The Smallest Bar on Route 62: An African Calling

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Dateline: Karoo Desert, South Africa. I'm waking up in the arms of this desert again. My Two-Tone Merc, The Old Girl, hums in the newfound heat. In the mornings we are both a bit stiff. But she needs her plugs cleaned. Yesterday, in Lady Grey, Rudi put some new shoes on her. Now we can stop on a dime again: or rather a rand. It's been a long, cold spring in this part of Africa. Close, in the mountains at the Lesotho border: it's been crisp at night, and the Rain gods have been kind, though boisterous. A few small shows across the wilds of the Free State and into the norwest reaches of the Eastern Cape. There are some good pot holes here that the upcoming elections haven't fixed yet, reminding me of the ball joints I've yet to install. Cars like to eat, so I always share my wages with them. You never know when they will put on a hunger for something special like a new battery, or a starter motor. Or a tyre. Or something something.

It's the petrol that sucks this Tour: not the Old Girl's fault– but we just can't make all the stops we usually do. Some of those dirt roads overland will have to wait until the next adventure. Meanwhile, the map stretches out before me: worn at the seems now, a little frayed at the edges: but still welcoming: still enticing: still luring me from the well travelled roads to the strange, the peculiar, the places I still can't pronounce properly, the places where the tinkle of goat bells sound like wind chimes in the distance: the places where you can stop the car in the middle of the road and turn off the motor: and watch the springbok leaping in the distance. And then: the generator hum: the pop of a cold Savannah: the Rolling Stones on the PA in some bar: the natter of laughter and conversation. I'm rolling down Highway 62: this is America's old Route 66 crossed with Hwy 61: with no speed limits: no limits at all sometimes: just what you come across: and what finds you. Roll down the windows in the heat: and be whoever you want to be.

The Zamani Grill: self proclaimed "Smallest Bar on Route 62." I don't know if that's true, but I like the idea. There's not enough room outside to park a tour bus, but there are giant hearts inside, and the place smells like good food, and soon enough: another galvanized stage: and the Blues is back in Town. Yeah, Savannah me up, darlin,' I've got a story for you now.

My Dark Horse Blues Tour creeps and storms across South Africa's Western Cape until mid- December.

Barking at the Gate

Clonakilty at the International Guitar Festival. Wrapping this tour of Ireland. Here: we watch each other's hands. He tunes too much. I don't. We tell stories. We embrace each other: friends new and old. We applaud. We shout. We gossip and laugh. We sit streetside and eat fish and chips. Some dance into the small hours of the night. But it is so much more than that.

Recently I've been watching old dogs more carefully. You see them: cheerful, wagtailing: but limping along beside their masters: and you know that the days and the months and the years are fleeting. Long in the tooth, one might say. A little grey hair, a few white whiskers: a few special pills: another trip to the vet: dreams about chasing squirrels: and running with the now grown, now gone children. They have their own dogs now. Young ones that bounce and ride in the truck: that bark at the gate: and still chase balls with purpose. I've noticed that the gear is heavier this year. And I don't always remember the names of the places where I'm going to perform tomorrow, or the next day. That shoulder is pretty sore. The one that I fell on three months ago. And these jeans are pretty threadbare, too, if you happen to see them in the right light. I can look like a street person when I need to sleep in a train station, or I can pretend to be a rock star when lounging in a hotel lobby. The truth is somewhere in between. Either way, my bladder is now similar to that of an eight year old dog, and sometimes I really need to go out. Badly. And it seems that my eyes are not what they once were. I don't beg. But I do know a few tricks. Mix a strong set with a couple of hot whiskies. Plug it in, and turn it up.

After two months of living in the Irish listings, I understand the rescue dogs better: as fellow travellers. We limp along: we shiver in the rain: we appreciate simple gifts of mercy: the divine grace of strangers: the last chances for redemption and purpose. While it has been a busy tour, I didn't see all of the Irish flowers that I wanted to see this year. And now: the gardens have been closely cut, the hedgerows trimmed, and the days of autumn numbered. Perhaps spring will come to walk me back here again: I leave in hope, yet also in some gathering sense of sadness. I've enjoyed barking at these gates, but there are still squirrels to catch, and balls to chase. Soon I'll be overweight across Africa: After I leave Doha I’ll be paying bribes on the freight. A couple of guitars, a couple of mics, a direct box, a little desk, a bunch of cables. Wagtailing in Neverland.

#livemusic #nationalsteelblues #canadiansongwriter #notfromwinnipeg #irelandblues #vintageguitar #storytelling #blackstairsbluesfestival #howthbluesfestival #seachurchballycotton #openhousebluestrail #rescuedog #deltablues #clonakilty #capetownblues #canadianblues #torontoblues @highlight #africanblues #southafricablues. My pal James Carr took this picture in Clonakilty, Ireland.

