It remains untitled, but finally comes into creative focus as I understand where this material comes from, and who the character (or set of characters) is that makes this album. One of the songs is called “Love Belongs to Everyone,” which could to be a title cut. But I’m afraid it won’t do, because it’s one of those “means-the-opposite-of-what-it-says” lines, which nobody will get until they listen to the song a few times.

And besides, as Amy says, an album of that title, judged by its cover, will be easy to dismiss at first glance as a lazy collection of hippy, one-world, one-love musical platitudes. To that, I say, “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?”

“Ha,” she retorts. “If only that was what you had to say.” (The song itself is as dark as any I’ve written, featuring a highly disturbed character. But at least the chorus is uplifting… uh… in a kind of mournful way… You’ll have to hear it, I guess, and you’ll see what I mean.)

She goes on to ask, “Are you making another Sudden & Merciless Joy?”

No, I’m not. But, yes, this album comes from a restless, worried place. It’s not the domestic placidity of Yellow House. After all, I was ungrounded, moving from Eugene to San Diego to Yellowstone and back to Eugene, enjoying life, but struggling to get leverage in my endeavors. I should have indulged in sunny California mellow melodies, and wide open Yellowstone Big Sky . But this guy went further inward than outward.

That said, I insist that he’s not so existential as SMJ. He’s more like the Blue Rebekah storyteller who lodges at Yellow House.

If that has you wondering how this album is going to sound, all I can say is, “me too.” I’m in the capable hands of Ebbage, and I trust him all the way. Together, we’ll make sure the whole thing makes a good damn bit of sense.

We picked him up from Luv-a-Bull, a shelter & sanctuary here in Eugene, OR. Liesl Wilhardt, the hero who runs the place–compassionately and expertly–takes in orphaned Pit Bulls from all around North America. Likewise, people from all around the continent adopt from Luv-a-Bull.

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.

What they do have, however, is a great Irish scene. Irish bands and Irish pubs. (Gentlemen from Flogging Molly reside there.) I was lucky to fall in with these folks. Ned Giblin, of Brehon Law, invited me to play Wednesdays at his pubs, J.J. Landers and R. O’Sullivan’s. So, I had regular gigs and a close look at a timeless style of music. (The influence of Ned and his cohort David Lally is bound to show on my next album.)

In Oceanside, I befriended Doug Whorly and several of his showcases at McCabe’s, where I met the lovely and talented road warrioress Jacqui Foreman. She honored me by covering my “Faith in the Man.”

It was at a Whorly showcase where my wife, Amy Wray, filmed the video of me covering The Pretender’s “Brass in Pocket.”

I didn’t bother working the L.A. scene. Too big, and like different country. But at the urging of my publicist Leona, I played a couple times at The Gypsy Den in Orange County. (Once with Trevor Davis.)

We lived down the beach from football star Junior Seau, who has a beautiful blue Pit Bull named Rocky. I mention the dog, because it was about this time that my connection to the international Pit Bull community really deepened. I was getting daily e-mails from dog lovers about my song “Pit Bull Blues,” which I gave out freely to anyone engaged in canine care and rescue. Soon, videographer Jeff Fleiss contacted me with the idea of making a video. By spring, he had hauled me up to L.A., filming me in front of the Coliseum amidst 25 Pit Bulls and their trainer, Dogman. He put it together with some excellent footage taken by Amy, and boom… there was a sweet video… still getting legs on the web.

That was one of two Shipe production videos that got made in ’09. SoCal is the land of movies, so it seemed right to film while I was there.

A most serendipitous fortune was meeting fellow Oregonian, former Eugenian and Renegade Saints fan, John Grimshaw, a filmmaker who had just produced 20 Wheels to Memphis (Adminium Films) At John G.’s direction, we made an arty video of “Yellow House.” This was one of the most enjoyable creative collaborations I’ve been a part of. He became a great friend; I hope to work with him again and again.

I didn’t have enough time to work the San Diego scene. Disappointing, because they have one of the best tiny acoustic venues on the West Coast in Lestat’s. There, I went to see my friend from Portland, Stephanie Schneiderman, another great road warrioress. (Being on the road is tough; it means a lot to have familiar faces from home show up in the audience.)

Since I was on a sabbatical, I wasn’t all business. Pleasure: Besides daily milk shakes on the pier, and Irish bands, it was zoos and deserts. Anybody who knows me knows I love the zoo and the desert. San Diego has the best zoos. And Joshua Tree National Park has the best deserts. I went to the Zoo and Wildlife Park 4 times. Joshua Tree twice. We stayed at the same place U2 stayed when they were making their groundbreaking album. (Another Irish band, you know. So I worked up “Red Hill Mining Town” and brought it back to the Irish Pubs.)

