The following is another vacation report to friends of a vacation Penny, Ty, and I took in July 2005.
Pt. I Summary: Drove up to Dad's farm in Ohio with Ty to go to Jorma Kaukenan's guitar camp. Dog diareah'd Penny's Jeep. Arrived and was quickly humiliated by all the better players in Guy Davis' class.
Pt. II: By mid-Saturday, I was past the point of over-soak on guitar licks. I was just nodding my head and mumbling, "Got it," even though I had no idea how to cop what I was shown and no memory of how to mimic it later. That mental overload was ok because my picking fingers were raw by then anyway. I trudged over to the supply counter and bought finger picks ... more humiliation because I can't play with these prophilatics at all. Picked Penny up from the Columbus airport Saturday evening (she flew in from a GAL conference in NYC). No sympathy from her because she worked hard at the conference (where the hardest task, usually, is staying awake). Had dinner at an Amish restaurant. Plain but hearty. Penny even indulged in the gravy.
Sunday was more of the same class humiliation except now the focus shifted from delta blues (a subject I know) to Piedmont blues (a subject I don't). The Piedmont blues is a term that covers most all rural blues that is non-delta. Can be from Georgia or New Hampshire. It is "informed" by barrel-house and ragtime. To get a handle on Piedmont was the primary reason I chose Guy Davis's class. Piedmont uses an alternating thumb (like some country music) and a jangly-rythem-goes-to-melody finger picking style on the higher strings. I sat and tried to absorb it and did (a little). I figured I could practice it at home but I haven't yet--my disgrace.
Late Sunday afternoon, the camp puts on a "show" where all the players perform whatever they want and each class performs a set piece that they've worked on. Most of the players are not performers or entertainers so most of the players' stage fright is palpable. Having been humiliated constantly in class, I took the easy way out in the performance and bellowed through If This Is Love to the delight of all the uninitiated in that song. Applause-junkie-whore ... f--k it, I was tired of being embarrassed.
All in all, the guitar camp was a great experience again. Davis was real cool and a drop-dead great player of the stuff I want to learn. GE Smith taught an intermediate electric blues class. He is a real nice guy. Quiet but not snobby. Told a few anecdotes when prodded. I tossed up the propositon that our generation continues to buy new music but then asked how can our generation be reached as consumers? He replied, "Yeah, there's not many clubs that book 55 year old white musicians." I felt a little sorry for GE because it seemed to me that his class was 75 percent drag-the-beat-but-speed-up-the-tempo rythem (sp?) players and 25 percent check-my-cliche-licks-that-I-don't-play-with-love-or-reverence lead players.
Michael Falzerano (sp?) of Hot Tuna was another teacher. Nice enough guy. Good player but not distinct enough for my taste. The fourth teacher was a guy who specializes in open tunings. I showed him my Wal-Mart tuning (R-5-R-5-R-3) and he deflated me a bit by saying, "Oh, that's open-C." I couldn't figure it out instantly but a minute later realized that an open-C phrasing would have a fifth (G) in the bottom. I was considering taking his class next year but besides irritating me with that open-C comment, I bought his CD which is about as hearty as no-fat milk. Anyway, the guitar and bass players here ought to take a look at the camp for a good time. It is at www.furpeaceranch.com.
Sunday, Ty-Boy had probably one of the greatest days of his then-eight years. He went four-wheeling with my Dad, cousin Mark Markham, brother Carl, and Mark's (fine) new girlfriend in the backwoods of Meigs County. They were at it about four hours, wheeling through the words, visiting caves, crossing streams, climbing and descending STEEP hills and banks. Ty was allowed to drive--NOT a four-wheeler--but a "mule," a low-center-of-gravity vehicle. But he got to DRIVE all by himself in the woods. He has driven before, but only in Dad's fields with me or Penny--much more tame (and lame for him, I'm sure). Carl turned a four-wheeler over going up a steep bank and Mark said that Ty almost fainted for fear that "Uncle" Carl was going to die. (Carl bailed off in time). When they got done, they all went to a country restaurant for white beans and corn-bread.
