John Shipe: Singer, Songwriter, Teacher, Traveler » Dave Coey

Shipe @ John’s Alley in Moscow, ID (8/3)

shipe — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 18:04:38 +0000

My old band, The Renegade Saints, continues to make new fans in Moscow, ID without even coming around to play shows. That’s because John’s Alley keeps Fear of the Sky in the jukebox.

The Saints first came here back in the 90′s when it was just a tiny hole-in-the-wall with 8-foot ceilings. We kept coming. We told all other touring bands we knew. They came… and they kept coming. The Alley turned into a choice college-town tour stop between the Rockies and Seattle, and eventually expanded into a premier small-mid-sized room with a sizeable stage. (Plus an excellent house sound guy in Vertical Dave.)

I like to think that we’re partly responsible. So I’ve continued to play shows here ever since I went solo in 1998. They always treat me well. And, like I said, I meet new fans every time, as they request Saints tunes all night. Before every Northern Idaho tour, I make sure I’ve rehearsed all the Saints tunes — including Dave Coey’s, Alan Toribio’s, adn Mike Walker’s. “Delivered,” “Letter Home,” “Know by Now,” “Deep End,” “Window.” (An older fan got tears in his eyes when I played Dave’s “Tara.”)

I’m usually solo acoustic, but if I have a band with me, we’ll play rockers like “Thin Layer.” And on occasion, the audience will get quiet enough for a quiet ballad like “1968.”

Thankfully, my John’s Alley gigs aren’t all reliving past rocker glory days. Alley-goers are kind to solo acoustic Shipe on that big stage. I get good response to my new material, and interest in new releases. Towards the end of the night, some of them dance. I elicited a two-step with “Villain,” and a swing dance with “The Beast is Back Again.”

Also cool is the intelligent appreciation I get from young listeners, for my “cooler” stuff. What I mean is: As I try to push the musicianship forward — as a guitar player, exhibiting finger-work and going off instrumentally — they hear it, and let me know when it’s good. That is golden, coming from a venue familiar with the likes of Tony Furtado and Derek Trucks (both of whom I’ve opened for, so I am well aware of the musical company I strive to measure up to in these parts.

Another Renegade Saints clip

shipe — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 19:37:14 +0000

It seems the Saints are getting a lot of mileage out of a great show from 2 1/2 years ago. (Portland Bite Festival.) Here’s a clip–the back half of a Jimi Hendrix cover–from our generous fan, Rob.

Dig the acid rock and the Dave Coey’s “Soul Sacrifice” hint of Santana on the bass.

Nostalgic in St. Pete, FL

shipe — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 18:12:09 +0000

It’s good to be in the South again. (Swimming in the ocean in the morning? In October? I couldn’t do that even in San Diego.)

The last time I was here in St. Petersburg was in the 90’s, with The Renegade Saints on our Southern “Fear of the Sky” tour. I’ll share the memory from my old journals

December 11th, 1994 (St. Petersburg)

Another empty show. Club Detroit. At least the staff loved it, paid us five hundred bucks and invited us back. The real fun came afterwards. We celebrated Jeffrey’s fortieth birthday. From our hotel by the bay, we walked out to the beach, removed our shirts and felt the warm Gulf breeze as we drank to Mr. Powell’s health and good fortune. A storm was on its way, which increased with our spirits. At first we were peaceful. The warm night. Relishing that we can go shirtless here in the middle of winter. Calm sea, quiet waves. Soothing sense of well-being, which comes rarely traveling in a rock and roll band.

Scoured the sand for shells. Andy found a horseshoe crab. (I didn’t know it was a horseshoe crab. I’d never seen one. I thought it was a small strange variety of stingray, from a childhood memory of when I had visited Florida at the age of four or five. Yes, I have actually seen one, but my cousins told me it was a stingray, and I guess I never learned better.)

The night’s weather grew wilder, and so did we, taking it to the swimming pool and jacuzzi. Everyone flirted with Jill, who had a great drunken sense of humor about it. Another party was also going on, and we managed to squeeze fifteen people into the spa. A girl named Jennifer didn’t believe we were musicians, so we sang some acapella. “Treadmill,” “The Deep End,” and some other song we were just getting into when she interrupted us: ‘Okay! Okay! I believe you now!”

Hotel employees made sure everyone had enough to drink, and when that was taken care of, they hopped in with us. Two guys named Bubba and Otis. Security came around in his golf cart.

“You wanna beer,” I said.

“No thanks,” he said. “I already got one.”

A bit later, he was smoking a joint with the birthday boy. This southern good-ole boy hotel security guy smoking a joint with our Rastafarian sound man. Talk about southern hospitality.

We were lit and rowdy, throwing furniture into the pool, pretending to rescue drowning Jill, and me and Al performing glorious front flips, back flips, and half-gainers. The storm quickened into lightning and rain.

“Isn’t this dangerous,” on of us said.

“No,” says Bubba. “This is winter lightning. Winter lightning can’t hurt you.”

Who knows what the hell that means? But it was good enough for us, so we stayed out there.

I remember the warm rain like this from when I was a kid in Kansas. The gutters would overflow and we would float down Mill Creek Road like it was a river. When it was this warm, rules about not getting wet no longer held. The sense of being freed from one of our many subtle controls took over. We would vigorously soak ourselves with that freedom. Running around sopping wet, with our arms outstretched as if we could get even more wet.

That’s how I felt just before dawn, a grown man, half-naked, running around in the rain under sheet lightning.

That fateful tour was cut short with sad news from home that our bassman’s father had passed away. We wouldn’t see New Orleans.

Renegade Saints & Crazy 8′s

shipe — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 16:36:50 +0000

This just appeared outta nowhere: a satisfying indulgence by my other band–The Renegade Saints–in a great Rolling Stones number. Live at the Portland Bite Festival (2008). We were joined by none other than the Crazy 8′s horn section. Love the twin trombone attack, and love Al Toribio’s excitable arrangement.

Renegade Saints play “Justice” big.

shipe — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 16:53:46 +0000

There are a lot of versions of my song “Justice” floating around. My other band–The Renegade Saints–took a liking to it; it suits our excitability. Prior versions, in early Shipe Bands, would lean on a Middle Eastern element. (Sudden & Merciless drummer Rich Sellars called it “Egyptian Funk.”) But the Saints are pure Americana–going all out classic rock style. This is from Portland Bite Fest 2008–courtesy of Al Toribio, who takes no prisoners in his guitar solos.

Shipe-Ebbage Chaos at Hogan’s w/ Cargill

shipe — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 05:19:50 +0000

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.