Dia de Las Puertas!

Did something completely nutty the other day and listened to ALL SEVEN Jim Morrison-era Doors albums (including the posthumously released "An American Prayer", some of which was totally new to me).  The others were quite familiar - old ground I travelled many years ago and frankly wondered if I'd ever revisit.  There is only so much music you can fit into your life and I had long since written the Doors off as a group that didn't make it into adulthood with me.  I was a huge fan in high school and college, had all of the important albums on cassette (although had only upgraded two of them to CD).  I had read "No One Here Gets Out Alive", owned a copy of "Wilderness" (Jim's unique poetry) , burned out a VHS copy of "Live at The Hollywood Bowl", and went with a group of college friends to see Oliver Stone's biopic as soon as it was released.   My freshman roommate was a big fan and I recall vividly his criticizing my drunken drumming-along (slapping my palms to my legs) to "Light My Fire" while he was trying to sleep (he was a drummer himself, so his critique had an added weight).  A also recall, the following year, sitting in a friend's apartment riding on a mellow mushroom high when someone in the room pointed out a poster of Morrison on the wall (the iconic "American Poet", Jim-as-Jesus pose, and likely the same poster I had had on my dorm wall the previous year -- between a poster of the Old Man With Lantern from Led Zeppelin IV, complete with Stairway lyrics, and a poster featuring an anonymous scantily-clad woman and bearing the slogan "Man Cannot Live on Beer Alone" - which speaks volumes on both my own intellectual and maturity level at the time, as well as the depth of the philosophical and literary contributions of the Lizard King).  At any rate, regarding this other person's Jim poster, the commenter questioned whether Jim Morrison idolatry should really be practiced by someone who has already graduated from the twelfth grade.  I remember tittering along as the accused fumbled weakly to justify the poster, all the while feeling inwardly red-faced at the realization that I, too, still appreciated the poet/singer - a fact that I suddenly saw as a mark of obvious immaturity.

 As it happened,  my interest in the Doors did genuinely begin to wane in those college years as I was introduced to music beyond Classic Rock.  Groups like the Stones, Beatles and Pink Floyd continued to interest me and still get regular play on my stereo, but the Doors fell by the wayside (The Who did too, actually, although I was never nearly as into them as I was into Jim and company).  Over the years I've almost completely ignored the group, dismissing them from my musical landscape.  Once in a while I'd let a song play on the radio, or watch a few minutes of "Hollywood Bowl" on VH1 Classic, mainly for the nostalgia, but otherwise I haven't really had much time for the group.  As I started to collect vinyl I usually skipped over the Doors section at the stores.  Once in a while, for curiosity's sake, I'd examine a copy of the first album or LA Woman.  But the discs were usually over-priced for the quality of the vinyl, and for my interest level.  Then one day I picked up an imperfect copy of The Soft Parade for cheap.  I recalled having a particular affinity for that album and when I took it home and played it I found that the songs were still sounding great and I began to open my mind just a little to once again appreciating the band's music.  I later picked up Strange Days on LP and, while I was a bit less impressed with that one, the record left me with a rekindled (although relatively weak) Doors fever.  I set about acquiring the 5 Morrison-era CDs I didn't already own and decided to jump right into the deep end by playing them all back-to-back, in order (although in going from memory I screwed up the order a bit). 

 I have to take a moment to thank Silvie, who was kind enough to tolerate this undertaking.  Actually she was typically game for such madness and passed the time crafting alongside of me on the couch (more on that in a later post).  She is generally pretty neutral about The Doors and during the evening made occasional welcome remarks such as "So far this is the most circusy song we've heard" (Alabama Song) and "Back Door Man?  Isn't that the same thing Led Zeppelin sang about?  Did they steal blues songs, too?"

