Well, the White Eagle Saloon has a great Songwriter’s Night.  Positive environment and high-quality songwriters.  It reminded me of home – Rula Bula style. 

The View of the Stage from a Barstool

Out the door and into the Eagle

I left the hostel and went to my locker to grab the video camera, and a voice said, “wait…is one’s just for me.”  That voice was mine and my apologies, dear readers, I elected to leave the camera where it belonged, in the locker and set out for the night.  And what a fortuitous choice because I suddenly remembered that I have a Digital Still camera that has video capabilities, andit was in my pocket.  So, you get pictures and I got a lighter load.  No need to lug around the old clunky Sony Hi-8 camera anyway.  I began to scold myself because I carted that thing in here unnecessarily.  Then I forgave myself when I considered that my mobile office (Jansport Back Pack) is stuffed to the gills with necessities.  The camera bag gave me a little more storage room.  I never stay mad at myself for long.

Tri-Met’n it - to Rocking it

An earlier trip down the street to Fat Straw (my temporary office) brought me the trip information and I was back on the 14 Hawthorne bus Rocketing at 35 miles per hour toward City Center.  A few transfers and zang, there I was sitting at the bar chatting with local singer/songwriters honing the craft andpolishing up their latest wares.  The market is good in Portland.  Thoughtful, evoking, and at times enchanting music is emanating from the Open Mics and Songwriters Nights of Stumptown’s pubs and such. 

Connie: The First Perfomer of the Night

For ’props’ sake, I managed to jot down the roster of the artists that signed up last night.  The player that struck me the most was Connie, a mother of two (she brought her kids – well behaved, and supportive of their mom, a great mother’s day gift I’m sure).  Connie played first and shortly thereafter took the kids home to bed.  And that’s Rock andRoll.  In it’s truest definition, behind the scenes of the biggest names it is no different.  Rock the House, manage the house.  In all professions, that statement rings true.  Connie’s profession/passion just happens to be music.  Yours could be in the medical field or whatever and the rules are the same, Rock it, cook dinner, put the kids to bed – do it again tomorrow, and so goes life.  You had better recognize the inherent beauty in a thing like that.  Ahh, life.

Here we go! and How’d it go?

I stepped outside for my last smoke and to tune up, two people were leaving and saw me putting on my Lee Oskar Harmonica Holder, the kind that lets a guitarist use both hand, you know the drill.  One guy said, “oh man you are gonna play harmonica?”  He was disappointed that he and his cadre were heading home.  I told them to come to the show, and I think I need to bite the bullet and print some flyers, I swore them off a while ago, but, get a bar guest two drinks deep and then ask them to remember supernormalrecords.com.  Not likely.  For that matter, get me a few deep and try to get me to pronounce it (I had some trouble with that too). 

Set List

I played Father’s Son, and The Thing’s I’m Gonna Miss.  The guy running the night only allows two songs so I picked one from each end of the spectrum.  Father’s Son, an up-beat number, because the previous artists were very introspective and quite confessional.  I figured I’d try to raise the spirits and the tone first, then follow suit and crush them with ‘The Things I’m Gonna Miss’.  Success in both regards.

The Drunken Navigator

The trip home was a dooz.  Thank god this was Portland and Tri-Metwas looking out for me, I didn’t have a map so the navigation gets a little hairy when the city plan follows a river made by mother earth.  Her work was done before land ordinances andthe concept of the city block.  Tall buildings can confound a hazy-brained imbibed traveller. However, a few short “hello’s” and a few “can you tell me how to get to SW 2nd and Main’s?” and I found the 14 bus, but not before finding a quiet, poorly-lit place to dispense a bit o’ beer.  Sorry Portland but for a moment you were Tyler’s-Tinkle-Town, I much prefer the concept of a restroom, but, in a pinch, I am merely an animal.

I returned to the Hostel around 2 am and found a seated crescent of travelers perched on plastic chairs sharing swigs from a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey.  Night cap?  Why yes I will if you don’t mind.  Rock the house, lost the house, found the house, did a little front porch sippin and chattin, then hit the sheets. 

Till tomorrow… Maybe I’ll do some sight-seeing?

