I have been a part time member of The Last Drags. Pat loves jamming with friends and he knows how to make them comfortable sitting in.

Here’s a tasty morsel from Portland where he has none other than the great Al Toribio joining at The White Eagle, playing on my song “Waiting on You.” It’s appropos, as Al played the original lead guitar on the album from which this came–Sudden & Merciless Joy (1999)

They do emphasize the funky-friendly side of the tune. (This surely comes from Pat’s love of Steely Dan.)

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.

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.)

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!

I have a way of welcoming requests, even though I almost never play the song that gets requested: Jack Johnson, Sting, James Taylor, John Mayer… But hell, why wouldn’t I welcome direct interaction on the subject of music.

Last night, I got a request for Gordon Lightfoot. I told him that, where I come from, we have an ordinance about Gordon Lightfoot. “Play Gordon Lightfoot, go to jail. That’s the law!”

Thereafter, this Lightfoot fan, after every song, seemed to clap sarcastically, long after all other applause had died down. Instead of ignoring it, I said, “Man, he’s not gonna let me off the hook for that Gordon Lightfoot thing.” And I offered to do it spoken-word style… if he could beat box. Noticing the sudden look of horror on everyone’s face, I relented. No one wants to see Shipe rap.

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!)

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.

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.

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.