James Higgins: Gig tales

This was a relaxing little gig with just me, Phil and Donald playing.
Due to the sporadic, intermittent nature of the audience, we were able to practice a whole bunch of new and old material. People came and went and never stayed longer that the time it took to eat their snack.
We played The L and M, Clyde, Stone River, Bouncy House, Weeping Willow and Great Explorers. We even played some of them twice.
It was quite a pleasant 3 hour jam. There are certainly worse ways to pass a sunny afternoon.

This gig got rained out too just like the Senior Centre gig earlier. Unlike that gig though there was a substantial all ages audience in attendance.
We set up to play in a large room with an old fashioned fireplace. Dave set up a wagon wheel in front of his bass drum which added some token legitimacy to the country western theme of the evening.
We are not a CW band but Country Western was indeed the theme of the evening. This created a potentially tricky situation. We don't really play that kind of music but somehow we pulled it off. We played some well known classics like Heaven's Door and that's all Right Mama which though not exactly Country, did get everyone dancing. The unexpected hit of this gig was Small Step on Broadway.
There were a lot of little kids at the start of this gig. They all piled in wearing cowboy outfits: all dusty boots and Rhinestones. Bearing that in mind, we began with, Old MacDonald Had a Ranch. We followed that with Ain't No Bugs On Me. The whole place just started dancing. We just went with the flow. If nothing else, we are very adaptable.

Towards eleven the place was emptying out. The boss told us we could wrap it up. Then we played an extended version of Cardboard Box which enticed a mixed bunch of teen kids back in from the outdoor benches. In the end we played till midnight.
William fell in love with one of the teenage girls. She gave him a bracelet and at the night's end, he walked starry eyed back to the car where he lay in a daze across the back seats. When Jan went to check on him he said in a dreamy far away voice, "Close the door mum, I need to be alone right now."

Well it was good to have this gig over with. It had been such a runaround. At one point everyone had pulled out and it looked like we'd have to cancel it. Poor Hil was frantic. She had chased that gig so hard. When it fell apart, she felt obliged to fix it. She called various bands around town and checked the websites of a bunch of others. She had no luck. Everyone was booked. Time was running out if we wanted to cancel and still leave the organizers ample time to find a replacement band. At that stage it was no longer about the Muddy Boots, it was all about not letting down the folks who'd booked us.
Finally after practicing with Donald one afternoon, I told him I was going to cancel the gig the next morning as it was only him and I left. Donald being broke and desperate like myself, said he'd come up with a solution. I left him to it with the understanding that Hil got 50 dollars from the gig money for all her trouble. By this time several weeks had passed since everyone had pulled out. I still had no idea who would end up playing the gig.
Whoever turned up would only have time for 2 practices at most.
Somehow Donald located a drummer (Dave) and Hil got in touch with Yan who even did a practice. Meanwhile Phil changed his mind at the last minute and decided he could play after all. Now all we had to do was figure out how to get there.

In the end it was actually quite a good gig but Jeez what a goose chase.

We played this gig with Donald's new PA. I think he got it in the Pawn Shop. It seemed to work fine. Though it was hard to tell as the room filled and emptied and the acoustics changed throughout the evening.


Speaking of Country Western, let me tell you a tale concerning my good friend JB.

Skye is an island way up there in the Hebrides off the North West coast of Scotland.
A lot of folks in that area still speak Gaelic. It's a beautiful desolate place where such towns that exist are rarely bigger than villages.
The largest town on Skye was Portree. A typical little whitewashed fishing village built around a sheltered harbour and comprising of some bed and breakfasts, some bars and a few shops. History happens slowly in those parts. The natives tend to be a touch conservative and a bit suspicious of new developments. They like things as they are. In the time I worked there I remember the island's one and only traffic light being erected down by the ferry in Kyleakin. That was a sensation. It drew a crowd. I wonder what the reaction was a few years later when an enormous bridge was built to connect the island to the mainland. That may have been the biggest historical event up there ever. Bigger perhaps than Archie Gemmell's goal against Holland in 1978.
People came to Skye to experience its sense of desolation. It's hard to believe such isolation could still exist in Europe. Both JB and I spent time up there. It is a wild bleak landscape shaped by the most fundamental of forces: wind, ice and sea. It sounds terrifying but it is beautiful.

As you can imagine, the Isle of Skye was not exactly the Las Vegas of the North. So when any event of a social nature occurred, it was a big deal. Like the time when a real live country western band came to town……

………JB was sitting at a bar in Portree talking with an American stranger. They started talking about music. JB mentioned he was a musician. The stranger said he was a musician too. JB suggested they should have a session. The stranger then said that he played with the country western band that was in town that very night. JB asked if he could maybe sit in on a few tunes.
"Sure", said the stranger. "But there's just one catch."

He took JB outside to his van.

"Everyone in the band has to wear one of these" He said.
He handed JB a huge cowboy Stetson hat.
"No problem" smiled JB. "I like hats."
"…And one of these" added the American. He presented JB a full cowboy outfit in a protective polythene cover. JB nodded in a manner that could have meant anything.
A sort of neutral nod of maybeness.
"Okay then", concluded the American. "Just be at the bar at 8:30 tonight." Then he got in the van and drove off.

JB took the outfit home and examined it in more detail. He spread it out on his bed.
Now, there are cowboy outfits and there are cowboy outfits. This particular cowboy outfit was a "helluva" cowboy outfit. Its exact description has since passed into the superlative fog of Portree folklore. But suffice to say, it was classically over the top: longhorn belt buckle, cowboy boots, silver spurs, rhinestone shirt and of course the 10 gallon hat. Is there such a colour as Neon Garrish?
JB loved playing music and never liked to pass up a gig opportunity. Chances like this were rare up in the Highlands and Islands. But……

……………………………

But..…."Is this worth it" he wondered later as he looked in his mirror at an image not quite Elvis, not quite the Lone Ranger, and not quite sober.

At 8:20pm, JB, missing only a horse and a gun, ( a bus stop cowboy) strode purposefully up the street towards the bar.
"Yer darn tootin it's worth it."

At 8:30 pm he pushed open the bar door and moseyed on in. If there'd been a piano player tickling the ivories, he'd have stopped playing in mid plink. As it was, pint glasses braked between bar counter and lips. Darts went astray and pool balls rolled across the floor like tumbleweed.

JB looked over to the stage and stopped in his tracks. There was the American guy with the country western band. They were all decked out casually in jeans and tee shirts. They all raised their glasses and toasted his health. "Give us a song Roy", they hooted.

Personally I'd probably have died on the spot: probably lynch myself. But JB bellied up to the bar and said in his best drawl, "Bartender gimme a milk, 2 straws and a small hole to climb into."

He did actually play the gig with the band which was by all accounts a roaring success.
Yeehah.



Old Folks Centre Family BBQ.
July 31st

An odd little gig.
It got rained out so we moved inside to a big empty hall with a few plastic chairs lined up.
Today's band consisted of me, Yan and Donald. At times we outnumbered the crowd. We didn't even plug in.
Yan was on fine form though and he drifted between the house piano, the harmonica, his mandolin and his fiddle. He was quite entertaining. It was just a shame no one was there to witness it. Maximum crowd was about 10 people. Minimum was zero.
In the end we only played about 45 minutes. Good practice.

Ronan and William spent the whole gig out in the hallway playing a WEI computer game which involved boxing, tennis, bowling and a lot of leaping around. They do love their gig perks.



BBQ at Fairhaven Market
July 30th

This was an easy going gig. A crowd of shoppers came and went throughout the duration. There was no need to play the songs in any particular order.
This was Dave's first gig with the band. He slotted right in and added a bright shuffle and a big smile to the proceedings.
There's not much more to add really. Good gig. I think we all had a good time.
Thanks to Jim and Sally for showing up.

The 3Ds
Fairhaven BBQ.

As ever another very pleasant and non controversial gig with the 3Ds.
Dale, Donald, Jan and myself were on the menu today.
The supermarket across the street has recently been having BBQs in a quiet corner of the car park. It's actually quite nice. They’ve sort of partitioned off the area between the liquor store and the supermarket entrance. Once you're in, you forget there's a car park outside.
I guess they've created a roofless restaurant. If they sold alcohol then it would be a topless bar.

Anyway Dale was in fine form and was very obviously enjoying himself. I think he sang a few more songs than usual.
I'm beginning to recognize the titles to some of these tunes now. I like playing Chicken Reel and Flop Eared Mule and Mind Your Own Business. They lend themselves well to the wash tub bass. I like them all actually.

I think everyone had a good time. I wore out 2 fingers on my tub glove. I'm glad I was wearing it.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band

We were a big old band of boots for this gig: Donald, Chris, Chuck, Charlie, Phil, and myself.
We set up to play in the bandstand in the town green (not Riverside Park).
I had been looking forward to this gig but sadly sound problems turned the afternoon into quite an exhausting 2 hours work for everyone.

Our sound system was a mish mash of Donald's speakers, my speakers and Phil and Charlie's amps. We had no real monitors and no one could really hear each other.

But we battled through it (as ye do).

