night, the patrons sat at the bar with their back to me. I was really givin’ up for them too, singing with particular passion on this night, exploring the emotions in my songs. But I don’t know… Every once in a while, I started to get the feeling that I was in one of those absurd moments where the corner-of-bar performer is competing with the clientele’s obstinate inattentiveness.

If you walked into the place at, say, 10:32 pm, you would have seen me looking quite professional on a nicely lit stage, playing good tunes, and singing with great conviction. You might have said to yourself: “Wow. That guy is really into himself, and nobody’s listening. He must really suck.”

I couldn’t let it faze me, though. ‘Cause my good friends Cindy and Dave were there requesting old faves like “Spontaneous Combustion” and “1968.” And right now, I’m preparing for upcoming recording sessions. So each one of these gigs is like dress rehearsal. Producer Ehren Ebbage is expecting me to show up with my shit together, so I’m holding nothing back, no matter how enthusiastically the people ignore me.

(Damn, I’m glad I’m not a stand-up comedian. They actually get booed, not merely ignored.)

Come to think of it, I might be over-estimating the quality of my performance. I did slip a Vicodyn before the show; back pain had come on after I spent the afternoon walking around beautiful Sandpoint in the sun. Maybe I was in the throes of drug-induced euphoria, under the illusion that I was creating something beautiful, while hacking my way through mediocre strummin’ crap, wailing at the top of my lungs, annoying the crap out Eichardt’s.

Strangely, though, I received a ton of tips, relative to the size of the tiny crowd. So I couldn’t have been that bad… Unless they just felt sorry for me.

I tease myself, just to make sure that I don’t get any strange ideas about being so important to Western Civilization. But the truth is, I think the new material is working well, and I’m finding new places to go with my singing voice.

Shipe on Coeur D’Alene Moon Time

Woke this morning to see that “Honky Tonk Romans” is on a playlist I haven’t seen yet: Barely Darker Than Air. A good resource for East Coast community.

Last night was one of my better Moon Time gigs. The place was packed. (Iron Man Triathalon is in town.) Even though they were typically noisy on Dollar-Pint Night, they were listening. applauding after every song, tipping, making requests, and buying CD’s. I tested their attentiveness by directly soliciting tips–announcing that my local hotel of choice had raised its rates by 40 percent. They responded. I would not have done this had I not been sure that I was playing well, already making a warm connection by virtue of the performance. One does not resort to playing on the audience’s sympathies for the poor starving traveling troubadour. One only asks for voluntary compensation after providing solid entertainment. (Speaking of compensation, I thank Moon Time for paying their solo artists well. It’s always a reassuring way to start a tour. And the comped meal is spectacular.)

I mentioned that folks were making requests…

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Chatty Wine Bar – Idaho Falls

Good looking people hang out at Vino Rosso in Idaho Falls. And they’re more interested in each other than whatever musical act is hired for the night. But I’ve learned a thing or two about playing in these noisy bars. I’ve learned neither to fight for their attention, nor to crawl into an uninspired self-hole pretending we’re in two totally different rooms.

Sometimes they don’t look like they’re listening, but they hear just enough to appreciate that something fine is going on in the corner of this wine bar, in the vicinity of this fellow with the Breedlove guitar and the singing voice.

The question is: Do you play soft unobtrusive stuff, bland mid-tempo background music, or loud aggressive acoustic rock to be heard over the conversation? The answer: Play it all, just like would any other gig. The dynamics and trajectories are what people respond to, whether they’re listening passively or focused. Furthermore, do it with as much emotion and intensity as you always do. (That’s what you’re being paid for.) If you are afraid to appear really “into it,” just because you’re sort of in the background for the time being, you will appear bored & bland, and you’ll be written off as an amateur. They will likely feel sorry for you.

However, if you “go for it,” at all times, no matter what–earnest and emotional when you’re soft, aggressive when you’re rockin’ out–they’ll take you seriously. People are smart; they know what’s going on. Unconsciously, they respond to good music, and they do look at the stage (or corner) every once in awhile to acknowledge the competent artist.

