When I say unplugged, I mean no microphones, no amplifiers, and no P.A., in an intimate venue, with an audience accustomed to listening quietly. I gotta tell you it’s lovely.

I was a accompanied by Scott Cargill and his lineup from 7 Devils, who nailed these arrangements on the fly. Outstanding musicians, and great friends, they had brushed-up shortly before my arrival. We had minimal discussion, ran through a couple songs, and called ourselves ready. It could not have gone better.

The Devils: Nathanael Tucker on Fiddle, Jim Laws on percussion, Scott Cargill on mandolin, and Ryan B. Gibler on bass (who managed songs he has never even heard before.)

My close friend Scott is the perfect musician to do this sort of total acoustic set-up. As a deep, knowledgeable fan of roots combos driven by mandos, banjos & stand-up basses, he has the attitude for it. His mando strumming is relentlessly in-the-pocket! Together with Jim on the percussion (handling such quiet volume with authority, emotion and dynamics) I felt comfortable rhythmically — more than usual.

Fiddler Nathanael, in the unplugged format, marvels at “being the loudest instrument in the ensemble.” But with such sweet tone and phrasing, it’s a good thing. The country-ish material went particularly well with fiddle: “Villain,” “Honky Tonk Romans,” “Like Some Folks Do,” and “Some Hidden Things ” (which features a whole string section on the studio album).

We closed the show with “What Right Do We Have to Fall in Love?” The Devils didn’t know this one at all, but damn if they didn’t turn it into the big finale!

Nathanael is also the owner of La Boheme. I exhort my acoustic colleagues to get in touch with him sooner than later. A great, relaxed host, he produces special shows, taking care of both the audience and his fellow artists. He comes from a family of musicians (brother of Simon Tucker), so he knows what matters.

Tonight, Scott joins me for a duo show at Eichardt’s in Sandpoint. Come Saturday, we get take the 7-Devils/Shipe combo to the next level @ Hogan’s in Clarkston.

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.

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.

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…

This is touchy area for some singer/songwriters, but not for me. I’ve heard some artists mutter, “I ain’t a fuckin’ jukebox.” Me, I welcome requests. It usually means that they like what they’re hearing from me. They enjoy what I do, and wonder if I might enhance the evening with a certain song they like. I’m not offended. It’s not that they’re bothered or bored by my set, and would I please just play something else?! It shows that they like music, and have confidence that I can play anything. Hell, if someone thinks that I can pull off a James Taylor or John Mayer song, I take that as a bit of flattery.

However, I almost never know how to play the song they ask for. And as for James Taylor, I’m not really a fan. And I’m particularly not a fan of James Taylor cover-doers either. I usually take requests as useful information about what mood a group of folks are in. I’ve got 100 of my own songs to choose from, plus about 30 idiosyncratic covers. I can take care of their listening needs in my own way.

What matters is engagement between audience and performer. In the venues I play–wine bars, taverns, coffeehouses, restaurants–any kind of engagement is golden.

What I really like is when people request actual Shipe tunes. Good thing Lex was there. He’s an old friend from early Moscow John’s Alley and KUOI Radio days of the 90′s. He reminds me that he’s been coming to see me play for 17 years! How can I refuse his request for “Delivered” and “Know By Now.” (These are two songs that came real close to hit singles back in the Renegade Saints days. They remain catchy, but I have been gradually morphing them into more modern cadences via slightly eccentric performance. I would like to run into to more Saints fans and test out these treatments.)

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!)

I would have liked to play better, I was a bit uneven on lap steel, making a bloody mess of Ebbage’s sweet songs. I’ve got four gigs to fix that, and I’m better rested for tonight’s gig at Moontime in Coeur D’Alene.

Alley folks were kind to us as usual. Buying CD’s and chatting us up and down about our solid music–even though we were a little off this time. (It wasn’t quite the zone we were in when we played Ashland last time… when I ended up hospitalized for a supposed kidney stone… which I still have… even though it’s not a kidney stone…It’s a herniated disc, which I still have…. which makes it scary to drive 8 hours and then sing & play for 4 hours… songs like “Crawlspace” and “Imitation Man” especially… But I’m okay, I think.) We must have come along way since 1997, because even though we felt “off,” we still managed to sell some CD’s.

Towards the end of the night, when we were really starting to fade, a fellow came up to us, named Matt and said: “Hey guys, it’s getting late, and no one’s really listening, you want some sax?” (Hmm, it sounds rude when I write it here, but it wasn’t rude the way he said it.) Although I was just about tapped out and ready to call it a night, I wanted to hear what he would sound like with us. (He’s part of a band with Bennet the accordion player from Ala Zingara, so he had some automatic credibility there.) He warmed up on recorder as I played Green Day’s “Good Riddance.” Next, I challenged him with Bossa Nova “Just in Time.” Sounded great, so we finished off with “Don’t Pass Montgomery By.” Nice.