To what end, I'm not sure. In fact I was reminded of our first recording session out at Charlie's a few years back when I had a similar ear phone sound check. (Wow. Remember that? Ooh pain.)
Then when Hil chirped in with, "hey, your guitar is rattling," I was thinking, "Jeez, that's probably the best part of the soundcheck. " Not that I could hear it. I wonder if it was rattling in tune?

Still… those notables who expressed an opinion, said the gig sounded fine: not spectacular, just fine.

We definitely had some nice moments. Songs like Cardboard Box and Injara are still great fun to play. We didn't even play Chuckanut or Annecy.

Half way through our set, the next band arrived. They stood behind the bandstand and I began to feel they were trying to psyche us off. In the last 20 minutes, I could practically hear them gnashing their teeth, checking their watches and tapping their fingers in impatience. It was kinda funny actually. Hadn't they read the program timetable?
Muddy Boots 5pm till 6:45.
Next band: 7PM till whenever.

What did they expect us to do? We'd already switched slots to accommodate them: now it seemed they wanted half of this slot too.

Well I hope the Everson citizens had a good annual fair. They certainly had far more entertaining things to do than listen to us and our sound check. There were stalls with tasty looking food. There was lemonade and arty stuff, a soccer game, a bouncy house, crazy golf, a swing park and popcorn. All good stuff on a very pleasant sunny afternoon.
I guess they weren't serving alcohol. This might explain the subdued nature of the crowd.
It really was a family oriented affair and fortunately for our uncooperative sound check, live music was just background noise for added atmosphere.

Odd gig.

Afterwards me, Hil and Ronan went to Riverside Park for a quiet picnic.
I think the last time we were in Everson was to write a travel article for a Whatcom County, "where to go" book. That must have been about 10 years ago. Riverside Park hadn't changed much. Good picnic though.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

A decent enough gig with some good moments.

This was Tree's last official gig.
Charlie may still be occasionally on the payroll but he seems content playing solo gigs. Fair play to him. He's out there doing it. I will miss that second guitar.

Just as we were starting, my guitar began to crackle. I couldn't believe it. After just getting it fixed as well. So I changed the battery. That didn't help. I changed the cable. Nothing. Tried a third cable. Then it worked.
What a start. That wasn't one of the good moments.

There was quite a big crowd in the park but they were really spread out thinly into the distance. We were set up to play on the step of the pavilion building. Scott Peterson and the Boundary Bay sound guy were doing the sound. I could see them talking in the sound booth. It looked like one was turning things up as the other was turning them down. It was kind of comical.
It was a bit of a blustery sound check which made the gig a bit like hard work. I felt like I was shouting. I guess we were spoiled after Scott's great sound check at the Allied Arts Street Fair last year. Can't win 'em all.

This event was a family day out for Bellingham. Hil got herself a folding chair and sat herself at a comfy distance chatting with Jan.
Ronan charged around with a balloon sword he got from a balloon folding guy.
He (Ronan, not the Balloon guy) and William had a great time playing in the bouncy houses.

Not much to say about the gig. We finished about 8pm.
There was one more band on after us, then there would be a fireworks display.

At several points during our set I thought I heard my guitar crackling again but it turned out to be some nearby fizzling fireworks. In the middle of one song there was a huge boom and a cloud of black smoke appeared in the sky. I looked up and thought. "Oh oh, there goes the Balloon Man."

When the gig was over, Me, Hil and Ronan went over to Alex's parents' home where they put on an unbeatable spread of food. From their balcony we had a perfect view of the fireworks display across the bay. By 11pm, the whole town smelled like gunpowder and barbeque sauce.

I guess the 4th of July is one of the top barbeque days on the American calendar.
In Scotland we didn't barbeque much. This is mainly because of the inclement weather but probably also because we never really defeated the English. We don't have an Independence Day equivalent. I guess we could celebrate Bannockburn Day.

…………………………………………………….

But speaking of Scottish barbeques…..
Some years back, up on the Scottish Isle of Skye, I had a job as Assistant Warden in a Youth Hostel. My direct Boss was a guy called Rob.

Rob was a stocky wee Glasgow man with thick milk bottle spectacles, tattoos and a stubborn streak. As a boss, Rob did things by the book. But he was a fair man. In the large scheme of things I'd have to say he was a good boss.
During working hours he expected me to be completely in charge and to function independent of him. He did not like to be unduly disturbed especially when he was in the Haakon Bar across the street. He ran a tight ship but when the hostel shift was done, he left the work behind and we were all friends. It was like the flick of a switch.

So anyway, me and him, Hil, Julie and JB were all up the Obb (the small tidal inlet) behind Kyleakin Village on a beautiful midsummer evening. It was a pleasant little place to go for a stroll and get smashed (as in pitifully drunk).

Well I must say we were well on our way to oblivion via consumption of vast quantities of beer, wine and smoky stuff. We were all swaying nicely in different directions when someone mentioned food. Suddenly everyone was starving. Then Julie had to mention sausages.
Well that was the moment that Rob decided to share his recipe for a Glasgow barbeque which as it transpired was a tricky mix of a cookout and a fireworks display combined.

It went like this……

First drink far too much alcohol. (No problem there.) Then drag an old rusty oil drum from some garbage heap and set it up on its end up the Obb. Next, get a large rock and a big 6 inch nail. Bash holes in the oil drum using said technology.
Next, bandage fingers.
Now stagger back to the youth hostel freezer and rip out a ton of bratwurst sausages. Spread them on top of the oil drum. Take a large can of kerosene and liberally dowse sausages, oil drum and self.
Ignite……

As I recall there was an instant inferno like someone had lit a space rocket. Flames roared to the height of the trees. We all jumped back. Except Rob. He had to be pulled back.
The fire blazed for about 5 minutes. The sausages had turned instantly black outside but remained frozen within: like a Choc-Ice for carnivores or the unfortunate people of Pompeii. I tried one. It tasted like pure kerosene. Disgusting.
We decided to go home. The oil drum was still glowing red hot. Someone gathered up the shriveled sausages and kicked the drum into the Obb River where it hissed angrily. The river was only a few inches deep. "We can't just leave it there", said someone. "Let's at least roll it down towards the sea."
Then Rob spoke up. "Och that'll take all night." He strode purposefully into the river and picked up the oil drum. Everybody yelled in alarm because it was still roasting hot. But Rob had it firmly grasped in a bear hug. The thing was almost as big as him. "Put it down. Rob. Put it down. Ye'll burn yerself." But he wouldn't listen and he stumbled and fell over the drum and into the river where the damn thing rolled right on top of him. We were laughing but we were trying to help. Rob, stubborn as a badger, just got up and like a Sumo wrestler; he grabbed his rusty opponent by the waist and carried it all the way back to the hostel where he abandoned it by the back door and disappeared.
Somehow by the end of the night all the sausages had been devoured. No one claimed to have eaten them but we all had kerosene breath the following day.

When I saw Rob next morning, he had a huge bandage on his right hand. We stepped out to the sunny backyard and sat sipping coffee on the kitchen step.
We were sitting there in comfy silence for a few moments then Rob pointed at the oil drum with his mug and said, "Where'd that come from?"

Hell of a barbeque.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.

We (Me, Hil and Ronan) went camping up the Mount Baker Highway on the Friday night before this gig. On Saturday afternoon we drove back straight to the gig out on Kickerville Road up near Ferndale.

The camping was fun. We stayed at Silver Fir campground which was surprisingly quiet. Our friends, Alex and Sagit had reserved some sites along the Nooksack River. Other friends of theirs showed with their kids. Ronan had no shortage of playmates.
Alex and Hil bravely cycled up Mt Baker to Heather Meadows while me and Ronan went for an easier ride along a logging trail that followed the River. It's a blast to see Ronan on his wee bike these days. Just two weeks ago he was still in the trailer and I was doing cycling for two. He just turned 6 last month but he weighs over 50 pounds. Every day I towed him to school became a harder work out. Now that I'm cycling without the loaded trailer and I feel light as a feather.

We passed an eventful day of doing nothing. We explored the giant hollow tree within the campground; we snacked and lazed by the river in the welcome sunshine. Me and Sagit drew some sketches. Eleanor and Ronan and all the other kids, skimmed stones, built pebble castles and climbed up and down driftwood logs. Ronan threw sticks for a dog who loved to dive in the river. Late at night when everyone was asleep Alex and me had a campfire jam, Grateful Dead style.

All in all we had a great little getaway away from Bellingham. Sometimes it's nice to have some spectacular mountains for company to give a different perspective on life. The only downside was the mosquitoes that were merciless in the shade but not bad in the open.
We left around 3pm on Saturday and crossed the width of the county. It was like doing the ski to Sea by car.

We arrived at the Funland Theatre in plenty of time.
This venue had apparently been a barn just last month. Actually it was still very much a barn but it had been funkified. There were sofas and church pews and a stage. Above the stage to one side was a loft. Upon this loft was the drum kit. It was a bizarre arrangement for a gig. Me, Donald, Charlie and Phil were on the main stage while Tree perched high above us like a rooster in the hay loft.