But don’t isolate yourself. Be available to the mood, and change with it. Be ready to interact. If you’re playing 3 sets over 4 hours, you can’t expect walk-in clientele to treat the night like a 90-minute headlining act in a performance hall. But you can grab those 10-20 minute segments of artist-audience rapport. (Several of those per night is a pretty good record.)

And if you get a heckler, that’s a good thing!

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Pocatello Thursday Night

My usual gig in Pocatello is Sandbagger’s. As a touring act, you wouldn’t think of this place first when booking through an Idaho college town. It’s away from the college, and it’s not in old town, where people might go looking for brew pubs or internet cafés. It also has a sports atmosphere–not usually conducive to a music venue ambience.

But in recent years, I’ve been surprised by places like these. This one in particular. The difference is in the people who run the place. Judith is a smart music lover. (Her son is currently writing songs for bands like Good Charlotte.) And Ross, as serendipity would have it, used to be in a fellow road band called U.S. Blues, crossing paths with The Renegade Saints back in the day. (They would call the venue where we were playing and have trays of Jaggermeister brought to our stage. Hmm… Come to think of it, maybe they were just sabotaging their competition.)

Sandbagger’s pays the artist decently, and they welcome me with hospitality and answers to my questions. (Note to other venues, after a long drive to play music all night for your establishment, it means a whole hell of a lot when the staff greets me as though they’re expecting me.)

Sandbagger’s has a nice stage set up outside in the beer garden, away from the sports bar atmosphere, like a venue unto itself. It’s an early gig—7-10. Three sets. So you play as the sun goes down, your last set under stage lights. I like there, sell a lot of CD’s, get a lot of tips, and make some friends.

Tonight, weather was a problem, so I had to play indoors. That could be worrisome, surrounded by televisions with swirling images of basketball, baseball, track, soccer, football, boxing, NASCAR, etc. And the increasingly intoxicated, rooting fans. I used to have a strict rule about never playing sports bars. But like I said, I have been surprised lately. At first, I always feel strange busting into my first few songs, like I’m interrupting something, begging for the patrons to pay attention to me. But gradually, the vibe changes.

And here’s something really important for an artist: Katie the barmaid turned the giant flat screen TV off that was directly behind me. (Note to other venues: All TV’s in the direction of stage should be off. Do I need to describe how awkward it is to have people looking in your direction, but not at you, alternating cheering and jeering?)

As result of the artist-friendly attitude bestowed by the Sandbaggers staff, I had quite a good a gig. I wasn’t sure folks were listening at first. But applause increased, and people started putting money in my box, and I sold more CD’s than usual. (And this all during the Lakers/Celtics basketball championship Game 4!)

Between sets, and after the gig, a number of patrons expressed gratitude for my being there, engaging in good, charming—not drunken, sloppy—conversation about music and travel (…and the Oregon Duck football quarterback’s recent run in with the law. Sheesh! Every time I play there, something thuggish happens in Duck football. Last time, I watched the star Duck running back punch a Boise State player in the face. Come on boys, I’m trying to represent our state here!)

Northwest Folklife

I just played my ½ hour set at Northwest Folklife in Seattle. An indoor stage called Folklife Café.

Now I’m drinking a Pepsi in the Performer Hospitality building. There must be a hundred folk musicians in here from around the country. I’m surrounded by the sound of banjos, mandolins, fiddles, and twangy Appalachian-style vocalizations, coming from all directions. I love this part of festivals like this. Between the stages, behind tents, behind the scenes. You get this at Oregon Country Fair, High Sierra Fest. Folks will jam all night on blue grass, old-timey, gypsy, etc. It’s enchanting.

I confess that I am musically envious. My own singer/songwriter art barely qualifies as “folk.” It has some rural leanings at times, with a modicum of storytelling, but there’s a lot of so-called “composition,” and elements of pop. (You know, the umpteenth generation of ubiquitous Beatles influence.)