Monday, the guitar-camp broke up at noon. I went four-wheeling with Ty sitting in front of me, driving. We ran out of gas near Mark's place. Mark gave us some gas and then we all went four-wheeling again--this time, Mark, girlfriend, Dad, Penny, Ty, and I--Carl had to head home to Fla. I know now why Ty was raving about having such a great time the day before. We covered much of the same territory. Cousin Mark. One of the coolest individuals I have ever known. He has got to be sixty-one or so. He has a thirty-five year old new girlfriend. (Did I already say she was fine?). When we ran up to a branch fallen across the trail, Mark says, "Doreen" [her real name], "Throw that over." She gracefully (and graciously) hopped off the four-wheeler and tossed the branch aside and jumped back on just as happy as can be. Please God, give just one day of influence over such women to do my bidding.
Visited with Dad and Mom. Dad had his usual trove of great stories and observations. We sat on the porch on his high hill with a long, wide view of the valley below and the hills beyond. Ty-Boy caught fireflies. Brother Frank arrived with nephew Jimmy late Monday night. Tuesday, Frank, Dad, and I got up and had a manly breakfast--bacon, eggs, coffee, and toast. Then Frank, Jimmy, and I went down to pound nails on Frank's house, a huge affair of about 3,100 sq. ft. "under air" with a porch on all four sides and an upstairs porch. (Dad had to take Mom to the doc's in Parkersburg, W.Va., where Leslie Wimmer is from by the way). We put in hurricane tie-downs on the porch-supports-to-the-roof-rafters (I don't know how to better describe it). Jimmy brought up a cassette of that "Git 'er done" comedian and we listened to that about three times through. Young people. Don't know how to hold a conversation. Would rather be diverted by any stupid drone/drivel/static than create and/or participate in a real-time conversation.
Wednesday, Penny, Ty, and I left Ohio and drove over to a school friend's house in Pennsylvania, near Pittsburgh. She recently adopted a little girl from India. Penny and her friend gushed all over each other and the little girl for a day. Upon reaching critical mass on girl-talk, I read O. Henry shorts on the porch. Late in the day, we all went to an old-time park where they had high swings that were common before the park departments became timid as a result of weasel lawsuits. Ty loved it. The swing was so high, it took about seven seconds to complete a "swing cycle."
Thursday we drove down to the North Carolina furniture district. Arrived about 3:00 p.m. Only went through one gallery ... with HALF A SQUARE MILE of furniture. Most everything was beautiful and everything was solid wood. Someday ....
Friday, drove through Asheville and over to Silva/Dillsboro North Carolina--not far from where Jill and Danny went for their honeymoon. We have gone there every year for five years now and this time, Penny succumed to the dreaded Mountain Lot Disease. Color me disgusted. Color Penny estatic. Does this woman not fully appriciate basic economics? I'm 52, the end of income is in sight, the housing bubble will burst before we cash out, the Chinese will stop buying our debt, the economy will collapse because we are a service provider--not a product maker, the voices in my head will direct me to become a hare krishna, and all before we pay off this f---ing mountain lot.
Saturday, we got up and started for home. We mined for gold and valuable gems at a gold mine that was conveniently located by the side of the road. Ty loves this. We love him. You do the math. Dilly-dallied down US 441. Hiked to a delicate waterfall located in the highest Ga. State Park. Stopped at the roadside honkey-tonk overlooking Talulah Falls (by the way, Walter Cz's folks are from nearby), then drove down to Atl. to see Jim Johnson (who graciously waited for us since noon). After playing a little on Jimmy's weak-ass Fender and Guild guitars, we went to a cool-as-heck restaurant with fine hippy college art school drop-out "chick" waitresses and rehashed old times. Walter Cz stopped by and I surprised him with two big photos shot on old-school 35 mm from the video shoot for A. On Horseback. They were good shots and Walt looked good (heck, we all looked pretty good back then). (By the way, Walt still looks good today, "considerin'"). Walt promised me a cassette of a very early rendition of All Love All Gone from Flynn's with Salty on the Big Blow. James, remind him, would ya? Went back to Jimmy's house and looked at pics of his Dad with Jimmy Demeret, Bing Crosby, Hogan, Snead, and others. Cool letters to his Dad too--written in that wierd Sinatra-Sammy Davis-Dean Martin-Peter Lawford "lingo." Said good-bye to Jimmy and drove on down I-75. Sunday: home.
All in all, a pretty good vacation--and a real good time.