The barn was fairly dark inside and furnished with curiosities: a 6 foot Sasquatch, a suit of armour, a flashing robot, some broken TV frames and piles of other artistic odds and ends all arranged like museum exhibits.
I could picture this as a great venue for some late night spooky barn music.
In the courtyard there were a beer garden and a few charity organization tents all offering their services and info. There were chickens and goats and wandering musicians.

The whole idea was to raise money for food for the animals at the Humane Society. There were about 8 bands playing. I must say "well done", to the sound man for coping with it all. He must have had a long day.
We played our set around 7:30pm. It was very short (only about 6 or 7 songs) so we stuck to our catchier stuff.

It was nice of the band to volunteer their services for this gig without any prompting. Normally they don't play anywhere for free, but for the Humane Society there was no hesitation.

I'd say it wasn't our best performance but I had a great time chatting with all the animal lovers and musicians who were hanging out. (Probably all wanting adopted). I spoke with a drummer named Ken who'd spent a lot of time in L.A. He'd had a nasty back accident and had been confined to a wheel chair. One day he tried an experimental therapy and suddenly he was up and running again. It was quite literally like a miracle. He seemed a happy guy. And no wonder.
I also spoke with some of the band called 47th parallel. They were on after us. One of them was called Josh. He'd a lot of interesting busking questions which I was happy to try answer.

I hope the Humane Society raised some decent cash. It was an honour to play there. I derived great pleasure from making useful music. I'd love to do it more often. I'd travel the world and do it if I could. Right now though, I can hardly raise the money for a new guitar string.

Then we all went home.

So I'd say we had a good weekend, gigging, cycling and camping.

…………………………

I still find it strange to go camping with a tent. But that's apparently what respectable families do.
In the past I never even considered packing a tent. I traveled for years without a tent. It wasn't so much that I wanted to enjoy the romance of sleeping out under the stars, it was more that I liked to be able to open one eye and know what (or who) was going on around me.
Also tents were too much extra weight to carry around and a pain to put up and take down.
But girlfriends liked them.

It was because of the latter reason that I was compelled to invent the portable umbrella tent.
I'd always coveted the notion of a tent that was as easy to erect as an umbrella and just as portable.
One year back in the 90s, me, Hil, and Andy and Nina were drinking at the Regensburg Doltefeste. We stopped for pizza slices at a kiosk that had round barrel shaped tables that were tall enough to lean on like leaning at a bar. Protruding from the centre was an umbrella pole with a huge umbrella canopy. Emblazoned on it were the words, "Coca Cola." When we got up to leave, I realized the umbrella was following us through the crowd. Andy had simply picked it up and taken it with him. I recall shuffling through this crowd when a girl ahead of me suddenly stopped, turned and glared, then slapped me profoundly across the face. I was taken aback. Then I saw Andy's smiling face looking mischievously at me from the side. In one hand he still held the umbrella while his other hand was making little crab pincer movements.
This umbrella eventually ended up back at our apartment where it sat in a corner and gathered dust.

Some time afterwards, me and Hil were planning a trip to Spain. We spoke with Peter who had spent some time there over the last few years. He gave us some great busking info and told us about Northern Spain and the Basque Country and San Sebastian.
The night before we left Germany en route to Spain, I played a gig at the Alte Maltzerei. It wasn't the best paying gig nor the best attended but Walter the manager was a Spain enthusiast and he soon had maps spread out on the bar counter and was telling us enthusiastically about Los Picos de Europa.

Well next day bright and early we set off for Spain. I packed my guitar and the umbrella which I'd recently modified into some sort of crude bivouac instant tent. It wouldn't have been out of place in a ghetto. A shanty town igloo.

We took a Mitfahr (hitch hiking agency. Small fee.) from Munich to Saragossa.
This ended up being a 24 hour drive. The driver was a German guy of about our age. We smoked grass all the way there. Each time we crossed a new border, he hid the bag down his crotch. But most of the border posts were deserted. The Swiss border was active but paid us no heed.
En route our driver had given us emergency Spanish lessons. We learned words like, where, why, when, go, yes, shop, how much, thank you, hitch-hike, beer, wine, coffee, hash. It wasn't much but it all helped. We were far from fluent but we were slightly more than mute.

We passed over the Alps and over the Pyrenees and entered the Spanish desert. I'd never seen a desert before. I remember standing at a gas station by a roadside. There was nothing. No blade of grass. Just sand and rock and a long liquorice strip of tarmac.

In Saragossa, we parted with the driver. We planned to head North West by bus towards the Basque territory. He was heading for Madrid.
"140 Deutschmarks", he said.
I gave him the money. He looked at it.
"Each."
"Each?"
"Ya. 280Dms."
This unexpected expense put a severe dent in our already small budget. Hil had recently had her credit cards cancelled so we had no back up money at all.

Nevertheless, we headed North to Barcelona by bus. Then we took a bus to Pamplona. Finally we decided to take one more bus North. We agreed that no matter what, we would make our stand in that town.

All day we'd passed through desert. Not a sprig of green in sight. I was definitely in unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar climate in fact. I wasn't sure I liked it. I willed the grass to grow. I strained my eyes for any sign of green activity. Nothing. Then after several hours, the Pyrenees peeked over the horizon. A blade of green appeared. Slowly other shy plants began cropping up like they were growing before my eyes on a time lapse landscape. I breathed a sigh of relief as the land began to shape into hills with rivers and pines. I hadn't relished the thought of sleeping rough in the desert among imaginary scorpions and snakes and without firewood. I guess I'll always be a maritime mountain sort of guy.

So it was that we arrived in San Sebastian as dusk was hovering. It was a fair sized coastal town just a few miles south of the French border. Despite its proximity to France, we quickly learned that no one spoke a word of French.
We loaded up with some groceries then went looking for a place to sleep. I left Hil in the lee of a harbour wall and set off around the coast till I came to a steep park with closed gates. All along the street were fishermen with rods. Occasionally a group would jump back when an extra large wave came leaping high out of the ocean.
We waited till nightfall then crept in to the park and headed up the hill. We quickly set up our umbrella tent behind some huge Stone Henge sized boulders. Here we were out of sight and reasonably sheltered.
Basically I popped open the brolly and covered it with a small tarp. Then I put my waterproof jacket under us as a groundsheet and that was that.
It was beautiful night. Not a cloud in the sky. We had climbed up fairly high. Below us we could hear the surf crashing on the harbour walls. We sat by our "tent" and drank Vino Tinto from cartons. A perfect start to our trip.

We awoke in a gale. A river was running through our happy home. Rain rattled off the tarpaulin roof. We had to hold on to everything to stop it getting blown out to sea. We endured as long as we could: huddled like fetuses in a damp, miserable womb.
Finally I turned over on my belly and stuck my head out and looked around. Grey sky. Grey rock. Grey sea. Grey.
"Only one thing to do in a time like this" I said to Hil.
"What?"
"Cigarette."
And so we lay and puffed grey smoke into the grey sky then we packed up and went into town.

We found a bar behind the train station that doubled as a left luggage office. Every morning afterwards, we were there having café con letche and cervesa (spelling?)
We spent several days in San Sebastian getting scruffier with each dreary sunrise. It was not yet tourist season. We wandered around the harbour and the old town and the boardwalk. We often had the whole beach front to ourselves. We'd sit on the beach drinking a bottle of 14 percent red wine and watch an occasional die-hard wind surfer get blown about around the bay.

San Sebastian is set in a beautiful inlet guarded by an island like a gem in a ring at the entrance. It was pleasant enough but our money was dwindling towards zero and our sleeping bags were still not dry. We just couldn't get warm and when the tobacco finally ran out, we became downright irritable.

One day Hil had a temper tantrum and stormed off round the bay. When she returned some hours later, she'd walked a lot of her frustration out of her system. Meanwhile I'd been busking and I surprised her with a big bulging money pouch and some tobacco. Though she tried bravely, she was so dejected that she could barely muster a thin smile.

Tom Petty songs were the big money earners that day. So much so in fact that I dispersed with all other songs and sang "Into the Great Wide Open" and "Your So Bad", over and over. No one stopped to listen, so no one noticed that the each song lasted over an hour. I remember that I stood down near the harbour by a shuttered hotel that looked kind of like a steam boat where there was a steady flow of people going by and no shopkeepers to annoy. I wonder if it's still there. The busking hadn't been brilliant but it certainly was enough to feed us for the day with some left over.

I busked again that same day and with this new cash, we went to a café to get warm and to make some desperate escape plans.
By now poor Hil was worn out by the elements. She wanted to go home. Since we'd arrived in town we'd had only one day of sunshine in a week. We had only been in one bar: I think it was called the Boga Boga. Interesting place. We simply weren't enjoying ourselves enough to make hanging around worth while. Hil had had about enough of rotten weather and dodgy tents. I must say I shared her opinion. It was time to skip town.

So we sat in that tiny deserted café with all our gear about us. We couldn't even afford to deposit it at the Luggage Bar. Hil, her hair in knots and tangles, was staring despondently at the floor. She had no energy left. Regensburg was an impossible distance away. Apart from the busking money, we were just about flat broke.

