One of these days I swear I’ll get this blog back to being about travel photos and tales. I have plenty of ideas to write about with getting back in the field working on an archaeology project, and having a case of poison ivy bad enough to send me to the hospital, but for now, it’s all about the music.
November Music News
In some sad news, my not-so-trusty Honda Insight that has taken me all around the country, barely big enough for a guitar and a suitcase, was hauled off on a trailer by a nice engineer from Toronto who was looking for a hybrid to fix up. The replacement gig vehicle, actually big enough for a few instruments, amps, and the handsome men that play them, is a jeep cherokee. We took the jeep on it’s first foray to a gig in Hallowell, packed to the gills with gear and people, only to be texted a few minutes down the road by my roommate that my tail lights were out. When AAA proved to be of no help, I called drummer and car lover Dave Burd for some advice. He talked us through changing a fuse, and voila, we were back on the road.
In some even sadder news, as I’m sure most people know, Nick Curran, amazing guitar player and singer, and one of the few Mainahs to make it, died of cancer this month. He was one of the youngest people to ever win a W.C. Handy, played for the Fabulous Thunderbirds, and released amazing solo records. I’ve included a video of Nick along with Dave Burd (the fuse man), and my old friend Hawk Kallweit. It’s a pretty small world, and some folks don’t get to stay in it long enough.
11/1 – Dogfish Cafe, 8pm, w/ Adam Barber on bass, and my bro Kirk Underwood on electric guitar and harmonies.
11/3 – Local Sprouts – organic food and homegrown music – 7 to 9pm, with Adam Barber on Bass and Joe Bloom on harmonica.
11/10 – Local Buzz, Cape Elizabeth, 8pm – with Adam Barber on bass and TBA.
11/16 – Gutheries, Lewiston, 8pm – with Adam Barber on bass and Devon Colella on cello
Vermont bound! Please pass this newsletter on to folks you know in Vermont who are interested in original Americana music
11/17 – Purple Moon Pub in Waitsfield – 7pm
11/18 – The Skinny Pancake, Montpelier, 6pm
11/19 – Radio Bean, Burlington, 6pm
11/20 – The Bees Knees, Morrisville, 7pm
11/23 and 11/24 - Samoset Resort, Rockport, ME, 7 to 10pm – we’re very excited that the Samoset has decided to have music for the off season. Join us in the downstairs restaurant for cocktails and original music.
11/24 – Blue – the Nashville style songwriters round I host every month at Blue will still happen even though I’ll be up the coast. Guest host TBA. 6 pm
11/30 and 12/1 – Samoset Resort, 7 to 10pm, with Devon Colella on the cello.
Also in November is the 20th anniversary of a songwriters’ collective I belong to in Nashville hosted every Sunday by my good friend Kathy Hussey. Although I’m not able to fly down for the weekend to celebrate and pick some tunes with them, Dana Lowe, the resident poet famous for making up poems on the spot containing three random words provided by the crowd, wrote this for me to share with you today:
New England folks: the chance is good
For hearing Shanna Underwood
And her gang come to your town
to lay some lovely music down.
The tickets, relatively cheap;
The mode of transport is by Jeep.
Her poison ivy, some folks say,
is why she’s just itchin’ to play.
Accompanied by the Musical Lads,
her show makes Northern folk feel glad.
She tours the early part in Maine,
then Vermont, when she’s out again!
When choosing towns, Shanna has a habit
of picking names multi-syllabic.
And, if the folks are extra-nice,
she might even play in Burlington twice!
So go by plane or boat or car
to see Shanna and her Gibson Guitar.
(void where prohibited)
c 2012 Dana M Lowe
Hope to see you out and about,
Like on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ShannaUnderwoodMusic/events
How would you feel if this were the view from your backyard? After a little while, the mountains probably go the way of everything else. Not even noticed while going through the motions of doing the dishes and obsessing about the roof, but every once in a while being striking again over a cup of coffee. Heading out into the mountains has been my plan for falling back in love with Maine. While Portland, to me, is a great little town, it also reeks of stagnation and extreme class separation. I feel like my own history is erased as I pop coins in the meter next to the same shops (thankfully still mostly locally owned), feel a sense of deja-vu from ten years ago, and remind myself that I have been to Mongolia in the meantime. There is a Maine outside of Portland, and it is like another world.
My brother commented earlier this year when I was observing that for economic reasons I will be “stuck” in Maine for the time being, that I’m more comfortable when in survival mode. Never one to be an adrenaline junkie, I don’t think that’s quite it. It’s not the rush, but the adventure of the unknown; a first-hand acquisition of knowledge and experience. I am still seething from a comment made by a friend earlier this week that implied there is something inherently wrong with me for avoiding settling down. I feel the same way about people who shack up in their dream house and begin the process of erosion that familiarity works on our senses and perspectives. There must be a middle ground where connections can be maintained, but the mountains don’t fade into the background of the everyday.
So off to ramble in the White Mountains near Evan’s Notch. I was looking for a short hike called The Roost, but I couldn’t find the trail head. The Caribou trail had parking, and a clear map, so I headed off. I was planning to make a loop around that was described as Caribou to Caribou MT to the Muddy something-or-other trail. What this heavily wooded trail lacks in views of the surrounding area, it makes up for by following a river that it crisscrosses over several times dotted by waterfalls.
It took me significantly longer to get through the Caribou trail to the head of the Caribou Mt. trail than I thought it would. But at this point I wasn’t going to not see a summit after a couple of hours. I half ran up the first part of this trail into what turned into a mythical scene of short pine trees, mosses, and the start of a granite instead of wooded landscape.
As I sat down to enjoy the view and finally eat my hard-earned sandwich, I realized the sun was looking awfully low. I double checked my time, and noticed it was actually an hour later then what I had thought I’d read the first time. Shit. I was at the very least two hours away from the car with exactly two hours of sunlight left.
Here is where the adventure of the unknown mind took over, and was insisting that I continue with my original plan of completing the loop. But when I followed the trail marker, it dead ended. A cliff on one side, and extremely dense bushes and pines with no trail on the other. I backtracked and tried again, but the same thing. I was going to have to backtrack down the trail I came up. Something I never do if I can help it when hiking. I realized a quarter of the way down the original trail, that this was the best thing that could have happened. Not only was it significantly darker in the woods, but I moved as fast as possible because I already knew where I was going, and the landmarks in my mind kept me motivated and with some idea of how far out I was. I even patted the half way marker and called it old buddy outloud as I passed it.
Perspective changes instantly when the conditions change. On the way up I was plodding along feeling the thrill of each new water fall and getting up each rise. On the way down, I was racing against time, and each landmark turned into a checkmark to get to next. All the things that were in my car, and not in my backpack, that would be useful if I did for some reason get a stuck kept flashing through my mind: two flashlights, two sleeping bags, a reflective heat blanket, a tent, a pocket knife…..
I made it back to the car at 4:42, the sun set yesterday at 4:18, although I could still see well enough. The tree stumps had only just began turning into boogiemen and wild animals. When I got back to the car it was pitch dark in a matter of minutes, and promptly began pouring.
So much for my life in Maine becoming routine.