 My impressions throughout the evening were generally along the lines of a fair-to-middling appreciation of the hits, welcome re-acquaintance with some forgotten gems ("Yes the River Knows" and Hyacinth House" for example), and the noting (often aloud) of what I would consider filler, seemingly on each disc.  I concluded that, allmusic.com-be-damned, I still consider The Soft Parade to be my favorite Doors album, and I ended up throwing a dozen or so tunes from various discs into the ipod.  The group's best songs really are up there with my favorite songs of all-time ("The End", "LA Woman" and "Wishful Sinful", to name three) and I'll likely add the four missing Doors LPs to my shelves eventually.  I regained an appreciation for Jim Morrison (although in a bit less elevated sense than I had back in the day -- I still appreciate his lyrics, but am less inclined to call him a poet, and recognize his strong song-writing and vocal skills, diminished for me, but still worthy).  Incidentally, I also came to learn that guitarist Robbie Krieger's songwriting contributions were far more noteworthy than I ever suspected.  I still like Robbie's understated and great playing, John Densmore's skillful, impassioned drumming, and even Ray Manzarek's ubiquitous keys (I prefer his piano-playing to organ, but you have to give the man props for handling some of the band's bass duties on a keyboard).  In summation, listening to the Doors again was like catching up with an old friend who hasn't changed much over the years, and whose many qualities and quirks you immediately recognize all over again making you wonder why it took so long for you to look them up.  You promise to stay in touch, but you realize that they probably won't be much of a presence in your life in the foreseeable future - and that's okay too.

 

Furthur

I had a dream the other night that I went to see Furthur at the WaMu Theatre.  The dream goes like this:  I took the light rail to the Stadium District and then spent a somewhat ridiculous amount of time trying to walk the few blocks to the theater.  I could see the sign for the venue between the stadiums but I was unsure how to traverse the terrain (fenced -in vacant lots, rail yard, highway on-ramps) between the station and the theater.  After following a thin dirt trail to a dead end at a busy intersection with no crosswalks, I found myself doubling back and eventually walking up a spiraling cement walk that turned into a bridge that passed over the vacant lot and the train tracks and pointed me in the direction of the WaMu.  When I arrived there was a tiny but lively scene of the usual crunchy neo-hippie folk.  There was a small parking lot with a rather pathetic Shakedown brightened up by a good-sounding band set up in a corner of the lot.  I saw two guys getting in each other's faces, which you hardly ever see at shows, but they eventually went their own ways without real incident.  I sat on the sidewalk and ate the sandwich Silvie had made me, took a picture of the marquee poster and headed into the theater.  It was my first time at this venue, and it was interestingly strange.  They have a rather large space that can be used for convention-type activities, or which can be configured into a more intimate theater setting with a dark, cavernous lobby area with plenty of room in which to roam or stretch out.  It was 90 minutes or so until show time and I walked right up to the front of the floor (there was a stand of seats in the back and a large floor space).  There was a group of about a hundred early-arrivers who camped out near the stage and so I stood around for ages about three people from the rail, stage left.  There were distinct groups of folks but individuals from different groups seemed to interact in such a way that it seemed as if everyone knew each other.  A few people struck up conversations with me, but mostly I just people-watched, wishing I had brought a book, until the floor got quite crowded and show time neared.

As soon as the band launched into their opener, "Victim or the Crime" (a Dead tune being debuted by Furthur that Bob Weir dedicated to the NFL), one of the guys I had been talking to, Alex, sparked up a large joint.  He passed it among his friends until a nerdy-looking guy to my left tapped him on the shoulder and asked for a hit.  A few minutes later the joint was gone and I turned to my left to see the nerdy guy standing rigid, bug-eyed, with mouth wide open, while a girl behind him asked him if he was okay.  He shook his head yes but told his buddy that he had to get out of the crowd.  He had clearly entered orbit.   I made it a point to watch for when Alex would pull out another joint.

Meanwhile the band was continuing through a nice version of Bob's Lost Sailor > Saint of Circumstance combo.  They would end up playing a mix of tunes that weren't necessarily my favorites but which were really well done.  When Alex's second joint came around I made a motion for it and took a few deep puffs.  Moments later I started to blast off.  I felt like I was starting to float and at the same time I felt the floor slanting to the right and I was careful to remain upright in the tightly-packed crowd.  I saw instantly why the nerdy guy had panicked and headed for the back of the theater but I was determined not to become a casualty.  At any rate I had no choice but to ride the wave as I didn't trust my legs and feet to carry me across the floor.  So I kept on dancing and singing and trying really hard not to levitate.