The time was ripe for extreme measures.
I reached into my hip pocket and pulled out a crumpled 50 Deutschmark note. I waved it slowly in front of her field of vision. At first there was no reaction. Then she was looking vacantly up at me in disbelief, babbling and asking "is it real? Where? How? Is it a dream? Then she was crying. Then we were both laughing so hard we were both crying. The waitress looked over briefly: straight faced and suspicious from the far end of the café counter then returned to chatting with the one other customer.

I'd kept this 50dm note in my pocket for use only in grim dire straits. The time had come. This had been my pay from the Alte Maltzerei gig I'd played the evening before we'd left Regensburg.

We were reborn.
Reprieved.
I went busking one last time and raked in a welcome heap of pesetas. (Thank you Tom P.)
We decided to use all the money for 2 train tickets as North East as possible across France. Thus our destination was Grenoble in the Alps, which wasn't far South of Annecy my old stomping ground. A fair distance. We would be able to by-pass hitch-hitching through France which in my past experience has been so bad as to be hardly even worth the effort. Too much hike and not enough hitch.

The train was scheduled to leave at 5 am. We stayed up all night wrapped in the damp sleeping bags on a bench up the hill. We had a great view overlooking the city. The wait was actually quite enjoyable. We had some wine and food and we chatted away fairly comfy and had a laugh while looking forward to a nice long warm dry train trip in the morning.
We were at the station in plenty of time. We got on board and let the heat soak into our bones. With one minute to go, I asked a fellow passenger if this was the train to France. He said yes. But then a man across from him said something contradictory and pointed to the train across the platform. In a mad panic we rushed out and jumped on board just as it pulled out.
We headed North leaving the remnants of the dead umbrella tent experiment behind us in Spain. Official cause of death: drowning.

Hil was soon conked out, snoring on my shoulder. It was snowing when we passed through Lourdes. I never pictured snow in Lourdes. I'd always envisioned a girl by a shady well on a sunny day. The train didn't stop there.

In Toulouse we had to change trains. Somehow we missed our connection while we were shopping for bread and cheese. We caught the next train and shared a compartment and a smoke with a French revolutionary anarchist.
Finally we arrived in Grenoble. I felt I was almost home. I searched for a place to sleep. There was a bridge by the river but it was too ratty. The local park was a little too active in the wee hours. So in the end we decided to doze close to the highway. We wrapped ourselves like burritos and got a frigid hour or two of rest.

In the morning there was frost everywhere. The mountains were snow capped and the world seemed filmed in Sepia.
We hitched into Annecy and I was busking in my old tunnel by 10 am.

Later on, walking through the old town, I met the Fox. He immediately asked "Ou est John?" I said, "en Eccosse."
He said, "Suive moi."
Which translated as, "Where is John?"
"In Scotland."
"Follow me."

He took us to his new home: a converted barn / farmhouse which was sparsely furnished but very cozy.
He had friends over for dinner and it all seemed very civilized.
When I pulled out a couple of bottles of 5 star plonk he got a fright and swiftly bundled them out of view. "Pour la cuisine",(For cooking) he whispered. It hadn't been for the kitchen last time we'd been drinking together.
The Fox was a perfect host. He put us up for the night and the next day we drove to a chalet up the Semnoz Mountain. We stayed the night there, painting, talking, smoking and drinking. But next day, much recovered, we were back on the street. The Fox had done his bit for society. Hil was happy and the weather had turned warm.

We were content to sleep out on the edge of town by the tennis courts. The lake was just across the street.
We'd sit out on the dock relaxing late at night before crossing the street to sleep in the shadows of some tall pines behind a hedge.
One late night 2 cars screeched to a halt on the street right in front of our hideaway. Doors flew open and bodies sprang out. There was angry yelling and cursing. There seemed to be two disputing factions chasing one other.
I sat up silently in my sleeping bag as a young man dived through the hedges barely 3 metres away. He lay still, hidden in shadow, while just inches away, on the other side, searchers were shouting orders. "Find him. Find him." The hunted man did not move as his angry pursuers closed in.
I slowly drew out my knife. I didn't know what I was thinking but these guys seemed intent on spilling blood. Somehow we'd found ourselves caught in the middle of a gang fight.
Suddenly the hedge guy took off like a rabbit. Everyone went racing back to their cars or charging through bushes or down the middle of the road. There was more tire screeching and engines revving as they all varruumed off South round the lake. Then all was quiet again.
Across the street, a figure emerged from the bushes. He looked cautiously both ways, lit a cigarette and began walking quickly towards town.

……………………………………..

After a few more days in Annecy we decided to hitch across Switzerland back home to Germany. As we were walking towards the North edge of town I was telling Hil about a guy called Jonathon who used to empty his wallet into my case every time he saw me busking in the tunnel.
Right then there was a shout from a bus stop across the street and a man waved and dodged through traffic towards us.
"Hello James" he said as he plugged a cigarette into each of our mouths. "Still broke?"
He opened his wallet and gave me 200 francs. "There's my bus" he added.
Then he was gone. We just stood there dumbfounded and started laughing.
Jonathon waved from his bus and was never seen again.

I can't recall much of the journey back to Bavaria. We may have stayed overnight in Schaffhausen with the Spengler family. From there I think we went straight to Munich and out to Gogland in Pasing where JB and Jan along with half of Dublin were living on Bodensee Strasse.
The lads were all out on the roof when we showed up. It was a scorcher of a day. They had a bucket of water with luke warm Ottinger beers floating in it. A half dozen spliffs were going round. Radio Gong was blaring the classics. The lads were obviously looking hard for gainful employment.
I had to yell up a few times before I heard shushing from the roof. Then I saw Kieron's face peer cautiously over the edge.
Shortly we were all up on the roof and joining in with the search for work.

So ended the tale of the golfing umbrella tent.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band at Grahams in Glacier.

Good gig.
Me, Donald, Phil and Chuck.

This time round we were more attune to the comings and goings of the venue's inhabitants.
So we weren't worried when the place emptied out after the first set. Sure enough an hour later it had filled back up again.
Being the eve of the 4th of July, there were fireworks going off randomly outside. Some sounded like serious dynamite. One particular firework boomed in the sky above Grahams and left an ominous mushroom cloud that lingered like flack in a bombing raid.
But I digress.

To the gig…..

Chuck on his drums adds that extra oomph that we need for this gig. He has a style that somehow manages to sound friendly. That's quite a talent. It was a shame Chris wasn't there too. Her vocals and percussion would have been icing on the cake.

We set up our stall so that we weren't staring straight out the front door like last time. All that opening and closing can be just as distracting as a bar room TV. I think too that newcomers can get scared off as they enter and see a band shouting directly at them. I guess that could appear a bit threatening.

Musically there was not much new but there was a fresh sense of fun to the gig. Might have been that cool high elevation mountain air we were breathing at the interval.
The last set was especially enjoyable as we passed midnight and moved officially into the 4th of July. To celebrate, we played Bob Dylan's 115th Dream.

There sure seems to be a tight little community out there in Glacier that revolves around Grahams. I don't think we've booked any further gigs out there but it would be nice to be back at some point.
As Chuck put it so eloquently, "Glacier Rocks!"

We finished up about 12:30 and headed back down the Mount baker Highway to Bellingham.

Thanks Hil for lending us the car. Thanks Jan for doing the door. Ozzie would have been proud.

I never realized that Jan was such a heavy metal fan. Especially Black Sabbath and extra especially Ozzie Ozbourne who was declared a,"fuckup, but a really cuddly fuckup."
Jan told me a story of Ozzy doing a Halloween TV special where he was supposed to dress as a zombie Santa Claus or something. The producers wanted bubbles to come out of his outfit. Ozzie turns round and says. "Listen mate, I'm the Prince of Fuckin' Darkness here. I don't do fuckin bubbles."
I saw him once at the Glasgow Apollo Theatre around 1985. He hardly seemed to be the bat eating satanic character I'd heard tell of. In fact he came across as a really warm hearted and sociable, friendly kind of guy who sang in a heavy metal band and was fucked up. He had the crowd swaying along to songs like Iron Man and Paranoia. It hardly seemed possible. What was most obvious was that the audience loved him for all the right reasons.

The Apollo theatre in Glasgow was an easy 9 mile train ride from my village. Me and my friends used to go regularly to see countless bands there. The only trouble was that if the bands played too long we would miss our last train home. The station was locked and the trains were all sleeping by midnight which was quite amazing for a city of about a million people.

Often I'd end up alone or with my cousin Jimmy, walking the railway tracks 9 miles home. The last third towards Neilston wasn't so bad because the city petered out and we'd find ourselves out on the moors walking along in the utter silence past silvery lakes and familiar silhouetted hills. Despite our weariness, it was magical.

………………………………………………………….

There was another time I went to an Ozzy concert. This time it wasn't at the Glasgow Apollo. In fact it wasn't even in Glasgow.
It was at the Monsters of Rock Festival which took place several hundred miles south of Neilston in the English town of Castle Donington.

This concert was also around 1985.
As I recall it was the same weekend that my cousin Michael was off to hike the West Highland Way. This was a rugged trail that went from Loch Lomond up to Fort William: a distance of about 96 miles. He asked me and our cousin Jimmy if we'd like to go along but we declined. A week of trudging through mud, midges and rain wasn't our idea of a good time. Anyway, we had other bigger plans. Monster plans.

