After the titanic mishap with my plane ticket from Burlington to Denver, I finally ended up at Denver International at 5:55pm on Friday. I hailed an extremely pricey taxi and hightailed it into town, where I found Swallow Hill, Peter Mulvey, a plastic tub of chicken massaman curry, and the nicest sound guy and house manager I've ever met.

Peter and I caught up over curry for about twenty minutes before it was show time. I wowed them (if I may say so myself), and afterward sold a whopping twenty-three CDs to ninety-two people!

The next day after breakfast (Holiday Inn huevos rancheros) we left for Colorado Springs, where we found Marc and Whitney Luckett (purveyors of fine house concerts), their two daughters, and their incredible dog, Jack, awaiting our arrival in their breathtaking house. We all went for a hike before I settled in for a quick guitar lesson from Peter, followed by dinner and a show.

Not to brag, but this time I sold twenty-five CDs to sixty-three people. ; ) Amusingly, the night before I left Burlington was spent hanging out with Nicole, Joe, Jed, Kenny, Chris and Oliver Wood, drinking and talking while I packed for Denver. The punks convinced me not to over-pack CDs, and of course, I ended Saturday night's show with only five left.

The next morning was a gorgeous one, and Peter, the Lucketts and I found ourselves in an infinite conversation about music (mostly blues and jazz, with forays into other genres). I had my laptop and Peter his iPod and guitar, and Marc and Whitney a formidable collection of blues compilation CDs. We spent about three hours geeking merrily. What started with Billie Holiday serpentined into Victoria Spivey, Ray Charles, Cleo Brown, Snooks Eaglin, Hoagie Carmichael, Billy Collins, Steamboat Willie, and finally Kelly Joe Phelps, whose heretofore unheard version of 'Goodnight Irene' left me goosebumped and haunted. Before long, music talk turned to dance talk, and I couldn't help but show the company this blues dance video, and this one.

Peter and I slumped back into the rental car to enjoy another two hours of fine musical conversation and song-trading. He introduced me to Greg Brown, and I him to the Wood Brothers. We found that we both hold Anais Mitchell and Leonard Cohen in equally high regard, but wouldn't trade our own body of work for that of any other songwriter.

In Fort Collins, we checked into the hotel and then to Avogadro's Number, where dinner and a quick sound check were followed closely by a great show for a small but dedicated crowd of Mulvey fans. Without the pressure to sell CDs, and this being the last of a six-show tour, I pulled out some of my less standard fare including Lovesick, Willing to Fall, Every Punch You Throw, and Gusty and Smart. Half way through Peter's set he brought me back up to sing 'Paper Moon', which went off without a hitch (unlike the previous night's attempt).

Yesterday we woke up at 5am, left for the Denver airport, and parted ways reluctantly. Peter is another in the long and growing list of outstanding musicians who also happen to be outstanding human beings, incredible music nerds, and good friends.

We left Philly on Tuesday morning in a big gray borrowed minivan. Nicole, my road manager and best friend of ten years, made us two mugs of Oolong tea for the road, and we were off to pick up Joe. Joe is the first and only member of my band, a bright-eyed upright bassist studying at Temple jazz school. We drove for six hours and found ourselves in Boston, outside the Paradise Rock Club, just in time for sound check. Nicole and I exchanged familial hugs with Chris and Oliver (this being our fourth tour together, we are all good buddies), said hi to Kenny (their road manager), and met Jed, an adorable percussionist and the newest addition to the Wood Bros band. We also introduced Joe to Chris, which was a big deal, because Chris is one of the better upright bassists known to mankind, and Joe is still a young Jedi. That night we all ate Thai food, and then played an awesome show to a very attentive, appreciative crowd.


Joe and I at the Paradise

The next day we had to abandon Joe at my big brother’s place outside of Boston, because he is sans passport, and Wednesday’s show was in Montreal. What’s better, a snowstorm of the most intimidating proportions was wreaking its havoc up the east coast at just the same moment we had planned to do so. Leaving Boston, the sky was blinding white, and the roads were spread with a thick paste of gray slush. The minivan is a good beast, but not well-equipped for such conditions, which only worsened as we trekked through Massachusetts to Vermont.

 

I-89 in the middle of the day.