It was during this time that a singularly strange thing occurred.  I was doing my best to keep my focus on the band but everything was suddenly so intense (the music, the people, the lights) that I briefly found myself wishing that Silvie was there to steady and reassure me, maybe take me out to a waiting car and drive me home and put me to bed.  It was just then that I turned slightly to my right and... oh my god, there she was!  Right there next to me.  She was moving towards me, staring into my eyes, and she had her arms out to me.  I was truly confounded.  What was going on here?   I just stood there, frozen, as the girl leaned in and hugged me and kissed me on the neck.  Part way through the encounter I decided that this was not Silvie.  It was a girl Silvie's height, wearing glasses like hers, who looked so much like Silvie that for a few confused seconds I really thought it was her.  Oh, did I forget to mention that she was wearing a turtle costume?  I watched her as she moved away from me and through the crowd, hugging and kissing each person as she went.

I continued to ride the wave of those few tokes through the first set (with the floor now tilting to the left), wondering if I'd be able to walk through the crowd at setbreak.  To my relief I was indeed able to make my way to the lobby and my legs gained strength and coordination as I walked from end to end of the sprawling, purple-lit lobby.  After standing in line at the water fountain (I was so parched that I took a full minute at the fountain, which was less time than most folks took - clearly dry-mouth was going around).  I made my way back into the theater to await second set, or as I think of it now, Paranoia Time.  Suddenly everyone seemed, in one way or another, sinister to me.  I stood next to a guy who took off his jacket and started flexing his arms like a boxer loosening up.  I was convinced that he was going to start something so I moved to a different spot.  I found myself standing near a group of people and thought I heard one of them say my name and tell me that she knew I was watching them.  I got the hell out of there.  As the second set started I moved about a half-dozen more times because people were creeping me the fuck out.  Even when I'd found a relatively good spot to stand, I would be looking around every few seconds to make sure no one snuck up on me.  I kept checking my wallet.  At one point I ended up next to the boxer guy again!  I freaked out and two-stepped the fuck away from him.  Another guy tapped me on the shoulder and told me that the song they just played was great.  I nodded and agreed with him but I thought he must have been insinuating something, or had some ulterior motive.  Another time I thought I heard my name, this time my full name.  I bowed my head and fled.  I ended up hunkered down next to the soundboard operator with my back to a railing so that nobody could get the drop on me, and I kept my eye on everyone.

I wasn't in the best frame of mind, obviously, but I did manage to enjoy the set.  The band played great versions of "Passenger", "Estimated Prophet", and one of my faves, "Jack Straw".  As the show drew to a close I was feeling a bit less paranoid, and a little more steady on my feet.  I decided to cut out before the encore, mainly because I thought it was getting too late and I didn't want to call Silvie from the train too late, or (god forbid) miss the last train.  I walked out and took a few more snaps of the poster outside as I turned the corner and headed back the way I had come 6 hours earlier. 

I climbed the stairs to the walkway and was soon on the spiraled concrete walk down to the street level.  I passed a homeless person at a quick pace, feeling a lot less high and paranoid, but still wary of my surroundings.  As I rounded the curve I saw a figure ahead of me.  He looked to be a kid in his twenties with layers of clothing and a backpack, and he was weaving from side to side as he went.  I was clear-headed but unsure of whether to hang back or speed past this guy.  Besides the homeless man there was no one else around, and even though the walkway was adequately lit, I still felt decidedly less than safe going down that walkway.  The kid shuffled to the right side of the walk, so I decided to walk briskly past on the left.  As I passed him I turned to look at him.  He turned too, and when he saw me he ran directly at me, with his hands up in front of him, screaming at the top of his voice.  I jumped back and sprinted thirty yards or so back up the walk.  He didn't come after me, but turned and continued to walk to the bottom of the walk.  He had gotten scarily close to my face and his scream was menacing but also kind of anguished-sounding.  I gave him a few moments to reach the bottom and was glad to see him turn right, as I was going to be crossing the street and continuing forward.  When I reached the bottom I looked down the street to see him striding beside another lone walker.  He seemed to be harassing the person or arguing with him.  At one point he took off his sweater and angrily flung it down on the sidewalk.  I paused at my crossing.   The streets were deserted and I didn't know if I should follow the two in case an attack happened or run like hell away from there or get out my phone and dial 9-1 and wait to see what happened next. 