Well on Giro day morning (a Thursday) I picked up my welfare check at the post office. After paying some dig money to my mother, I was left with 16 pounds to spend.
I went round to Jimmy's but he was still in bed. He'd had a bit of a rough night and unless his leather biker jacket and patchy jeans were his pajamas, then I'd guess he'd slept in his clothes. Beside his bed lay what looked like a pizza with carrot topping. Closer inspection revealed it to be a semi solidified pool of vomit.

It took a while to get Jimmy on his feet but after a few cigarettes he was good as new. Well as good as second hand, slightly broken and a littlie scratchy.
It turned out he hadn't got his giro because he'd slept in on signing on day. All we had now was my measly 16 pounds. That wouldn't get us far.
What to do? Our eyes settled on Jimmy's record collection.

My sister Betty kindly bought a Rolling Stones double album. It may have been a rare original edition or someone may have snipped off the 4 corners of the sleeves. Whatever the truth, we now had 22 pounds to get us to Donington and back.
It was Thursday. The gig was on Saturday. We figured that would be enough time to get us there.

Off we went to the Pakistani shop at the far end of the village. Here we bought supplies for the journey to Oz: twenty four cans of lager. Then taking turns each carrying it, we set off West down the Beach Tree Road. This was pleasant country of farmland, moors and rolling hills. It was a beautiful sunny day.
Three miles later we were sitting on a wall in the tiny hamlet of Uplawmoor. By then we'd drank a fair amount of our supplies. I think we got too comfy there and it was early evening before we set off again heading for the main road South.
We stuck our thumbs out and soon got a lift from an elderly woman. The beer had gone to our heads and we spent the journey chatting her up. She dropped us off 15 miles later at a roundabout near Kilmarnock. Jimmy promptly collapsed in the grass and crashed out. I was feeling a bit dizzy myself. At least we had no baggage left to carry.

A few lifts later and we crossed through the border town of Annan as passengers in an oil tanker. Now we were in England. It was night and we were soon walking along a 2 lane highway on the grass verge. Headlights blinded us as lorries roared by choking us with exhaust fumes. We weren't hitch hiking anymore: we were just hiking.
Sometime in the darkness, the landscape changed. As dawn broke, everything seemed greener, gentler, and lusher, with fields full of crops. This was a cozy landscape with quaint redbrick houses. It even felt warmer. In fact England looked tinder dry.

We got a lift into Manchester by some guys in an empty removal van. The driver left the shutter door open at the back so that we had some light. We started off lazing back on our elbows but with every slight uphill incline we found ourselves sliding uncontrollably towards the gaping maw of the great outdoors. We clutched like horizontal mountaineers to tiny cracks on the floor as each bounce tried to dislodge us and suck us out.
Finally missing a few fingernails, we got set down. We went immediately into a shop and bought some chocolate. The shop lady scrutinized our Scottish money with suspicion. I guess she'd never seen a Scottish bill before but thankfully she accepted it.
We walked the entire length of Manchester in searing heat. It seemed England was in a drought year. That's not something likely to ever happen in Scotland.

The next lift that picked us up was a milk van. It was an old fashioned thing that bumbled along at 10 miles an hour and looked like a parade float.
"I can only take you about a mile", the driver said cheerfully. We sat in the back. The milk van was loaded with crates of soft drinks. We eyed them enviously. Too soon the lift was over. We got out. "Help yourself to a bottle" said the driver.
"Oh no thanks", I said.
He drove off into the haze like a mirage.
I remember Jimmy cracked up. "What the fuck? We're dying of thirst here and you say no thanks? What were you thinking?"
"I was sure he'd say just take one."
Jimmy shook his head despairingly.

By Friday night we had reached Castle Donington. We swiftly made up for our recent lack of liquids. We were in and out of half the bars in town. We discovered there was a deposit back on empty glasses. People were outside drinking on the streets. We ran around collecting their empties (and some not so empties) and managed to continue drinking till closing time even though we'd ran out of funds hours earlier.

Nexy morning I woke up in a small tent as the flap opened and a shoe came flying in. It hit me on the chin. I let out a long torrent of bad language. A foreign voice asked, "Wott did ee say?" Then I heard Jimmy's voice outside translating. "He said ouch."
Jimmy'd been up early mingling with the natives and bumming cigarettes and beer. People seemed both fascinated and wary of us. Who were these strange beings who come out of the distant North lands fueled on alcohol with their unkempt ways and strange guttural language?
I remember strolling away from the tent. Jimmy had just bummed a swig of lager from someone and then just walked off with the can. "Can I borrow this" he'd asked the stranger?

As we walked along, I turned to him and asked how we'd ended up at that tent. "No idea" he said puffing happily on a borrowed cigarette.

…………………………………….

Castle Donington was a small town. Every year it hosted the biggest heavy metal festival in Europe. (I think) An enormous stage was constructed in the grounds of a Grand Prix racing track .The area was then fenced in and would hold 80,000 heavy metal fans. This particular year there would be 80,002. This was our destination and the reason we'd hitched South for hundreds of miles.
To be honest we hadn't come all that way to see Ozzy, we'd come to see/hear ACDC.
There was a good line-up that year. I can't remember them all but there was ACDC of course: also Van Halen, Motley Crew, Ozzie, Accept and Garry Moore. All good bands in their own right but ACDC were the headliners.

And so through the festival gates we went armed with 37 pence. Fortunately we'd had the foresight to buy out tickets a long time in advance.
I think fatigue was beginning to catch up with us as the day wore on. As each band came and went, we slumped lower and lower into the ground. We dozed on and off for most of the day. Occasionally a joint came our way. I was starving and I went round the extortionately priced food stalls looking for something for 37 pence. Not a hope. Thirty seven pence wouldn't buy a sniff of a burger.
By the time Garry Moore had held the longest sustained note in history and Ozzie had finished kicking rubber bats off stage and Accept had finished posing and Eddie Van Halen had finished his umpteenth guitar solo that sounded like a motorbike, we were bollox tired.
Nevertheless when the sun finally sank, we were both right up the front determined to enjoy ACDC's show. The band was of course great and we did enjoy it till half way through the gig, when we were both hit by colossal waves of yawning dizziness. We stumbled off to the side where the noise was less intense. There were some camp fires and we stood around one staring blankly into its flames.

An unspoken decision was reached and we were suddenly shuffling towards the exit.
ACDC were actually still playing but we were mentally somewhere else. They sounded like they were singing out the wrong end of a telescope.
It was time to go. Time to hit the Highway To Hell.

I think we figured if we left early we might get a lift somewhere North from some driver going our way. But in the confusion outside the arena we had no idea where we were. Cars and crowds were criss-crossing to and fro. Headlights were blinding us. Car horns blared while every car radio blasted a different heavy metal song. It was mayhem. We were lucky to keep track of each other. We did not get a lift.
We set off walking, unsure even of what compass direction we were going.

That night, I believe we walked 35 miles. We didn't talk much. There was nothing to say. Walk don't talk. Glasgow was hundreds of vague miles to the North.

We began to have bouts of hallucination due to over fatigue. I saw comfy cloud like bushes and vine shaped people lying in the hedgerows. Jimmy saw sausages and fried eggs. We constantly were pulling each other out of the way of oncoming traffic as we were drawn moth like to their headlights. Luckily we seemed to alternate our halicegenic lapses. I'd save him then I'd start to waver then he'd save me. It was a dangerous moment as we quite literally sleepwalked for 35 miles.

No car stopped for us during that insane march but the following day we had more luck. Somehow by late afternoon we arrived in the ancient walled city of York. We knew that York was fairly North and on the English East coast. We had no map and no water. The day had been a scorcher and we were parched with thirst. In a graveyard we found an old plastic container. It was dented and full of dead spiders and flies and cobwebs. We took it to a chip shop and waited in the queue. The delicious aroma of fish n chips almost made us faint. When it came to our turn we handed the chip lady our container and asked her if she'd fill it with water for us. For a long moment I thought she was going to say no. She just stood there looking at the container in my outstretched hand like I was presenting her with road kill and asking if she'd fry it up for me. Finally she half filled it and handed it back. We thanked her gratefully and left.
The container was still filled with dead bugs but we didn't care. We both took long swigs then set off again. A voice from behind made us turn round. "That's a big bottle of gin" it said merrily. We just stared: too tired to change expression. The guy swiftly crossed the road. We seemed to have an odd effect on strangers.

Apparently because England was in the middle of a drought, water was in short supply. I guess the chip shop woman had been very kind to give us a ration of water.

York was also famous for its horse racing track. As we continued our odyssey this track appeared on our left and the highway was on our right. Horses thundered along the turf just a few metres away while cars were zooming along on our right. I'd no idea how we'd gotten there. I turned to Jimmy and said, "I wish we had a map."
And I'm not joking or exaggerating when I say that at that very second, a map appeared in front of us, spread open and flapping in a bush. It was even the right map.
We looked at one another and Jimmy said, "Next time wish for some money."
Well we studied it and found where we were.
We decided to head towards a motorway in the neighbourhood of Leeds. And so we left York and its well defended chip shop behind.

