Finding My Camp

It was odd being Oregon Country Fair last weekend without Sequoia. He has more visibility in, and connection to, that world. He's still the big tall hippie boy from back in the day. He has a legitimacy that I never possessed. I was never quite groovy enough. I am now, and will always be, a skeptic at heart. Skepticism goes over like a fart in church in that crowd. It was an interesting challenge to to go up there without a community. I was on my own.

I arrived on Thursday, the day before the Fair started, and had to find my own place place to camp. I immediately gravitated to an area near Chela Mela meadow and set up my tent. Yes campers, for once in my life I didn't ask permission, I presumed. The tent hostess thought about getting miffed, but I laid on the charm and she backed down. I went back to the booth where I was to work and helped them set up. We were done by early afternoon and I had the rest of the day to myself. I wandered back to my camp and found a guy sitting in front of his tent just a few feet from mine. He was playing the weirdest looking guitar I've ever seen in my life. The body was constructed from a trash can with a resonator cone in the middle and a banjo neck attached. He played beautifully and got an amazingly pure tone out this trash can guitar. Stopped me in my tracks. Then I realized that he was playing the Fats Waller tune "I'm Going to Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter," a beautiful standard from the 20s. As you know campers, that stuff is right in my wheelhouse. As he was singing, I stepped right up and laid down a sweet, complex harmony to his melody. Never hesitated. I can do that now, I have those skills. I sounded good, if I do say so myself, which caught his attention. We talked for a while. Turns out, he was Trashcan Joe, leader of the best band I saw all weekend. Turns out I had pitched my tent in a musician's camp, alongside members of three bands: Trashcan Joe, a band called Saloon Ensemble and two back up musicians for a singer named Steven Miller (not Steve, Steven; different guy.)

Kismet? Karma? Fate?

I was never a very good hippie. Truth be told, I was never all that motivated to learn how to be a good hippie. I am highly motivated to learn how to be a good musician. I got to hang out with musicians all weekend, talk to them about bands and how they work, find out what turns them on and off. It was very, very cool to feel accepted own measely merits. I didn't play much with these guys because they were way out of my league. But I sang. I sang loud, I sang strong and, in singing, I felt right at home.