You have all heard about the Public Transit Tour for some time now.  Well, I packed the bags, cabbed it to the Phoenix airport and did the ceremonial strip dance for the TSA, and here we go!  

The Road Kit: Travel Light Much?

PHX to PDX

Mt. Hood From the Plane

Success right out of the gates.  The wheels touched down at 10:15 PDX local time, and as any airport designed for the quick expediting of fare paying customers, the Portland International Airport did not disappoint.  Follow the signs to baggage claim, wait impatiently for the guitar to come rolling off of the carousel…  Wait… Wait… See the guitar case flop through the rubber flaps and onto the oversize baggage stainless steel stage.  Restart pulse again.  I once lost my guitar for three hours in the Czech Republic, I feared the worst, but PDX delivered, and made short work of it.  I decided to relax a little.  Grow Slow. 

Airport Exterior

A View From the MAX Redline to City Center

A quick Jaunt to downtown on the MAX RED LINE rail to City Center which picks travellers up on the curb outside the airport where others are standing for someone they called on Tuesday, to pick them up on Sunday.  They didn’t want to drive on the free way down to the airport to pick-up so-and-so but nonetheless they did, and now they fain excitement and hugs and such.

Also, they most likely arrived long after I was under the smooth pull of an electric train on my way to downtown.  Public transit never pisses off friends.  The MAX will never forget you. 

As per usual, I got off at the wrong stop, I got jumpy just like I always do when I visit a new city.  I remember, in Prague, I ended up on the outskirts of town amongst communist row houses that disappeared off into the horizon while I stood on a mud street with suspicious spectators.  That was a ‘Woops’, and I think two drops of pee came out.  This time it was different.  It was roughly 11:30 AM and I was in the middle of a boisterous downtown that showed little wear.  Foot traffic abounded.  A rarity where I come from, but something so very common where I now stood.  There I stood at the 11th ave Transit Center and looked left… right… and did a few determined “set-outs” for what I assumed to be my destination before I admitted my folly and headed back to the platform to re-board another train on the same tracks heading in the general direction that I decided (at the time) was the right way to go. 

City Center – somewhat

So, it was on to the Hillsboro Blue line.  I assumed (incorrectly) that this train would shimmy left once it crossed the Willamette River and drop me in the Yamhill District.  Well, it shimmied right, I assumed it to be North at the time, (I’ll look that up later when I buy a map).  I’ll also make it a point to find an electronics store so that I can buy a USB cable for my camera then we all can see pictures of my descriptions.  For now, they rest helplessly eager in my pocket powered off and ignored until I can solve the problem for us.  Thank goodness for the gig of memory.

Brochure Truth

I am beginning to believe that Portland, Oregon is all that she claims to be: A green haven , in all senses of the word, a beatific invention that has been driven by kind and caring people who wish to live simply so that others may simply live.  I have never moved so freely in a city before.  I have never felt so welcome to do so.  At home, I get honked at and yelled at from the elitist drivers of Escalades, and let’s be honest Sentras.  The totem is tall in tinfoil-town. 

Why am I so at peace and comfortable here in Portland?  Is it because I have travelled this way before?  Or, is it because I have been destined to travel HERE for so long?  Maybe it’s experience.  Maybe it is THE experience.  I have never said hello to so many perfect strangers before in my life.  Everyone has a hello for me here.  This is beginning to seem to make sense.  This immediately felt like home.  But, enough with the gush and on to the itinerary.

Escape of the Downtown-er

A Bus for all of Us

I finally managed to board the 14 Hawthorne Bus to cross the Willamette once again and actually (correctly) approach my intended destination: The Portland Oregon Hawthorne Travellers Hostel.  The images online do not do it justice.  It looms like a flowerbed with windows, it smells of damp wood and fresh coffee, and resonates with the murmur of sincere kind voices.  It’s filled to the brim with the errant hippie.  Good people.

Just before the 14 pulled up and brought me ‘home’ I met a local.  She suggested a tea house.  I went after I checked in and bought a card to send home and some “throat soothe” tea – whatever that is.  I soothed the throat and wrote a post card home on the porch of the Herb/Tea House, and chicken-scratch-sketched a view from the porch. 