Oh, another pleasure: Dyson, my old drummer came down, and watched the Padres play the S.F. Giants.

May rolled around and we had to leave. But where to go? Yellowstone National Park, to live among bison, wolves, bears, moose, geysers and tourists. Professionally, this too seemed like a mistake. Dial-up internet, no cell phone service? But this was a childhood dream come true. Yes, work was difficult. But I was able to write a lot. And I could tour circles around Montana and Idaho, where they deeply appreciate live acoustic music. I could approach my usual Northern Idaho stomping ground from the backside, doubling the size of my familiar circuit. The drives were long, but gorgeous. I found myself gigging as much as I always do: Vino Rosso in Idaho Falls, Sandbagger’s in Pocatello, Riley’s in Helena, The Cellar in Missoula… In Boise, I got to hang with my other former drummer Scott Headrick.

In June, I came home for my most important gig of the year: Officiating at Ehren Ebbage’s wedding (to Anna), as a Universal Life Minister.

Living in Yellowstone, I didn’t feel like I was missing much. Played softball, worked out in the gym, played piano, met new people who never talked about politics or religion. And, Amy and I started filming a Yellowstone documentary.

In July, the nightmare occurred: we lost our hard drive. Every new song I had recorded from the start of the year, and the music for Amy’s film… gone! I had been pushing in new musical directions, and much of it wasn’t sticking into memory. So, losing it all really took the wind out of my sails. (The less said about that the better.)

In August, I returned home again for Tim McLaughlin’s Music Edge Camp, to teach with Ebbage & Zack. There is nothing like teaching kids for getting yourself back on track.

In October, we came home. Back to work. I had trouble with the transition–trying to re-connect with my regional circuit, re-establishing my place on NW roster, re-building my student clientele. But an invitation to speak to a mass-media class at the U of O stirred my confidence and enthusiasm. Motivated, I moved aggressively on several Shipe fronts. First, I signed on as lead guitarist for The Last Drags with Pat Kavaney and Jerry-Groove. (This de-isolates me as a musician, and scratches my rocker itch left by The Renegade Saints.) Next, I kicked off international promo run for Yellow House, with Emerging Artist Resources. (This is already paying dividends beyond expectation.) And finally, I moved an upright piano into my house (with the help of River my protogee and his bandmates in The Tunnel Kings.)

There was peripheral sadness as the year was closed. My agent Linda decided to retire. (Not so sad for her, really.) Also, longtime Eugene arts patron Wally Slocum passed away. (The Renegade Saints reunited for the memorial at the WOW Hall.) And saddest of all, a close friend of mine lost a brother.

The holidays began cheering me up, threatening to put me back on the sunnyside, when suddenly, I was hospitalized with a kidney-stone, or gallstone, or herniated disc, or something. That really sucked, for sure, but when I woke up from sweet Morphine and ever-friendly Vicodin, I checked into my business to find that I already have a new agent. Plus, I found out that I’m on folk charts in Europe and Australia.

So now, as I start the new year back at Headquarters at West of Eden, rediscovering workaholism, I think to myself: The next time I want to release three or four videos, double my tour circuit, and get radio play on two other continents, I’ll take a sabbatical.

I was born “John Shipe,” but my mom re-married early, and my name was changed to “Schwartzman.” By the time I was 9, my family was in the S.F. Bay Area. At 12, I tried to learn guitar. It didn’t take. Baseball and soccer came more easily than transcribed versions of “On Top of Old Smokey.” (However, I did learn the intro to Boston’s “More than a Feeling,” and the wicked riff from “Play that Funky Music.”)


We soon moved to the Portland area (Oregon). More baseball, more soccer & basketball. Finally, at age 17, I got a classical guitar for Christmas. (I was a Yes fan, so I thought a classical guitar would send me on the path to mastering pretentious British Art-rock.) At first, all I learned was a bunch of Church tunes. Then, for a high school English project (Lord of the Flies), I accompanied my friend Matt Emlen on his “Evil Nature of Mankind Blues.” It was my first blues solo. I shredded…cheddar. In May of that year, I played “Wild Thing” for Stephanie Tromley at the Prom Queen ceremony–with Matt, my friend Tod Kelly, and Mike Walker who would later join me in college forming bands like Mission District and The Renegade Saints.