What happened was that the guy who was being harassed moved onto an ascending walkway and the messed-up kid turned away and gave up.  I decided I didn't want him to see me and start walking back my way so I took off across the street, sprinting two more blocks to the train platform.  The platform was of course deserted and I realized that, as the platform had only one access point and there was no indicator as to when the next train was coming, I needed to find a way out of there in case I saw the kid approaching.  On the other side of the northbound tracks there was a too-tall fence, so I planned an escape across the southbound tracks, over a short concrete barrier and onto the busway.  From there I'd just have to run for it and hope he was too out of it to pursue.  But after a small eternity the train thankfully arrived and I was pleased to find it far from empty this late at night.  I rode the rest of the way in ease after a night of adventure with a great story to tell Silvie when she picked me up at the station.

 

Mt. Dickerman

I took a solo hike on Mt. Dickerman in August.  Dickerman is located on the Mountain Loop Highway in the Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest, and its trailhead shares a parking lot with the trailhead of the Perry Creek/Mt. Forgotten path, which I've hiked four times in the past.  I got an early start, reaching the trailhead at 8:00, after a two-hour drive.  I was the first to sign the register and started off eagerly.

While the Perry Creek trail lulls you into a false sense of security, only to spring steep switchbacks on you after the falls, Dickerman gets right down to business.  The weather was coolish and overcast, and I felt good as I negotiated the scores of switchbacks through dense forest.  Eventually, I came upon the meadows which were just lovely, carpeted in red, white, yellow, blue and purple wildflowers.  There were quite a few meadows, and walking through them on long, not-so-steep pathways was a nice reward for having come through the switchbacks.

I reached the top in just under three hours, having stopped a few times for photos and snacks.  While the hike was tough, I made it through with surprisingly little real difficulty.  The summit was grand, with two main peaks and a flowery sloped meadow.  Fog obscured most of the long-views to the horizons, although the middle views into the valleys were impressive.   I planned to spend an hour at the top and began to wonder if the clouds would push through sufficiently so that I could see some of the surrounding peaks. 

During that hour, the fog pushed through in waves, steamed up from unseen valleys, and blew through the meadow where I stood.  The sun tried to poke through, and I got glimpses of clarity here and there, but eventually the fog blanketed the view in all directions, the sky darkened and it got uncomfortably cold.  Luckily I had a hooded windbreaker, although gloves would have been nice as well.  I was soon shivering and looking for places to stand so that the swirling winds would miss me. I walked down the meadow towards a lower cliff and was surprised to find a metal box with solar panel and antenna mounted on the cliff edge.  A sticker on the back identified the box as belonging to Snohomish County Search and Rescue.

I trudged back up the meadow towards one of the peaks.  The fog hadn't lifted, it was still cold, and my predetermined hour was nearly up.  I was just about ready to head back down when I was startled by a gray jay flapping right by my head.  He alit on a nearby treetop and eyed me.  I took the hint and dug into my bag for the almonds in my trail mix.  He wasn't shy and flew onto my hand.  His mate was a little more reserved and waited for me to toss one onto the rocks for her to scoop up.  Soon there were more jays, about 5 or 6 total, and each took turns at landing on my hand for an almond.  Luckily I had plenty of almonds and so I settled in (as the air warmed and the fog lifted slightly) and spent a good long while enjoying the birds' company.  I truly felt blessed by nature that the jays showed up to save me in my hour of discomfort.

When I ran out of almonds I walked around a bit more to snap pictures here and there, as the fickle fog allowed.  I soon saw a group of seven mountain goats grazing on a slope in the middle distance.  They were too far away to get a clear look at them, and a fully-zoomed picture still made them seem remote, but I felt blessed again to see them.  I had heard of folks seeing goats in the area, and I wondered when I would (well, wonder no more).  They were patient grazers and I watched them for a short while from my lofty perch. 

It was difficult to tear myself away from the summit, but I had to leave sometime.  In the end I spent two and a half hours on the mountaintop, and didn't see another hiker until I was a half-hour down the trail.  I would pass seven people total on my two and a half hour descent.  I was sore and exhausted by the time I reached the trailhead and enjoyed a sandwich and some lemonade before starting the drive back home.  The fog had never fully cleared, so I missed a good chunk of the available view (including Mt. Baker) but that will only serve as a good excuse to come back and climb Dickerman again sometime.  I had a great day on that beautiful mountain; a day made even more special by the beautiful wildflowers and the friendly jays.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mr. Monkey goes to Tahoe

Mr. Monkey took a week's vacation in south Lake Tahoe and was kind enough to invite me along.  My mom and bro came along, as well.  We stayed at the Ridge and had a very relaxing and fun week.  We hit the beach (water was pretty darned cold), flushed a few shekels at the casinos, took a drive to historic Virginia City, and did a lot of hanging out.  I hit a record store in South Lake Tahoe and two in Reno, and scored some choice LPs (including Astral Weeks, Plastic Ono Band, and a few Miles titles).  All in all it was a great week, with perfect weather and no cares except what to eat next.  Here are some pics featuring Mr. M:

Freshies!