I could jump into these jams and hang on for dear life. I know the music, I love the music, and, yes, I have a few chops to play it. But I prefer to sit by and let the people who live this stuff do it without my hack intrusion.

Someday, I’ll practice up, get my Django down, and then I’ll joyfully participate.

My own set went well, although I was worried at first. I went on after a nylon-plucking guitarist who had the place riveted with his expertise, specializing in Italian and flamenco flourishes. With only 5 minutes of set change, the room was still full of the virtuoso’s exotic and exhilarating vibe when I was introduced. What are you gonna do, but do what you do best? I kicked it off with the story of falling in love with my wife in Seattle and broke into “Hours Go By.” Call it sucking up to the Seattle-ites, but people seem to like that song.

I brought out a new song that I only just finished on the drive up. “Villain.” It used to be called “Leni Riefenstahl.” I would like to say that it’s the only song of its kind. That is, a song that name-drops women associated with Nazis. But David Lindley already has one. It’s called “He Would Have Loved You More than Eva Braun.” As much as I love David Lindley, I think that’s a dubious way to tell your sweetheart what you think of her. (“You’re so special, Hitler would have taken you as his mistress.”)

No, I think that if you’re gonna talk about Nazi women and romance in the same song, it’s unlikely to travel in the sweet-n-light direction. That’s why mine is called “Villain.” It’s about the frustration of good men who are eternally losing out to the bad guys.

The chorus:

Eve Braun, Leni Riefenstahl/You seen one, you seen them all./Beauty loves her beast, and she’s always willin’./Some girls can’t help it; they love the villain.

Yeah, the song is sort of funny. But like all my “sorta funny” songs, it’s not meant to make people laugh. It’s actually quite sad. The audience liked it, but I could tell they didn’t quite know what to make of it. (Maybe because they don’t know who Eva Braun and Leni Riefenstahl are… For the record, they are Hitler’s mistress and Nazi Germany’s main filmmaker.)

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Skinheads in Albany? Mark Alan’s song is still relevant

I was in the middle of my set last night at Calapooia Brewing in Albany. A fine place to set up in a corner and play original acoustic tunes. I like this gig, I recommend it for my brewery-gig colleagues.

But there was a bit of surprise. In walked a group of 6 or 7 guys, a few of them with shaved heads. Tattoos, leather, patches, black denim, chains and belts, etc. A quite normal assortment of styles that you see in most of the venues I play in. But I love tattoos, and I love patches, and I tend to gawk closely at such adornments. I couldn’t help noticing that these patches and tattoos were SS Lightning Badges, Parteiadler Eagles, and Swastikas. Striking, to say the least.

Normally, when I see this, I am fairly unfazed. A little bit fascinated. I think to myself, do these people really exist anymore? It seems like the tide of history would have swept them away by now. But another thing I couldn’t help noticing was that the next song on my set list was Mark Alan’s “Don’t Pass Montgomery By.”

At that moment, I was playing “Lightning Rod,” a fairly aggressive, funky acousto-rowdy number about televangelists. And Skinheads being music lovers (as I hear), they were paying pretty close attention. As I wound up the outro-vamp of “Lightning Rod,” I begin to wonder what was going to happen when I started singing Mark’s lyrics, which come right out of a Martin Luther King speech. Especially when I get to the part: “They gotta word for a black man/They gotta word for a Brown man…” And the chorus: “Open up your eyes/See the ugly face of hate/They only want to hide/From their ignorance and fear.”