Shortly thereafter, the rain came to Portland and it was exactly as a fellow Arizonan told me pre-departure, “it rains like once and then it clears up for the day.”  I traipsed on through it and sought out Eugenios – the 500 sq foot club that I am to perform at Friday May 16th.

Division Derision

The Hostel where I am staying is at 3031 SE Hawthorne Blvd.  Eugenios (the place I am playing Friday) is on 3584 SE Division Street, roughly one mile south and probably a quarter of a mile East of where I am staying.  I put Skecher to pavement and set out to see what it looks like in real life.  The rain came down and, no bother, I just ducked under trees and waited for the drops to resemble mist before setting out again.  I learned that one in Sweden; good trick. 

But these houses distract and what appear to be towering piles of fresh mint and Icelandic Poppies, garnished with Magnolia actually do have a house somewhere in there.  People are on their porches and one porch has a group of guitarists playing Irish tunes.  Oh, those crazy suburbanites.  Are you kidding me?!  In Arizona, you are lucky to meet your neighbor of 14 years.  It’s into the garage and out of the garage.  Neighbors are mere noises over the backyard fence.  Neighbors afraid of neighbors, critical, or despondent.

 

Lincoln Avenue Stroll

The warm spectacle of Portland suburb life distracted me so much that I ended up on Lincoln Avenue, so it was back to the starting point and retracing the steps to see where I went wrong.  I finally stumbled upon Eugenios (on Division) and I opened the door to find that tables and chairs stacked in the dining room and two “Beard Club” members behind the bar.  Brothers of the Scruff.  My people.  I asked a whole-heartedly foolish question for someone who works in the bar business; “Are you guys open?”  (Duh, really I knew the answer it was only an ice-breaker)  Walking in on employees who are just there on a Sunday to “Cook the Meatballs” is a little like walking in on a stranger naked.  It’s not rude, just really weird and causes you to mutter inappropriate foolish phrases “oh sorry, are uh…chuckle chortle…etc.”  After confirming a return time for tomorrow, I set back out on the streets toward Hawthorne, Mecca of the non-exhibitionist bohemian.  Some Earth-children are doing it to be different.  Here on Hawthorne, they are just humans.  I can be human here.  No one has to apologize for anything, and no one seems to trespass.  A glowing revue, but, it is but, day 1.  Yet, I remain an optimist.  I don’t doubt the sincerity of nice people.

Fish and Chips and Several Pabst Sips.

On my walk back, get this, I strolled along side an elderly man with a hearing aide and shot the breeze.  After a brief back-and-forth, he complimented me on my timing and my keen mastery of nuance.  What?  I love it, a real conversation for conversations sake, for in true old-guy fashion, he said abruptly; “Well, I’m going this way, it’s been really nice talking with you.”  And off he went with his hearing aide taking it all in.  He’s got no time for farting around one minute longer than he cares to.  This is most-likely his scheduled walk which he has taken for twenty years, north on 36th Ave and a left on Hawthorne, and off into the mileiu.  Far be it for this whipper-snapper to alter a time-tested route.  I continued east and found a little fish and chips joint.  

Eat here if you are here!

$2.50 Pabst Drafts and Chili Fried Cod with Jalapeno Tartar.  Hot damn!  I perused the Portland Mercury and got the super-skinny on local music happenings.  

I’ll Book it Willamette!

I had promoted to over 20 bars in the Portland Area.  I started the booking process too late and gave up too early so I never did book a night at The White Eagle, but guess what I found hiding in Courtney Ferguson’s Music Calendar.  SUNDAY MAY 11TH – Open Mic at the White Eagle.  Consider it booked.  We either make our own destiny or it remains un-made.  So it is on to the ‘goog’ to map it and then to the Tri-met website to see how I can get there, and after 8pm sometime tonight I rock Portland! 

Tonight’s Gig

I’ve got 9 days in this state (two of which were to be devoted to driving to wineries and seeing the coast) I think Portland just might deserve all of my devoted attention.  I just might stay and play.  I’ll let you know after I see how tonight goes.   Fly like an Eagle?  Nah, I never really liked Steve Miller, I’ll just stick to what I know… Supernormal Tyler tunes. 

Till later…