After driving 30mph for the majority of the 300 mile trip, we finally reached the Canadian border at 6pm, an hour after sound check was scheduled to take place. Being still an hour from the venue, we were displeased at the news that immigration officials wanted to interview us inside. But as the fates would have it, immigration was decently forgiving, and sitting in the lobby looking desolate we found a gorgeous young Australian man, who helped Nicole switch her iPhone into ‘don’t-charge-me-fifteen-bucks-a-minute-for-roaming-fees’ mode, and then told us a heartbreaking story involving a long-distance girlfriend in New York whom he was supposed to be visiting, and a full eight hours spent being interrogated at the border instead, resulting in refusal of his re-entry into the US.

Gorgeous Young Australian Man

He was so cute and his story so miserable, we couldn’t help but scoop him up into one of the five extra seats in our minivan. We drove him to Montreal with us, arriving at the venue at 7pm, an hour before show time. While Nicole (god bless her tiny heart) ordered food for me, I went upstairs to change and prepare. The audience was small but powerful, listening impeccably (had pins been dropping, you would’ve heard) and laughing uproariously. After my set, I collapsed in the green room where our lonely hitchhiker was drowning his sorrows in free booze. Thankfully the Wood Bros didn’t mind sharing their Jameson with (well, donating their Jameson to) a stranger.

We spent that night at Anni’s house, a haven of gorgeous, warm, incredible-smelling comfort. Anni made us a drink that was so delicious, even I (an avid teetotaler) could not resist. It involved Amaretto, something creamy, something sweet, and a foreign bean reminiscent of vanilla and almond. It was all heated to irresistible temperature and served in a short glass.

Anni With the Delectable Concoction

Thursday morning came after an excellent sleep on Anni’s heavenly bed. Nicole and Anni, being world-class food magicians, elected to invite Chris, Oliver, Jed and Kenny over for breakfast rather than sending us out into the snowy world. When the boys arrived, there was fresh bread and many cheeses on the table, a pot of green tea with honey and a J.J. Cale record playing. Chris squeezed twenty-two oranges while Anni made the thinnest omelets known to man, filled with her own oven-dried tomatoes, a soft tangy cheese, and something like prosciutto. The omelets were served with fingerling potatoes and crème fraiche, and followed closely by a pile of beautifully fatty sausage. We could hardly rip ourselves away from the table to dig the cars out of the plow dirt and head south.

But we managed, and Nicole and I kidnapped Chris and Ollie for the two hour drive to Burlington. We chatted, played Cliff (Natalie Portman, Scarlett Johansson, Uma Thurman circa 'Dangerous Liasons' was the clincher), and enjoyed the wonders of the iPhone’s ‘Mulletizer’ application. After the van got searched extensively at the border, we dropped the boys off thirty minutes late for the radio show, picked Joe up at the Greyhound station, and checked into the windjammer hotel. We went for a quick hot tub in our skivvies and headed to the venue.

After a leisurely sound check, I gave Joe an early Christmas present: a thirty minute bass lesson from Chris. I had asked earlier in the tour and Chris, being a believer in Joe’s skills, invested in my success, and outstandingly kind, obliged. We went on stage a few minutes after they finished, with Joe’s eyes still ablaze with disbelief at having just jammed with Chris Wood.

The Burlington crowd was rowdy but appreciative, and we retired happy after our thirty minute set. We ate catered food and watched some of the Wood Brothers’ show and some of Hot Tuna’s (who were playing in the auditorium attached to the venue, and sharing our green room space). Afterward, we headed to the hotel and drank Nicole’s homemade mead in celebration of our departure.

   

Joe and I in the Green Room at Higher Ground

This morning, I woke up at 4am (after hitting the pillow at 2:30), dragged myself onto a shuttle bus, and arrived at the airport in time for my flight, only to find that my flight was yesterday. I blame Travelocity. Thus, I’m stuck in Burlington airport, writing a blog entry instead of flying to Denver. I’ll get to the club tonight just shy of showtime, but Peter Mulvey is a saint, and said only “Your safety is the #1 thing. Having a good time is the #2 thing. Getting to the show on time is a distant #3.”

If I’d known musicians were such a kind, wild hearted, hilarious species, I wouldn’t have tried so many other jobs first.