 

From Dublin With Love

 

From Dublin, with love: Friday night: the blues is back in town. Near the canal. Off the 39 bus. The cool, but not too cool air moving slowly, slower than my hands: slower than the lights changing from red to blue to green: little figures set into the sidewalk: like sparring boxers: like me: I'm in the ring for a thirty minute, no holds barred round. I've got a left hook you wouldn't believe, and tonight the sound techie is in my corner for me. Come out strong, boy: ride the night: line it up and light it up: each breath and each song might be your final cue. If there are angels in the air I'll take my chances and ride a bit harder. It's a good crowd tonight, and this old National has got a powerful motor. We'll take a risk or two together: as the lights turn from red to blue across the Dublin night. Darius took this cool pic, and the Stephen Brennan Band kindly hosted me at the Sine e club. Dublin's own RoryFest producer Geraldine O' Shea organized, and a grand time was had.

The Dark Horse tour now moves to Ireland's deep south: Sept 10, Sea Church, Ballycotton Sept 11-13, Blackstairs Blues Festival, Enniscorthy Sept 19-20, Clonakilty Intl Guitar Festival. There are a few little pop-up, shows in between these, so I'll be busy. The Tour picks up in South Africa in early October.

 #canadiansongwriter #nationalsteelblues #irelandblues #vintageguitar #livemusic #deltablues #storytelling #blackstairsbluesfestival #canadianblues #irishblues #notfromwinnipeg #seachurchballycotton #capetownblues #dublinmusic.

Live Music

 

Live Music: and sometimes now we find it as memories set in the crumbling faces of buildings that once contained it. Six nights, and a matinee. You could make it big, or lose it all upstairs or downstairs: or in a small, rented room down the street and around the corner. Places with radiators that never worked except maybe in summer. If you were as clever as you thought you were, you might have run from this: the music business: like the rings of Dante's Inferno: concentric: eccentric: our time in the pit infinite: all of us looking upward as the black birds of Fate circled and picked at our wounds. If hope wasn't a sin, it might have been a chain around our necks. But we'd skipped school, and convinced the scruffy manager to finally hire the band for a week. Maybe somebody had cancelled on short notice. Or perhaps he had simply got tired of us hanging around bothering him. But there it was: our big break. And in we went: forever changed: not duffers anymore, not outsiders: not wankers: but part of it: players: real deal musicians. Destiny called, and we answered with enthusiasm. We took out union cards.

Live Music: inscribed in neon, or stone, or glass, or sometimes by a part-time sign painter who could work his dyslexia against a window for a few bucks. George was the guy in Toronto, and his sloperb handiwork could be seen distributed across the windows of the economy rooms around that city. "Live Music." "Dancing." "Girls Girls Girls." "Haircut." He was a big, hard drinking man who also worked as a nude model at the art college. He didn't care if people made fun of his shrivelled up little prick. Or if he did, he never said so. He played tambourine in a few punk bands, for which we bought him beers. His signage pointed the way to many of our little temples. There was a guy like George in every town.

Neon, of course, was a better bet. "Live Music" in blue, or red was very classy. Better than paint on glass. Some of these joints were built in the 1940's and 1950's. Not just bars, but lounges. "Ladies and Escorts." Dirty velvet wallpaper. Signs that sometimes flashed. High voltage investments from another age. These would cause noise in your stage equipment, and later: add taxi cab radio to your wireless guitar. But they did make a certain kind of proclamation: hot, or cool: and when the right light rippled on the skin in the right way you could easily imagine the rest. Imagination had a lot to do with it, while the dance floor provided opportunities to the brave. "Hey, man, did you know John Lee Hooker played here one time?" Boom, boom. What was the name of that club? Neon stages were just better: they had hotter lights: lights that parted the cigarette smoke and swirled it around in mysterious patterns. Mixed with neon, this fog produced the romance of the stage. Sex, drugs, rock'n roll, blues, heartbreak, sweat, the best solo you ever heard: anything was possible. You can still smell it on the old amps: neon dreams.

Under these Live Music signs we cut loose our dreams: we played, danced, and sang as if it mattered. We opened for Muddy Waters. We played pinball between sets. We stole each other's girlfriends. And now sometimes: maybe not often enough: it returns to us as memories set into the crumbling faces of the buildings that once contained it all. Traces of booze, and pretty girls, and poetry and pool. The best song you ever wrote. The record deal you might have had. The Super Reverb amp you lent to Elvis Costello one time. Live Music. Six nights and a matinee. You could make it big, or lose it all.