 

Emerald Bay

 

Virginia City

 

Good Karma 5k

On Sunday I ran in the Good Karma 5k at Seward Park. It was my first organized race in a few years. This is a choose your charity event, and I picked the Seattle Humane Society. I'd gotten back into running a couple of months ago and Silvie bought me a pair of the just-released New Balance Minimus Zero shoes, which I love. I've been going to Seward Park twice a week after work and on Saturday mornings - lately running the 5K course in preparation for Sunday. They threw a bit of a curveball, as the course was run counter-clockwise, with the uphill loop being run clockwise (exactly the opposite as I was used to experiencing it). My best time in training was just under 30 minutes, but on Sunday I ran 31:52. Middle of the pack, and 5 out of 10 in my age/gender division. Not horrible, but I'd dearly love to improve. I'm on the lookout for other 5ks and I plan on doing the Pumpkin Push in October which I've done twice before. Here are the results (I'm far down the list at 170) and a pic of me looking rather winded at the finish:

Miles

Today is the 86th anniversary of the birth of Miles Davis, the badass king of jazz, and a musical hero of mine.  Admittedly, I only started to get into Miles, and jazz in general, a few years ago.  I started off with Coltrane, Monk, Tatum, Brubeck, Corea and Getz.  But when I got around to Miles, that was it.  I'm still learning much about the man and his music.  His career was a long and winding road, from the bebop of Charlie Parker, through hard bop, cool jazz, his great quintets, his work with Gil Evans and Teo Marceo, his amazing electric period, to the fusion and pop of the eighties.  Miles was restless, ever pushing his music out into new directions and leaving a stunning collection of recorded works.  The most immediate for me is the electric period, paricularly In a Silent Way, Bitches Brew and Tribute to Jack Johnson.  These albums offer a somewhat smooth transition to the jazz world for a jam band fan.  Davis in fact opened for the Grateful Dead in 1970 which, if I could time-travel, would probably make my head explode.  From there I worked backwards, not entirely in a straight line, to experience his 50s and 60s output.  As I become more a fan of this period of jazz in general I find my appreciation for Miles growing even greater.  The combination of his consistantly beautiful music, his knack for surrounding himself with talented collaborators, and his tone on the trumpet put him in the rarified company of Jerry Garcia in my personal musical pantheon.

My favorite Miles album?  Well, I mentioned a few choices earlier.  In a Silent Way has a real grip on my psyche, and Jack Johnson is hard to beat with it's driving rock and immediacy.  Lisa Simpson went way back to the Birth of the Cool compilation album for her pick.  But, I'm going to go to 1959 and one of the most celebrated jazz albums all time, Kind of Blue, which is just about perfect.

Happy Birthday, Miles.

 

Happy Birthday, Bob!

Today is Bob Dylan's 71st birthday.  One of my all-time musical heroes, maybe number one when all is said and done.  I first got into Bob in high school when my Deadhead friend Jason hooked me up with a copy of Biograph.  I used to play those tapes in our family car and my mom quickly got to like the tunes (we even share the same favorite Dylan song, "Abandoned Love").  I recall sitting at the typewriter in our dining room pecking out the lyrics to Hard Rain and Desolation Row.   My brother actually bought an album before I did, a cassette copy of Highway 61; but within a few years I would have a couple dozen Dylan CDs in my collection.  I saw him a few times in Pittsburgh; the first time at the great Syria Mosque during my freshman year at college. My dorm-mate, and later roommate, Ethan, was a Bobhead too, and we geeked out for countless hours (when the first triple-volume of the booleg series came out, we both walked downtown to buy copies and I remember lying on the floor of my dorm room giving those great discs a run through).  I still love Bob, and have about 15 of his LPs on my shelf (including a nice copy of Biograph).  Sil and I were lucky to catch Bob at Bumbershoot two years ago.  Here's to you Bob.  Happy Birthday, and many,many more....