This week finds me decompressing from my first ever music industry schmoozefest, NERFA. I know it sounds like an IKEA ottoman, but NERFA is actually a music conference - the North East Regional Folk Alliance conference. It's a yearly event that affords a bunch of us starving artists from the northeast an opportunity to showcase for roomfuls of bookers, promoters, DJs and other industry buffs, thus booking a bunch of gigs and hopefully not starving quite so much in the year to come.

WXPN's Gene Shay was my champion for the weekend. He invited me to come play the 'Folk DJ Showcase' on Thursday, NERFA's opening night. Basically, a bunch of DJs come to this show, and each gets to bring one artist to showcase. Each artist gets to play for ten minutes (yes, ten! Just two songs! Three if you keep the commentary brief, which I don't). The exciting thing is that we're playing for DJs, the very people we spend millions of hours emailing and assembling press kits trying to reach. So I played for the DJs, and they loved me, and afterward I did plenty of schmoozing (chatting up, among others, Rich Warren (of WFMT Chicago) and John Platt (of WFUV New York), both of whom went home with complimentary copies of Buoy, which I'm pretty sure they'll wear out completely in the weeks to come ;).

On Friday I played a second showcase, this one open to all NERFA attendees. To my shock and delight, the room was overflowing, packed to the gills with folkies who had apparently heard the buzz generated by the previous night's show. This time I played for a whopping 15 minutes, and earned myself a 'golden ticket' to play a THIRD showcase on Saturday afternoon.

So basically, it was a whirlwind of mingling and hobnobbleship, peppered subtly with brief performances by myself and others. The listening highlight of my weekend was Philly's own Beaucoup Blue, a father-son blues/Americana duo with impeccable musicianship and mournful, soul-bending harmonies that hurt the heart and delight the ear. Another favorite was Kevin So, a songwriter whose reputation as soulful, thoughtful, witty and professional preceded him, and turned out to be delightfully accurate. Also quite enjoyable were Cape Cod newgrass quartet Tripping Lily: young, adorable, Nickle Creekesque, and equipped with mindboggling (in a good way) compositional sense and buttery sweet voices. And take note, their album, The Day Everything Became Nothing, actually does them justice - a woefully rare occurrence in the folk world.

Schmoozing being not my cup of tea (I prefer an actual cup of tea), the weekend was not what I'd call a party, but I did make lots of friends and business contacts, and I'm pretty sure that's the point. Now to wade through this pile of business cards...

I write from my brother-and-sister-in-law's new apartment in Somerville Mass. It's an uber-Bostonian twin with dark wood, radiator heat and a built-in china cabinet sunk into the dining room wall. Today's weather is a bit desolate; the sky is white-on-white, and it's cold enough to require leg warmers and wool socks, even inside the house. Despite the chilly reception, I'm thrilled to be in Boston. I always get a creative bee in my bonnet when I have a whole day to kill in a foreign town.

My brother has a record player, and a motley collection of 70s and 80s pop, with a few modern indie bands and eclectic classical selections thrown in. To my delight, he has a copy of 'Still Crazy After All These Years', one of Paul Simon's myriad of near-perfect releases. This album is home not only to 'Still Crazy', whose forlorn refrain has lodged itself firmly (and deservingly) into the Zeitgeist, but 'Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover', a three-minute tootsie roll of a song that is so conceptually and melodically straightforward, it has every songwriter since asking ourselves why it chose Paul's head to pop into and not our own, when he had so many sugary morsels in there already.

In Songwriters on Songwriting, one of the most wonderful books ever to exist, interviewer Paul Zollo has Mr. Simon discuss the moment when 'Still Crazy After All These Years' popped into his head. Wish I had the book in front of me, but don't. He says he was stepping into the shower when the refrain occurred to him, and didn't at first identify it as something brilliant and timeless; he found it heartbreaking, and wished it wasn't true.

So many years later, I think we all have the same reaction when we hear this song. As the refrain rolls around irrepressibly, our heart can't help but sink a little, even as the melody rises. We are still crazy, damn it, after all these years!

I think it's a common misconception that songwriting is an enjoyable process. The best and truest songs don't waft from the clouds neatly wrapped, they rip their way through your heart, razor-toothed and wreaking havoc. It's easy to see why most people prefer fiction.