In College, at the University of Oregon in Eugene–home of Ken Kesey–I read a lot of books by dead white males, took a lot of creative writing courses, and formed a band called The Couch Potatoes with Warren Dexter (whom I had known since I was 13). We played The Doors, Eric Clapton, Z.Z. Top, Beatles, et cetera et cetera. I sucked miserable ass, and so did Warren, but with great passion! Our first drummer, Matt Reynolds, was awfully skillful. (He would later do stints with both Mission District and The Renegade Saints.) Our second drummer, Doug Nary was good too. (I heard a rumor that he played on tour with Kenny G–probably backed him up on the classic smooth jazz hit, “The Note.”)

In 1986, I took some time off in Walla Walla Washington–to chase a girl, and to make a real attempt at becoming a true musician. I finished my first real song: “Know By Now,” a love song. In Walla Walla, I didn’t become a great musician, and I didn’t get the girl. But the song was worth the whole summer’s effort. And subsequent bands got a lot of mileage out of it.

Meanwhile, in my absence (and Warren’s), Matt Reynolds was briefly re-forming the Couch Potatoes with a young Coos Bay rocker named Al Toribio. When I returned to Eugene, the Shipe musical family tree was taking root. Matt and Al and I started jamming. Then one day, I asked Mike Walker if he had enough free time from his Deadhead band Nine Days Wonder (with Dave Coey) to form a new band that would be “a little bit more mysterious and intense.” Yes, he did, especially if we would cover Santana. He introduced us to our bass player, Jeffrey Powell, a dreadlocked Rasta Man who preferred reggae, but who was happy to help us out. We practiced in a rental space down by the railroad tracks. The homeless rail-rider dudes would sneak in and jam-out to our excruciating loudness. Jeffrey laughed, “This is like the Mission District.” So that’s what we called it, and we played Claptana tunes for the last half of the 80′s.

Backing up a bit. Mission District and The Renegade Saints didn’t form very quickly. Before actually having a band, Al and I were spending a lot of time as an acoustic duo. (There are some… shall we say “adorable?” …bootlegs still extant.) Like our then-acoustic contemporaries, “The Strangers,” (from Eugene’s Greek contingent), we made use of a little venue called “Arnold’s Hideaway,” on East 19th Street (now the Agate Alley Bistro). In an inspired personnel move, we borrowed Nine Days’ rhythm guitar player/vocalist Peter Bach. As Toribio, Bach & Schwartzman, we competed with the Strangers for the title of best Crosby, Stills & Nash rip-off. (Admittedly, I think TBS drank too much PBR to win a CSN contest, but we gave those Frat Boys a run for their money. Our big number was a version of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” in which I faked the Spanish or Italian or whatever with non-sensical pseudo-accent Stills-like-NOT!-wailing!)

When Peter Bach wasn’t around, Al and I swept up a local diva named Linda Raiden (Now Hannah.) She didn’t like my idea of a name for our folk trio–Libido League–so we settled on two others: Lazy Kind of Ecstasy and/or Back Porch Acoustic Balladeers. It was during this ensemble that I started to believe I could sing pretty well. And there is indeed one bootleg (a show opening for John Fahey) which supports that questionable thesis.

Eventually, that Deadhead band I mentioned, Nine Days Wonder, put out a fine album called “Left of Center.” Walker, Dave Coey, Peter, and Ben Sturgill were writing original tunes, so Nine Days warranted extra attention. This relegated Mission District to hobby status. Walker went on tour, Matt Reynolds had parted, and Jeffrey became busy with fatherhood and reggae music. Al and I were left recruiting new rhythm sections for Mission District. The talent came and went, fine musicians like Fred Van Vactor, Jeff Langston (now with Antony & The Johnsons), Dave Burrows (of Mare Wakefield’s team), and a saxophone dude Scott Berry.

Nine Days Wonder’s nine lives had to end eventually. And when it did, Toribio and Shipe had already given up trying to hold to Mission District together. (Somewhere during that band’s latter incarnations, I got tired of trying to pronounce my own name—Schwartzman–after several shots of Jaggermeister. I resorted to “Shipe.”) Al and I joined forces with Coey and Walker for a new beginning. We recalled Matt Reynolds from Economics-land to aid us in our all-out assault on the road. (He agreed to do it on the condition that he date the girl I had been writing songs about.) We called our new excitable band The Renegade Saints, hoping for a place in the national music landscape. The industry appeared to be celebrating the end of the goofy 80′s by returning to organic tastes from which it had taken a wrong turn.
That was the early nineties, a good time for true, independent rock-n-roll. Bands were getting signed like crazy. Audiences were willing to spend money on live music they had not seen before. Horde Tour and Lollapalooza were spreading real raw rock all over the country. We were gonna reap the benefits of this boom…and we almost did. Opening slots for Dylan, Blind Melon, and Hootie materialized for us. (Although we weren’t supposed to play electrically for the Dylan show, we snuck our drums and organ onto the stage while the road manager was out for dinner.)