A lot can go through your mind in 10-20 seconds. Here’s what went through mine:

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Crackerjack Highway & Sudden Anthem

These days, I’m so swamped with my own Biz, I rarely go out to see live music. The only bands I see are the bands I share the bill with. (It’s a shame, ’cause I risk alienating myself from my own field of endeavor.) But last night, my old drummer Dyson was here in Eugene at Luckey’s with his S. F. band Crackerjack Highway

It was worth staying out past 2:00 a.m. to watch Dyson killin’ it with this group of amazing jammers. Back when he joined my band at the turn of the century, he was raw, just out of music school, with a fondness for fancy Carter Beauford-like chops, which he couldn’t quite pull off. We had band a meeting to ask him to calm down and smooth it out for my more song-oriented material. It’s quite common with young drummers, many of whom complain about controlling singer-songwriters always putting them in straitjackets. But Dyson had a rare work ethic–the results of which became obvious on our 2002 album, Pollyanna Loves Cassandra

Nowadays, Dyson has chops in abundance–and an apt band in which to use them. Crackerjack Highway is one of those bands for whom songwriting is mostly a series of canvases on which to apply spectacular instrumentalism. A funky-ish jam band, less with the endless hippy-noodling of Phish spawn, and more with the purposeful trajectories of blues-rock, Allman, and maybe fusion. Suitable for a bill with Derek Trucks or Umphrey’s McGee.

And love those Allman-esque twin leads! Crackerjack constructs plenty of their own, but of course, with that ability, you just have to throw in “Liz Reed” and “Jessica.” And furthermore, why not segue into “Boys are Back in Town” and “Frankenstein.” I don’t care if you’re one of those anti-lead-guitar hipster short-songs-only kind of critic. When it comes to guitary indulgences, someone has got to it. (You know it’s true.) The elite few who can pull it off have a duty to do so with this much conviction and gusto. If you were at Luckey’s 1:45 a.m to hear the Pat Travers version “Black Betty,” you would know what I mean. (After-hours folks were wandering in from the streets like they were heeding a distant call.)

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Shipe-Ebbage Chaos at Hogan’s w/ Cargill

Hard to describe what happens in Clarkston on the Hogan’s stage. I warned Ebbage; we wouldn’t be lulling them with our sensitive side. So we get help from Scott Cargill (Lucas) on mandolin, and Jim on Jembe and Ryan on bass (with whom we’ve never played a note.)

At Hogan’s, you’re tucked in a nook, behind giant speakers, on a stage deeper than it is wide. If you’re not loud and rowdy, the music can’t make it all the way to where everybody’s sitting.

We’ve never rehearsed. Scott, my dear Lewiston friend, practices on his own, and greets us with newly crafted mando parts. We just jam it out like street musicians. All bravado and energy. Plus, he calls out songs I don’t play often, from my older rock albums–”Jasmine,” “Crawlspace,” etc. Also, he’s a Renegade Saints fan, so we bust out Al Toribio’s “Letter Home,” Mike Walker’s “Delivered,” and Dave Coey’s “Tara.” He’s got all the hooks down.

A pleasant surprise was how gorgeously Ebbage’s country side shined with the mandolin in there. Perhaps it wasn’t the best stage for his lullabies, but two-steppers like “Hurtin’ Me” and “The Way She Does It” sounded best of the entire tour. (I felt good on twangy lap steel, to boot.)

With the quasi-rhythm section, and Scott’s mad energy egging us on, why not have Ebbage play electric most of the night? His tone was so awesome, we just let him go off on long indulgent solos. (Did I mention that Scott’s right arm is a rhythmic machine? Sticking the groove while Ebbage shredded, especially on “Road Story.”

Speaking of “Road Story”, there were some devoted Jerry Joseph fans who called me out on my influences: “So, Shipe,” says this one dude, “Did you write ‘Road Story’ before or after Jerry Joseph’s ‘Drive?’”

“Okay, fine, you caught me,” I said. “Just for that, we’re gonna cover an actual J.J. song. Sit back down in your chair and soak up ‘World Will Turn.’” (Ebbage has gotten very good at thickening up our version with the electric… even without a rhythm section. I dare say we acquitted ourselves properly with that homage.)

