I woke up at Marymoor Park in Redmond. Last night I had thought I would go to bed early, but Barry, Jerry, and Kevin (Willie’s bassist) were discussing music, and specifically great bassists, and using a pick, and using fingers, so I sat and listened for a while. Alex was there for a bit, Michael too.
We broke it up and headed to the buses, where I talked with Michael for a few minutes. I headed to my bunk and slept. Woke up around 4am with an odd dream about ferrets running about, read Chesterton for awhile, and slept till 9am.
The first thing I did was ask Sean about laundry. He said to bring it, so I loaded it in my canvas bag and brought it. Fluff and fold, ready by 7pm. I figured I’d leave it all clean on the bus for the next trip in two weeks.
I drank my chocolate and headed over to catering. The dressing rooms and catering here are a pleasant and peaceful walk through huge, thick trees to Clise Mansion, built in the early 1900s by a Seattle banker to use as a country estate and a farm for his Morgan horses and Scottish Ayrshire cattle.
Fresh omelets were on the menu. I ate my poultry-fruit comestibles, took the laptop and Tele banjo to one of the dressing rooms, not yet labeled because it was early in the day, and went out for a walk.
The morning here was cool, in the shade at least, and clear, and smelled like pines, and dirt, and clean, dry air. Outdoor smells often trigger memories for me. I suddenly remembered being in my late teens and early twenties at the Grass Valley festival in northern California, though the pines are much thicker there. My mom took me once, when I was visiting her in Reno at about sixteen. We drove down Friday, I jammed till the wee hours, and then we slept in her Datsun B210. We stayed Saturday, listened to the bands, slept in her car again, and left late Sunday. She walked around with me to jams for hours and listened. I think that was maybe 1980 or 1981. I remember us especially loving the Whites with Ricky Skaggs and Jerry Douglas. That was my mother. She had an adventurous, wandering spirit that never got quite enough of traveling.
Popping out of my reverie to the actual world in front of me, I headed back in to my commandeered dressing room for a bit until it was required by the designated occupant, and hopped upstairs to the Union Station room. Fortunately there were two small rooms adjacent to the big room, so I set up in there.
Guitar first. I reviewed the Haggard solos again, then started in on learning more of the Texas Troubadours tune for about an hour. Jerry came in and we sat and talked for a short while.
Sound check came. I kicked off Gonna Settle Down by Flatt & Scruggs and the rest of them followed suit. Quick and easy, plus it wasn’t nearly as hot today.
I headed back down the dampened chipped wood path to the mansion, hopped upstairs to my dressing room, and got out the Telecaster banjo. I’m thinking of recording a more country-ish ballad or two on the bluegrass instrumental record, so I played through some songs that might work. Then I rolled quite a bit to warm up for the show.
Showtime came. It felt good to play. Lately my right hand has been feeling great; I’m going for slightly more extension in my picking fingers, which helps keep the hand relaxed, and it is making a big difference in both volume and tone.
We drove out of Marymoor as Willie was playing; some of us have early flights out in the morning, so we’re near the airport at a hotel. Looks like I’ve got more Eugene Peterson and Chesterton coming up in the next hour.
We broke it up and headed to the buses, where I talked with Michael for a few minutes. I headed to my bunk and slept. Woke up around 4am with an odd dream about ferrets running about, read Chesterton for awhile, and slept till 9am.
The first thing I did was ask Sean about laundry. He said to bring it, so I loaded it in my canvas bag and brought it. Fluff and fold, ready by 7pm. I figured I’d leave it all clean on the bus for the next trip in two weeks.
I drank my chocolate and headed over to catering. The dressing rooms and catering here are a pleasant and peaceful walk through huge, thick trees to Clise Mansion, built in the early 1900s by a Seattle banker to use as a country estate and a farm for his Morgan horses and Scottish Ayrshire cattle.
Fresh omelets were on the menu. I ate my poultry-fruit comestibles, took the laptop and Tele banjo to one of the dressing rooms, not yet labeled because it was early in the day, and went out for a walk.
The morning here was cool, in the shade at least, and clear, and smelled like pines, and dirt, and clean, dry air. Outdoor smells often trigger memories for me. I suddenly remembered being in my late teens and early twenties at the Grass Valley festival in northern California, though the pines are much thicker there. My mom took me once, when I was visiting her in Reno at about sixteen. We drove down Friday, I jammed till the wee hours, and then we slept in her Datsun B210. We stayed Saturday, listened to the bands, slept in her car again, and left late Sunday. She walked around with me to jams for hours and listened. I think that was maybe 1980 or 1981. I remember us especially loving the Whites with Ricky Skaggs and Jerry Douglas. That was my mother. She had an adventurous, wandering spirit that never got quite enough of traveling.
Popping out of my reverie to the actual world in front of me, I headed back in to my commandeered dressing room for a bit until it was required by the designated occupant, and hopped upstairs to the Union Station room. Fortunately there were two small rooms adjacent to the big room, so I set up in there.
Guitar first. I reviewed the Haggard solos again, then started in on learning more of the Texas Troubadours tune for about an hour. Jerry came in and we sat and talked for a short while.
Sound check came. I kicked off Gonna Settle Down by Flatt & Scruggs and the rest of them followed suit. Quick and easy, plus it wasn’t nearly as hot today.
I headed back down the dampened chipped wood path to the mansion, hopped upstairs to my dressing room, and got out the Telecaster banjo. I’m thinking of recording a more country-ish ballad or two on the bluegrass instrumental record, so I played through some songs that might work. Then I rolled quite a bit to warm up for the show.
Showtime came. It felt good to play. Lately my right hand has been feeling great; I’m going for slightly more extension in my picking fingers, which helps keep the hand relaxed, and it is making a big difference in both volume and tone.
We drove out of Marymoor as Willie was playing; some of us have early flights out in the morning, so we’re near the airport at a hotel. Looks like I’ve got more Eugene Peterson and Chesterton coming up in the next hour.