We figured there was about 200 miles to go.
Jimmy groaned. "Two hundred miles! Without cigarettes? It can't be done."
But there was nothing to do but keep walking.

We were plodding along on country roads with the sun beating down on us, when we came to a wee shop. It was one of those little grocery stores that sell a few tins of this and that: The kind with an old lady behind a counter who calculates costs on a piece of paper.
The time had come to spend the 37 pence.
What could be bought with 37 pence? Not much. Jimmy sat outside while I went in. "get something that'll last" He said.
I came back out with 5 bubble gums. Now we were broke.
Two bubble gums each and one left over.
"Will I just eat this last one", I said to jimmy?
"Will ye fuck."
Knives flashed out in a second. It looked like there's about to be a blood bath.
I cut the bubblegum in two. We both oversaw the procedure like it was a heavy drug deal.

Later that night the temperature dropped and a fog came down. We sheltered for a little while under a highway bridge. Something was crawling about in the hedgerow. It was an albino bat. "Ozzie must be around here somewhere" muttered Jimmy. And I do believe we laughed.

But by now Ozzie was far behind, all tucked in, fast asleep in his bat cave. We on the other hand were wandering hopelessly North towards Scotland in the middle of some anonymous night.
We were now both on automatic pilot mode, sticking our thumbs in the air at regular intervals even though the highway was deserted. This was a psychological condition referred to as Hitcher's Hike or Hitcher's Twitch. It's known to occur when someone has been severely over exposed to bad hitching conditions for too long. The slightest noise can cause the victim's thumb to go up: the tweet of a bird, a rustle of a tree: sometimes nothing at all. The only cure is time and rehab.

The highway was deserted. Uninhabited. Everything had turned eerily silent. Jimmy stooped and picked up a soggy, ragged cigarette butt. "Oh wow", he croaked in what sounded like a tired exclamation of joy. I though he was going to weep, He'd been reduced to smoking roadside butts for some time. He'd found a damp packet of roll up papers somewhere. They were all stuck together but he'd used them anyway. This new butt was a good specimen. Someone had only taken a few puffs then tossed it from a car window.
Jimmy put it in a pocket to dry off.

We were only half a mile past the the albino bat when Jimmy slumped to the ground. He simply curled up on the verge like road kill.
I stood beside him like a scene from the Irish Potato Famine picture that hangs in Catholic living rooms everywhere. A grim depiction of despair and failure. A very sorry sight.
After a few minutes, I helped him to his feet. He was completely exhausted and babbling incoherently about cigarettes and how they keep you warm and can ward off evil spirits.
It looked like the bitter end. But even if it was, there was no where to turn. There was no off switch. No changing the channel. We could only keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Then, from nowhere a battered old VW bus appeared. It pulled over and we stumbled in the side door. Unbelievably we were moving. The interior was dark except for some luminous green dashboard lights. Up front separated from the back by a driftwood barricade, I saw 2 male silhouettes. Through the windshield, two headlights sniffed the road.
We sat gratefully on a wooden bench along the side. I remember I moved my foot and discovered there was someone in a sleeping bag on the floor.
The engine roared like an aeroplane and made any thought of talk with our rescuers impossible. Not that we were feeling chatty. Jimmy pulled the soggy cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He handed it to me and indicated that I should ask one of the pilots to light it. I held it up gingerly. It had drooped like an "n" shape. I held it by one leg and passed it through the barricade and asked the passenger to light it. I wasn't sure he understood my accent. He turned his head and looked at the droopy cigarette then took it slowly and held it up ceremoniously for the driver to see. They both looked at it then at one another. It resembled a large dead maggot. It was a rather surreal moment: sort of eerie and slow motion. After the cigarette had been thoroughly looked at, the passenger passed it back the way it had come, unlit. A grubby hand came out of the shadows and drew it back into the abyss.

We were dropped off at Scotch Corner in the wee wee hours. This place boasted a large rather grand looking hotel and a Y junction. The East road went towards Newcastle, the West road headed for Scotland. The car left us there and went East. We walked into the dawn on the West road and were still walking right into the scorching afternoon. We were starving, thirsty and dilusional. Not that different than back home perhaps but home was far far away.

By then it was about Tuesday. We'd left Neilston on Thursday and had our last real meal on Wednesday. Jimmy's last meal had probably crawled under his bed by then. That was almost a week ago. At this rate of progress we'd be still hitching North for a month. We were feeling justifyably mean and cranky and a bit violent. Knives would be cutting more than gum next time they came out.

In actual fact we were making progress. We were now in the Scottish Borders area. Glasgow was only about 100 miles further North but though there were plenty of cars on the highway, none were stopping.

We discussed calling Jimmy's father and asking him for a lift home. It was a long shot but we were desperate.
So we stopped outside a quant little roadside cottage with a bright rosy garden and began to argue.
Jimmy said, "You go knock on that door and ask to use the phone."
To which I replied angrily, "it's your dad we're calling. Shouldn't you knock on the door?"
"Well maybe I will. And maybe he'll pick me up and leave you here."
Then I growled in exasperation and marched furiously up the garden path towards the ivy framed doorway. I knocked on the door then turned back to Jimmy who waited at the gate kicking stones. I pointed at him and in a rage I shouted, "Jimmy, you're just a pri…"
Then the door opened. A girl stood there. Skinny, maybe 16 years old, tank top, shorts.
"….Can I use your telephone please?"

Shortly, we were all 3 in the kitchen. Jimmy made the call to a neighbour in Neilston who had to run round to Jimmy's place, relay the message, then call us back.
In between the calls we stood around awkwardly. The girl kept her suspicious eyes on us.
Can I have a drink of water" I asked?
She pointed to the sink.
The phone rang. She picked it up and handed it to Jimmy.
I could hear tinny laughing on the line and a far metallic voice saying something like "…Not the f***ing Lone Ranger." Jimmy hung up. We left and started walking again.
During the episode, we never heard the girl speak. Maybe she couldn't.

A few thirsty miles later, we were walking on high bankings beside the increasingly noisy road. There was heavy duty road works going on. The country side normally would have been a picture of rural serenity but on this day it was an industrial eruption of jack hammers, drilling and steam rollers that drowned all other country noises.
The high banking verge we were on put us at good eye contact level with passing lorry drivers but as ever no one stopped for us.
By then we were resigned to walking all the way to Neilston. My mind was pondering the idea that I could get a dishwashing job somewhere nearby and save for a bus fare back home. It would probably be faster.

Once again though we were parched with thirst. Glancing over a dry stone wall we both spotted a cow trough in the middle of a field. It appeared to contain water. A little muddy perhaps. A little stagnant. A little E Coli. But to us it was like an oasis.
We leapt the wall and made a B-line straight for the trough, ready to battle cows and drink that tankard dry.
Out of the blue we heard a honk. It stopped us in our tracks. It was a lorry. The driver was beckoning to us. A few seconds later we were in his cab. He was a middle aged English man. His voice was jovial. "I saw you two heading for that trough and I said to myself, those 2 need a lift."

He hadn't any water but he had a large piece of cardboard and a magic marker pen. By the time he dropped us off at a roundabout in Dumfries, we had a big sign that read, "Glasgow."

Two English yuppies picked us up and said they are driving all the way to Glasgow airport. This was great news. Glasgow airport is only a few miles from Neilston. Unfortunately they were convinced that Glasgow had 2 airports. I tried to tell him otherwise but in the end we were dropped out at Glasgow Central Train Station.
We appreciated the lift but were exasperated because we now had a nine mile hike instead of a four mile hike.
There was nothing to do but start walking. We couldn't follow the train tracks this time as it was still only early evening and the tracks were still in use.
Out through the housing schemes we plodded. Past the Gorbals, Pollockshields East, Queens Park, Langside, Pollock, The Hurlet, past the turn off for the airport, and across the breadth of Barrhead.
Finally, unbelievably we were on the last turn off to Neilston. A mere two miles to go. On we trudged in grim silence. Up the Kirk Hill Brae, that killer 45 degree gradient that went up, up, up to Neilston.
We reached the summit just as a neighbour drove by and asked if we wanted a lift. We declined.

At the junction of our streets, we parted without words. Swirls of starlings were flocking around the trees at the Manse, alternately roosting and taking off. Twilight was settling in.
The village was very quiet. No ticker tape parade. Then I heard what sounded like an echo of thunder resonating around the hills. Jimmy had slammed his front door. Jimmy was home.
Rumour has it that he devoured an entire loaf of bread then hibernated for two days.

The next Giro Day, me, Jimmy and Michael were in the Killock Bar.
Michael asked, "How was the concert?"
"Fine. How was the West Highland Way?"
"Oh I gave up after 2 days. It was raining."

Fish Fry Friday
Boundary Bay Beer Garden.

It's a funny thing that there's never much to say about good gigs. They were good and that's it. Not much happened: kinda like package holiday tours to Sweden.

