John Shipe: Singer, Songwriter, Teacher, Traveler » Mike Walker

Shipe & Walker @ Rock Creek Tavern (6/30)

shipe — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 18:33:49 +0000

Last night, old friend and fellow Renegade Saint Mike Walker—back from Africa—sat in on piano at Rock Creek Tavern in Hillsboro, OR. Delighted, I’m hoping it’s a prelude to more such gigs. (Add Alan Toribio to mix… and/or Dave Coey, and we get closer to real Renegade Saints shows. But I like these acoustic sectionals, sometimes wondering if I actually prefer their subtlety and warmth to the spectacle of unbridled Saintly gargantuanism. We used to advertise such meetings as “Petty Saints” gigs. The rule was, any combination of 2 or 3 of us was Petty Saints. If we had the entire front four—even without Ned the drummer—we called it a Renegade Saints show. With Ned the drummer, we have a very special kind of beast, after which I’m usually prescribed bed-rest for several days.)

Mike is a “listening” player. He pays close attention, responsive to the singer/songwriter’s dynamics. You easily witness his concentration. He doesn’t just learn the chord progression and plow through it. This visceral manifestation of musical respect, in the moment, brings out ever more pronounced dynamics in the lead’s performance, resulting in emotion. There is more space-between-the-notes. Starker melodic trajectories. Quieter, more intense low spots. More aggressive highs.

It’s a paradox: With the right musical hands, you can discover new levels of feeling, mood and nuance in under-rehearsed material.

Mike was a session cat on my last album, so he’s somewhat familiar with newer Shipe stuff. But I didn’t want his whole night to feel like “hanging-on,” so I gave him a lot of my older tunes. Wow! I hadn’t realized how much I’ve changed since those rockin’ days of yore. I was darker then, driving at something, like trying to scratch an itch that I couldn’t reach. (Which is why you play with a band sometimes, ’cause you gotta hand someone else the scratcher for those certain hard-to-reach places.) A few of these songs are on the Saints live album. Mercy Saints Alive!

Mike plays with a lot folks in Portland. But right now, his main act is with those other four Saints I’m talking about in Mexican Gunfight.

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.

Shipe CD tracking done/ L.A.

shipe — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 05:25:13 +0000

At long last, Ehren Ebbage and I have finished with the tracking for the new album.

Ebbage is off to L.A. to do the mixing. Release is scheduled for the Winter. But soon, I’ll be trickling out a handful of samples as they become presentable, offering a free download or two.

As the 12-week surge of adrenaline recedes slowly from my veins, I get back to the more even pace of rehearsal, booking, promotion, and gigging. Not to mention the CD artwork and publicity. (I’m excited to begin working with Green Light Go, a company of robust stature.)

At the outset of this recording, I confess I was in no condition to make an album. On the heels of a dry spell, re-entering civilization from Yellowstone life, and fighting off a medical issue, I had trouble slipping into my imagination and flowing with ideas. But Ebbage, producer extraordinaire with a great bedside manner, convinced me that there were a dozen gems amongst my latest 31-song batch, then he hauled my ass up to Crossroads Productions

From there, we kept moving forward until the damn fine thing was done. And I feel certain that it’s going to be the best so far the Shipester.

Ebbage and the musicians below, I thank deeply; for they are truly responsible, not just for this album, but for getting me through tough personal times:

Sean Peterson (bass)

Kevin Powell (drums)

Mike Walker (organ, piano, accordion)

Al Toribio (guitar)

Alice Blankenship (violin)

Amy Danziger (cello)

Tim McLaughlin (trumpet)

Johnny Clay (vocals)

And the Feel Good Singers: Mike Last, Jerry-Groove Abelin & Brendan McCloud

Most of all, my lovely & talented wife Amy Wray, who always steps up when it counts–photographer, actress, and occasional feel-good singer.

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.