Though we lost Matt somewhere along the way, his replacement, Andy Mitchell helped us make our big album (“Fear of the Sky”) and bring our music to the Midwest and the South. After Andy, in the Saint’s final year, we got help from consummate pro Mike Partlow, and Grunge-man Dave Austin who brought a heavy sound to the project just when we needed it most.

We were almost there, but the effort gave out, about the same time the record label gave out. One last recording, “Strong Medicine” (unreleased) was made on someone else’s dime–ostensibly a demo for the majors. (Maybe a subsidiary of Geffen, I can’t remember.) But that was all we had, Folks. You’ll have to see the journals for details.

I announced my departure from the Saints in the mid-90’s, to explore new sounds, to shrink my rock-star-sized appetites, to build up a bank account, and simply to calm down. We Saints scattered like apostles after Golgotha. Mike went to Asia. Al went to Europe. Dave went to Portland to form Kerosene Dream (with Bart Ferguson, the front man of The Strangers.) I stayed in Eugene to start fresh, working with guys like ex-Stranger drummer Ned Failing, and re-uniting with bass man Fred “the Red” Van Vactor.

At this point, late 90’s, I started working with Ehren Ebbage, who would eventually become the most active, hands-on collaborator in all Shipe projects, dropping into the project amid his own solo career and stints with Justin King, The Dimes, and The Floydian Slips. Ebbage co-arranged my first solo album, Sudden & Merciless Joy. (Produced by Billy Barnett @ Gung Ho studio, the sonic genius behind Cherry Poppin’ Daddies.)

The rest is Shipe solo history.

But we paid the price, didn’t we?

Amy and I went early. We love Ashland, you see. As we were touring around the Plaza, Ebbage called us from Roseburg. His clutch had given out, good two hours North on I-5. He had to find a mechanic, leave his car and take a bus to meet us. But there’s no station in Ashland, so he could only make it as far as Medford. While I set up for the show, Amy had to drive a half-hour to pick him up.

He made it in time. From 8:30 to midnight-thirty, with hardly a break, we played damn near every song in our repertoire, with as much emotion and execution as we ever play. Very satisfying. (Our good San Diego friend–and “Yellow House” vid director–John Grimshaw was there, too.)

But I couldn’t help noticing the hot flames of pain shooting up and my back through the whole thing.

Back at the hotel. I ate my leftover Shrimp & Chicken Pasta and laughed at the Girls Gone Wild infomercial with Amy & Ehren.

In the morning, the pain in my back was like getting harpooned in the waist. I’ll spare you the description of pain so severe it makes you wretch non-stop. Not to mention the absurdity of my trying to deal with it: “It’s just the usual lumbar strain… blaarrrrrrrg…. I’ve…. blarrrrrrrrg… had it before… I just slept on it wrong… blaaaarrrrg… need to ice it… blaaarrrrrg!”

Ebbage, and my wife the nurse/actress, are great in a crisis. Clearing and checking out of hotel room in 3 minutes is an impressive feat. (Must be all of those shotgun load-outs after lousy gigs you want to put behind you as quickly as possible.)

And the Medford Hospital is awesome. I had my first experience with Morphine, which was wonderful. (But I was very angry at the admittance staff when they wouldn’t let me lie on the floor in the lobby as I was being checked in. No, I had to sit up in a wheel chair and answer questions in between dry heaves. That was pretty funny.) They were fantastic. I tried to remember all of the nurses names through my haze of pain and morphine. It helped divert my attention from the illness.

Now, the gig which went so well, made each of us $100 in pay, plus another $50 or so in tips. And we sold 13 CD’s. Plus a free meal and a hotel room. Expense out the $800 clutch job, and the $5000 dollar hospital visit, and we only had to pay $5500 to play together.

And it was totally worth it to play a night with Ebbage… and to dream the sweet “awake dreams” of morphine.

One more thing. I missed the Last Drags CD release in Eugene. But I got so many calls from my friends at the show, I felt like I was there. I’m a pretty lucky guy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AfOfVuEL3bQ