Still at it, my Dark Horse blues tour is teasing the blues around Bangor and East Belfast for a few more days before another stop in Dublin, and then: Sept 9 Cafe Myo, Cork Sept 10 Sea Church, Ballycotton Sept 11, Blackstairs Blues Fest, Enniscorthy, Co Wexford Sept 12, Blackstairs Blues Fest, Enniscorthy, Co Wexford Sept 13, Blackstairs Blues Fest, Enniscorthy, Co Wexford Sept 16, Crowley's, Kenmare Sept 19, Clonakilty Intl. Guitar Festival Sept 20, Clonakilty Intl. Guitar Festival Oct 2-4, TBA Free State, South Africa. More dates to follow... 

The next best thing to Live Music is to ride with me to some of the world's coolest little blues venues. To join me on the Blues Highway- you can Like, Follow, and Share me on Facebook.

#LiveMusic #canadiansongwriter #deltablues #nationalsteelblues #notfromwinnipeg #capetownblues #vintageguitar #canadianblues #storytelling #torontoblues #southafricablues #irelandblues #oldmercedes #ontour #sonhouse #RoryGallagher.

A Rory Gallagher Day in Dublin

Now my fave Dublin stop!

My pal Geraldine O'shea took this pic as we visited all of the Rory Gallagher shrines in Dublin. Here I am at Some Neck Guitars. Behind proprietor Owen McQuail and I is his fantastic collection of Rory Gallagher gear and memorabilia. In the bottom left of the picture you can see some of the Gallagher Band flight cases. Up top are some cool amps, guitars, pedals... The 12 string Stella is very nice... Blonde Fender amp with 4 tens in it... on and on... Wow. This display is way better than the poorly lit, single guitar they have up in the National Museum of Ireland. Why did they do it that way? And the Museum has more guitars in long term storage...

Anyway, Some Neck Guitars is a very cool place from front to back. They've got walls of quality vintage and used gear, and some very nice, high end new and used acoustic and electric guitars. Great vintage amps... The not-for-sale Silvertones up the middle wall are a gorgeous feature. Thanks for the hospitality, Owen! The best music store in Ireland? Seriously, you'd probably want to play every guitar in the place through every amp. Ha, this sounds like an ad, but it's not! I was thrilled to discover this little shop.

After an excellent time at the Howth Root and Blues Festival, I'm now heading into Ireland's deep south for shows at Schull, and then at the Skibbereen Blues Roots Soul Festival this weekend.

Dark Horse: A Real Mudder for Ya

 

The Big, Big, Long Long Tour

 

The Tour: stretching off into the distance: in front: behind: behold: the empty highway. The lonliness of a long distance runner: the pack: long dispersed: long collapsed and shattered into the water stops long miles ago: when the road was busy: when headlights were clicked up and down in the darkness: and the distances themselves were imperial. But out here on the eastern Karoo the Old Girl eats kilometres, and there is no hint of light where the world breaks with the sky: no warming signs of life; no mercury vapour beacons: nothing to count but the distance itself: the crackle of the broken radio speaker: the rattle of the ball joints over a rough patch: the interruption of a thought: the zen of the drive: the almost glint of the almost fallen sun catching insulators on the power lines: the steady tick and hum of the German motor.

There are probably other things moving out here, but I can't see them. Driving away from the sun: I could tur off the motor in the middle of the road: and why not: there: the silence: a faint wind shaking the dry weeks: have a leak on the still hot pavement: watch lightning trace the sky half an hour away in: the distance: some big strike: a bit like tracers: but random: glinting. Was it God's left hand? Was it something darker, rolling the bones, coming up craps all the same? The music has been like that, too. Connected to places between here: and there: and not well grounded. And why should it be? It's about 119 km until the next town that might have a petrol station, so I've got my eye on the gauges.

There has been drought, and for all of the miles of fences: just a few springbok: casing the emptiness: do they look for the ghosts of the sheep, or or of the cattle: or of the guys who strung all of this wire? And where are they now? Living or dead? In what place do they drink, and toss their Castles to the ground? I wonder if the main difference between them and me is that they are no longer here? And I am. Here: but not there. Not where you are. It take a lot of hectares to support even a small farm: and it takes a lot of bums in seats to support even a small tour. Drought helps you to see that, while thirst pushes such truth to the back of one's mind. Sometimes that's a lot of distance. Enough to stretch another tour through, enough room to find enough excuses until the main bearing fails, or until it rains once more.

The Darker Roads National Steel Blues Tour will pick up in Glasgow in early August, with festival and club dates to follow in Northern Ireland and Ireland. Check the sidebar for dates and locations.