It was a sunny day and the beer garden was buzzing. The whole Muddy Boots band was on stage for this one: Myself, Donald, Charlie and Phil. Tree was there too, making one of his last obligatory drumming appearances.

As usual not a practice in sight. I've lost track of when the last one occurred. These days, they're rare as eclipses or monkey tusks.
Despite this handicap, we had a great gig. There was an occasional rogue note but we had good energy right from song one.

There was a decent sized crowd who indulged in lots of free-style hoola-hooping and dancing. I figured that our usual starter "Who'll Rock That Cradle" wasn't going to cut it with this crowd. So we kicked off with Wang Dang Doodle.

In the second half we played all our "hits", Blowing Down the River, Chuckanut, Henhouse, Annecy, Injara, Cardboard box.
I guess the alcohol must have been kicking in to the crowd. A lot of them were boogying around and when we finished they wanted a couple more. Which was nice. So we played, Mojo Working and All by Myself. Everyone went home happy.

In short: Good gig. Quite tight. Lot's of fun.
The fish and chips weren't bad either.
…………………………..

Talking of fish……..

I was never much of a fisherman. When we were kids we did go fishing around Neilston quite often but I never reeled in a fish. Once I caught a waterlogged rusty motorbike. Another time, same place, I caught a garden shed. Not bad for 6 lb breaking strain.
I believe my plastic bubble still hangs where it snagged 30 years ago on a pylon wire by the Black Adder Dam. I never had any luck. Not even one that got away.

Wullie, a fellow Neilstonian, on the other hand was a good fisherman. He'd reel them in like he was using magnets for bait. He'd make it look as easy as dipping a ladle in a soup bowl.
One day he was fishing up at the Lint Mill Dam and he kept catching useless half sized fish. This went on all afternoon and he began to get frustrated and a bit angry. Finally when the umpteenth little fish came up, he grabbed it in a fit of rage and bit its head off. He spat it venomously out into the water and yelled threateningly at the headless body in his fist, "Tell yer fuckin pals it's the same for them if they come up here again." Then he threw it back.
I guess that's catch and release.

Beach Store Café
Lummi Island.

We (me, Hil and Ronan) went back up to the Highland games in Ferndale. Hovander Park sure was a lot noisier than it had been the previous day. There's nothing like a couple of thousand bagpipers to bring a different perspective to a quiet country park.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. We wandered around amidst the skirl of the pipes, watched the caber tossing, and checked out the clan booths. There were plenty of clans but no Higgins. We saw, Clan MacDonald, McKenzie, Campbell, and Clan Kettle Corn. The latter not so well known and luckily not spelt with three "K"s. We heard the Wicked Tinkers playing. We checked out the medieval swords, shields and axes tent. Ronan bought a foam sword and I got some miniature bagpipes. We couldn't stay long but it was a good family outing for the Clan Higgins.

We headed out to Gooseberry Point and picked up Charlie and met up with Donald, Phil and Chuck before heading over on the ferry to Lummi Island.

The Beach Store Café is just around the corner from the ferry landing. It is owned by Arizona Joe who plays with Wide Open, a band who have been around forever. We set up on the stage in the beer garden out back. Joe was really hospitable and helpful and made us feel right at home.

We started about 7pm and got off to the worst possible start with half the band playing "Rock That Cradle" while the other half played "Please Don't Go." That must have raised a few eyebrows. We got the next few right till "Fontainebleau" went completely wonky at the first bridge. We fumbled through that until we came to its second bridge which crashed and burned spectacularly but we made it across.

Jeez. We really need to get back to some regular practicing. It's time to pull ourselves up by our Muddy Boot straps. I think we can manage that.

Luckily the mistakes were mostly confined to the first half hour. We weathered them and by the second set we were gaining momentum and hitting our old familiar stride. Feet were tapping and hands were clapping. By the 3rd set we were full steam ahead and there was dancing on table tops and whooping all around the garden. The locals were on fine form. Sadly we had to cut it a tiny bit short so we could pack up and catch the last ferry back.
In the end we had a great evening and our earlier troubles were forgotten. Chuck was an inspiration. Charlie was back, alive and percolating. Donald and Phil were thumping and a-sliding.
I guess two disasters from a possible 40 isn't too bad in the end. But it did make me think.

I believe I like Lummi Island. We always have fun out there. It's soothing to get away from the ever present traffic noise. Even though it's only a short ferry ride to Lummi, it feels like another country.
As we were hurrying for the midnight ferry, one local laughed and said, "Don't worry. There'll be no queue. Who'd be going to America at this time of night?"

Highland Games.
Ferndale. WA.

This was a gig for the overnight campers at the Highland Games. They were a friendly bunch of maybe 150 souls all decked out in tartan.
In true Scottish tradition it had been raining for about 3 weeks but by a miracle the sky cleared an hour before we were to play.
The stage was kind of strange. It had no roof or canopy and was set up in the middle of an empty field. We looked like we were adrift on a raft.

I guess it was a decent enough gig. We had Yan playing mandolin with us. Chris and Chuck were on drums and percussion. They all played great. We had some fine moments like Injara, Cardboard Box and Ride on but we had some fundamental mess ups (not their fault) that really highlighted The Muddy Boots' lack of recent practice.

An unexpectedly entertaining song was There Ain't No Bugs On Me which evolved spontaneously from a loose jam and went for a nice long walk with one chord.
A lot of fun but as a wise man said, "A man cannot live on jam alone."

The real highlight of the night though must have been when Chuck and his daughter Isabel got 2nd place in the talent contest (Scottish Idol). They did a Go-Gos' song. She played drums and Chuck played Bass. "Face it", said Chuck into the microphone, "What could be more Scottish than The Go Gos?"

Afterward, Glen the event organizer gave us all tickets to the real Highland Games that officially started the following day. That was a real bonus and everyone was delighted. On top of that, we even got paid.

Harvey Haggard Hoedown.

This was certainly a gig of 2 halves.

Part 1 took place outside on the green behind Graham's restaurant. (Graham Green). Unfortunately the drizzling rain had kept the people away. Actually it got a little busy for a time but the poor brave souls hovered under the tent canopies around the edges of the field while soggy kids ran around playing football.
We'd played on this same little stage a few years back. Last time we'd been out in the blistering sun and I'd got burnt to a crisp. This time we were under a claustrophobic canopy with flaps closed down on 3 sides. I wouldn't have minded a flap down the front too.

The people were friendly though. They were disappointed in the weather too but were determined to make the most of the circumstances. They'd been looking forward to this event. There was a hot dog stand and a social tent, a face painting tent and some art work for sale.
I guess there was live music too. We played for about an hour until it was mutually decided to continue playing unplugged inside Graham's restaurant next door. I think everyone agreed that this was a fine idea.

Funny in all the years I've gone up and down the Mount Baker Highway, I'd never actually gone into Grahams.
Well it had a warm, cozy and lively atmosphere that reminded me of Christmas. Behind the bar counter was a huge saloon style mirror. The walls were adorned with old black and white photographs and posters. Apparently The Call of the Wild was filmed out near here years ago: the version that starred Clark Gable. Some of the supporting actors are still missing.

The tables and chairs were of rustic design and it seemed everyone was eating cake. There was a huge wood stove beside our "stage". It looked like an enormous can of beans. In an adjoining room was a pool table which will now go down in history as the table where Ronan first played pool.
So we played the second part of our gig. Tree was playing a watered down drum kit with no bass drum. Donald, Charlie and Phil were plugged in quietly. I wasn't plugged into anything.
A lot of familiar faces from outside had made the short commute. We were like old friends now. We had a great night.
And so we played for about an hour. We focused our energy into that hour and played a tight bunch of material that had the folks on their feet and dancing around creating a merry atmosphere in the place. There was even a phantom harmonica player.
I'm not sure if we gave the folks a good time or if they gave us a good time. But who ever was to blame, there were certainly a lot of contented people. Maybe it was the cake.

I think we finished about 10pm by which time I was completely hoarse. I think the Boots enjoyed it all too. It was certainly a fun gig with a good bunch of people.

………………………

People are always fascinated by my cazumpet. A man near the front asked me, "How did you drill a hole through that curly piece of wood?"
"Ah" I said." You see, the wood was originally straight when I drilled the tunnel through its length. Then I bent the wood afterwards."
"Aha. I see" he said.
"Do you believe me", I asked?
"Yes I do" he said. Then he looked at me more closely and laughed. "I mean no. Well eh … maybe?"

So outside on the front deck after the gig, Tree told us he was quitting the Muddy Boots. "My time with this band is over." he announced.
That's a shame because, I really relied on Tree's steady thump to keep me from wavering out of rhythm which I am prone to do when I'm singing, guitaring, harmonica-ing, conducting, cazumpeting and trying to remember lyrics all at the same time. He laid down a good solid beat that said, "get on board or F@@k off."

So now that Charlie is heading to Yakima after the Summer, it looks like Muddy boots are dropping like flies. Looks like we'll literally have to regroup.