Do you like your female singer/songwriters smart, funny, vocally cute and flirty? If so, let me fix you up with Carsie Blanton, a Philadelphia treasure who deserves to venture far, far away from this town.

I write from a green room in Bridgeport, which is not green (does anyone else find that trend odd?), eating homemade soup provided by the lovely hospitality chef. I opened tonight and last for Bruce Hornsby, which has been an honor and a pleasure (augmented slightly by the fact that sales from these shows will be paying my rent for the remainder of the autumn ;). His fans are bright eyed and bushy tailed, and both nights have gone off hitchless.

Besides these, I've got shows this month with David Wilcox and John Oates, and this winter with Ana Egge, Tracy Grammer, Kris Delmhorst, and the Asylum Street Spankers, and a Colorado tour with Peter Mulvey. I'm in good company through early spring, when I'll be departing for my first ever European tour (!), courtesy of local nonprofit Philadelphia Sessions.

What can I say but, forgive me for the whining! The work is good, thrilling, and satisfying, if sometimes taxing in its volatility.

My morning in Albany was brightened by an intensive Mp3-trade with fellow early blues fanatic Mike, who provided me with 341 tracks of blues-soul-and-country bliss, most ripped from pre-1960s 45s. I made it through less than 10% on the drive down, but so far my favorites are soul ballad 'Let Your Love' by LuLu Reed and Freddy King, and "Shake Sugaree" by country blues artist Elizabeth Cotton, with guest vocals by her angelic granddaughter, the 14 year old Brenda Evans. Listen, but make sure you're in a peaceful mood first. This girl may break your heart and make you eat it.

Well, somehow the rain and chill has pulled me OUT of my funk, and I'm finding myself happy and tranquil even as summer (quite objectively the best season) slinks out of Philadelphia in the night. I think I'm overdue for some quiet introspection, and my soul is glad for the mandatory meditation of autumn.

Yesterday, in some instinctual fit of cold-weather-nest-preparation, I ventured to the House of Tea in south Philly to stock up on (you guessed it) orchid oolong, tea of the Gods. I woke up this morning positively thrilled to don a polka-dotted fuzzy robe, brew a cuppa, and sit at my little desk making up songs. It was a lovely morning, and I'm still in my fuzzy robe as I tell you (and myself): toil and whine to your little heart's content, but clearly, all is right with the world.

Well, here I am on the other side of an album, having bled and sweated over it, released it to the world, and heralded its release in thirteen cities. It's even available online!

Everything was great! The crowds, the shows, the money - all were sweeter, fuller, and more than expected.  So.... now what?

So far, it's dog walking, pie making, dance teaching, email writing, and house cleaning.

Just like always, I'm booking a few gigs, writing a little, emailing a lot. It's hard to say, on the heels of such a project, if anything new will come of it. A few more fans, a few more gigs, hopefully some people feeling moved. I love hearing what folks think of it - I'm still in a vacuum of subjectivity, unable to get any perspective on it. The feedback I'm getting is most welcome (especially Oliver Wood calling me to say, "My wife's crying, my baby's dancing. It's a good album!") But so far, no deities are swimming down from the sky with magic charms, or suitcases full of cash. No Grammys, no stadiums, nobody offering to fly me to LA.

I'm not really disappointed (did I really expect any of that?), but a little underwhelmed - I've never been so thoroughly obsessed and committed to something, and now that I'm on the other side, I'm not sure what to do with my newly empty brain and calendar.

Any suggestions?

As you hopefully know cus you're hopefully on my mailing list already (sign up here), I'm about to embark on an east coast tour, with my idol, Devon Sproule. Devon is a genius. Her songs are lyrically impeccable and musically innovative, she's a skilled and inspiring guitarist and vocalist, and her performances are downright charming in every way.

This tour is the first time ever that the new album, 'Buoy', will be available for purchase.

Here's the itinerary:


If you're a fan, the best way to show your support for my music is to come to one of these shows. This new album brings my work to the world in a new and exciting way, and I'd love all of you to join me as I embark on this next phase of my career. I always appreciate your support, but this tour poses a unique opportunity for you to break a champagne bottle on the proverbial ship before I launch it out into the wide world.