But we pressed our luck. We should have stuck to the Miles Davis rule: Always leave them wanting more. Whether it be a musical passage, or a whole song, or a set, or an entire show, stop just short of topping out the tension by extending the climax. Restraint is key. For this Hogan’s show, the climax unmistakable; we were obviously done. But we were having too good a time to quit. As fatigue and one-Jager-shot-too-many kicked in, we ran the train of the rails. “These Days” took 15 minutes to get through three verses. I don’t think Ebbage knew what song we were playing, but he added some nice spacy notes, and the thing sort of went searching through the stratosphere–not the concise Jackson Brown song we’re familiar with. Last, and certainly least, “Crawlspace” turned into three and a half minutes of breakneck random chords.

Ah, well. That’s rock-n-roll for ya. I love it. That’s what makes it fun. You’re on stage, you’re in it together, and it ought to be a little risky. Like driving a car too fast around a curve.

Shipe & Ebbage at Eichardt’s

By day, Eichardt’s is a fine restaurant, with a quiet clientele that makes you think you’ll be playing soft folk ballads for calm people. (Not a bad prospect, for this tour is much about introducing Ehren’s album, with all its sweet music, to the music fans of the North Idaho corridor.) But, at night, by the time you get sound checked and ready to play, Eichardt’s turns into a bar. There were quite a few noisy people who were unsusceptible to our finesse, intricate composition, and emotional crooning. We were pulling out our rockers quite a bit more than we thought. A woman from the audience actually came up to us and asked us to turn up, furtively pointing to the noisy fellows at the bar.
Anytime we’re asked to turn up, that’s a good thing, and we’re happy to oblige.
Strangely, though, as raucous as some of the audience seemed to be, we were complimented on our lyrics of all things. All night, they kept coming up to us: “Which one of you writes your lyrics?” (So they were listening after all, even those guys with their backs to us, who at one point seemed even to be heckling us.)
Incidently, we both write the lyrics. If E-dog is singing, he wrote it. If I’m singing, I wrote it. Unless it’s a Jerry Joseph song, or a Mark Alan song.
At last I’m getting inside the lap steel on Ebbage’s tunes. Fewer mistakes and juicier melodies. This is important, ’cause there is something about that instrument that turns an ear with just one note. I can see why Ehren tries to play with pedal steel players at nearly every gig. You don’t have to do much with it; just fade in a sweet chord tone at the right time, give it a little vibrato, and make it sing.

Shipe & Ebbage at Moon Time

Ah, much better. Even though we were incredibly underslept from the late night before at John’s Alley, Ehren & and I pulled out the energy for Moon Time in Coeur D’Alene. I am reminded of one the magic secret ingredients of live music–Volume!

The P.A. system we carry around has no monitors. But the Moon Time has a flat wall behind the bar, pretty close to us in front of the stage. So we crank that system up, hacking away at our rocker tunes, like “Road Story,” “I’m not Sorry,” and Jerry Joseph’s “World Will Turn.” Andthe sound bounces back at us, guitars and voices blended in a beautiful swirly wash. (Oh, those poor bar tenders!)

Funny, the Moon Time is a small intimate place, with all the makings of quiet acoustic venue. (While John’s Alley is a big ole wood & concrete tavern suitable for kicking ass.) But Moon Time is a talkative audience on Thursday–Dollar Microbrew Pint Night. This puts us acoustic folkie-singer-songwriter-troubadors in a potentially awkward postition, especially with Ebbage’s high ballad-to-rocker ratio. (All those sweet love songs.) But you have to trust that the crowd is listening and appreciating in their dollar-pint-night way. They don’t play the role of “audience” exactly, but you must play your set with assurance and authority nonetheless. They know when they’re hearing something of quality, even though they don’t sit with eyes glued to the stage, hanging on your every word of song-introduction. In this kind of atmosphere, you don’t waste time between songs. Keep it moving, and take advantage of those moments in the night when they do seem to want a bit of stage talk.

They never fail to show their appreciation. Always chatting us up between sets and after the show, buying CD’s and getting on the mailing list.

And thank god I finally bot my lap steel act together, making myself more welcome on those lovely Ebbage tunes.