……………

As far as I remember The Harvey Haggard story went something like this…..
Harvey Haggard was either the first man on the moon or the first guy to do the Ski to Sea race such as it was about a hundred years ago. I think there were about 14 competitors in that race. Among them were Bob Dylan and Bela Lugosi.
Harvey was first off the mountain and somehow got on a train back to Bellingham. On board, he was apparently naked and getting a massage (that's his story anyway) when the train hit a red bull and was derailed. The naked Harvey was then put on horseback but the horse threw him. He then hitched a lift into Bellingham where the locals passed the hat for him and later the good people of Glacier announced him King of Glacier. They celebrated by BBQ ing the red bull.

He was Harvey at the start but he was Haggard by the end.
That's what Shannon said anyway.


Well all that Ski to Sea talk has put me in mind of my own thankfully brief athletic career.

The Legendary Neilston Pad Race had no cycling section or canoe or kayak portions. Certainly no train ride back to town. This race was a straight forward murderous slog. There and back again.

The Neilston Pad is a big plateau hill that is as part of Neilston as the People. It looms in the distance a few miles beyond the village to the south west. It rises about 800 feet above sea level and it is the shape of Ayres Rock in Australia. The North side is completely bare of trees yet the South is forested. This gave the Pad the appearance of a sprawling lion with a mane of pine.
Its flanks are so steep that when you climb it you use your hands as much as your feet: hauling yourself up by grasping long tufts of grass for handholds.

The shortest route to the Pad from Neilston was to take the high street out of town then cut across some fields at the old quarry past the water tower. This was the Kingston Road and it was famed for inducing birth contractions in overdue mothers. It rose and fell like a rollercoaster. Cars often left the ground as they skimmed over the crest of each hill. If it didn't induce births it could at least induce vomiting.

There was also the cross country route used once a year in May by the entrants of the Pad Race. This course cut across fields and bogs and anything that got in the way. It went over cows and through bushes and rivers and farmyards.

The first time I signed up for the Pad race I was just a wee skelf of a lad with hardly a muscle to my name. I was about 12 years old and thus I have the excuses of being young, impressionable and naive. That year, there were about 14 runners. Quite a low turn out. But at least if I finished last, I could say I was 14th. That sounded more respectable than saying I was last. If anyone asked how many had raced, I would say, "Oh I don't know".

The Pad race is part of the spectacle of The Neilston Cattle show. This Fair is always held on the first Saturday in May. Farmers parade their livestock, Pipe bands play, there is a beer tent and there are carousels and dodgems and candy apples and gold fish to be won. It's a big event. Tradition dictates that it shall always rain. That year was true to form. Wellies and umbrellas were the fashion of the day.
I remember the pipe band gathered round the open hood of a car where someone had hooked up a TV to the battery and the Scottish Cup final was on.

I remember wandering around feeling damp and hungry. Then quite suddenly I'm on the starting line. Me and my fellow self condemned idiots, set to tackle the Pad.

Then we were running. Running far too fast to have any hope of even reaching the Pad before keeling over of a heart attack. But there were more serious things in life than mere heart attacks on the moors. We had to look good as we did a lap of the field before heading off under the train tunnel and into the unknown.
The course was poorly marked as I recall. I think the organizers assumed that we all knew where the Pad was and we were expected to simply follow the path of least resistance.
That path involved about four miles of barbed wire fences, angry cows, mud, ice, sleet, rain, toxic dumps and the occasional ambush from nutters in the bushes who'd lob half empty cans of pissed in lager and cigarette butts at the runners. Who knows maybe that was the en route refreshments?

I'd been completely out of breathe by the time we'd sprinted through the train tunnel. My skinny wee milk bottle legs were weighed down by football sized clumps of mud. I had no idea what race position I was in but I never saw another runner for the whole first half of the run. When I did finally see them, they were all coming the other way heading back to Neilston. There were about a dozen of them spread out over a quarter mile. My brain was too starved of oxygen to attempt to count past 2. Each as he passed me had a wild feral stare in his glazed eyes.
I tried to make a calculation in my addled head as to my relative position in the race. "Eleven plus one equals twelve. Plus me. Equals? Was there 14? Am I last? Was there one more ahead? Was there one behind me. Was there 2 behind me? "I couldn't think straight at all. That meant there was another runner unaccounted for. "Or was it two?" All I could do was keep running and assure myself that it made no difference whatsoever. It would be a miracle if I even finished the race intact. Still, no one likes to be last.

Long distance running plays odd tricks on the mind. Picture a book. On page one, written in scrawled black ink, there is a half formed question followed by some nonsensical phrase. Turn the page and there it'll be again. Page after page of the same gibberish. In your head you try to change the words but they keep returning to the same chewed up group of words that jumble around as you run. It could be anything: "what's the where do I kamooshka, kamooshka rink a mooshka…" A chant. A spell to ward off evil. A charm. Maybe a prayer.

As I neared the Pad my mind was speaking in feverish tongues. I saw a big red five bar gate in the distance. It grew steadily larger and larger in my flooded vision. There, before it, slouched a weary figure on the ground, elbow on knee, forehead in hand, eyes down. I ran past then stopped on top of the gate with a leg on either side. "Are you ok" I asked?
His body made no movement. "Aye", came the quiet reply. Then I turned and looked at the Pad.

It rose up before me like a giant grassy wall. An immobile close-up of a tsunami wave. My route was about to make right angle turn up into the sky.
I jumped off the gate which rattled metallically behind me like a dog on a chain. I splashed across a brown pothole and began the ascent. Only a little while ago I'd been exhausted running round the cattle show field. And yet here I was; 2 miles later, still going. But I was living strictly in the tormented rinkamooshka moment. The Fair could have been a million years ago. Returning there was just an abstract theory.

Up and up I went. How could I still be putting one foot in front of the other? Maybe I feared that the figure at the gate had gotten up and was chasing me. I was not last and I was determined not to be Skitterywinter. I was too afraid to look back. For all I knew he could have been right behind my shoulder. By this stage I too had that wild haunted expression I'd seen on the faces of the other runners.

What caused it? Was it that inborn stubborn Scottish streak that dictates that if a task is impossible, then at least we'll die trying? We could all have dropped out at any time but no one did. Anyway once you are well on your way to the Pad, where else are you going to go. After all, the race ended back where we'd started.
Were these the faces of men going to their execution? Was this torture and execution combined? Death by Pad Race. Was this the anguish that McPherson took to the gallows when he broke his fiddle in two after playing one last tune? Were these the grim blank masks worn by the "Ladies From Hell" as they climbed from the trenches and marched across No Man's Land playing their deafening bagpipes? No wonder the enemy shot at them. I guess Scots must like to die with a tune in their head. It would indeed be a shame to die without a song in your head. Better than a bullet I suppose. I can only speculate.
Were they simply the exposed alarmed expressions of farm raised couch potatoes who'd never ran farther than to the bus stop in their life's, now suddenly realizing that they were no longer the sprites of their youths? Certain TV truths are lies. The bionic man doesn't exist. Those feats are not possible. The man from Atlantis cannot hold his breath all day. Edmund Hilary probably did not get up from watching a soap opera and go off to the top of the world without any acclimatization.
Or could it just be that we, as a nation, are fundamentally insane.
I can picture a Scottish Tombstone inscription: Here Lies So and So: Died Trying. R.I.P.

Up the hillside I went, using all 4 limbs like a little spider crawling up the great lions flank. I followed the tree line, grabbing at tufts of grass and heaving myself upward. Finally I stood on the withers of the beast. The wind roared in my ears. A man (Billy Wilson) ticked my name off a list then wandered off without a word into the shelter of the trees. I looked back over the expanse of moor and hill. Neilston was far off in the distance. To my left there rose the Ferenese Braes. Behind them sifting in and out of cloud were the Highlands. Beyond Neilston was the giant metropolis of Glasgow. Slightly to my right and a few miles distant stood the dromedary Siamese peaks of The Craigie hill reflected in the Glanderson Dam hemmed in by The Toad Wood.
When I gazed down to the red gate directly below me, there was no sign of the fallen runner. He must have limped home.

And so I descended the great Pad without the haunted face of the other runners. They, engaged in battle and stumbling towards a distant finishing line: me, jogging home. Just a wee Neilston lad in the rain with the moors to himself.

It was down hill all the way to Neilston. I met no one. I can't recall much. It was still a grueling toil but I didn't feel I had to over exert my self. (I couldn't have if I tried.)

But suddenly my tranquillity was disrupted. Right before the end, someone jumped out of a bush just at the tunnel. For a moment I thought I was being mugged. "Wait for me" he yelled as I ran by. He raced after me and fell in beside me as we entered the tunnel. A figure dressed in track suit and hooded sweatshirt and hiking boots. What was this? Death itself come to take me? For sure this must be Hell.
When the finishing line came into view at the other end of the tunnel, the hooded figure suddenly raced ahead, fresh as a daisy. I found myself involved in an unexpected competitive moment. I tried to speed up but I had nothing left. I'd been idling along in a daydream. I was empty. The mystery runner may well have been one of last year's runners who had gone feral or (Most likely) he may just have chickened out of this year's race after the start. He figured he'd pretend he'd gone all the way up the Pad and back. Who'd know? I guess he was unaware of the man who was ticking off names at the top of the Pad.
None of this mattered to the crowd who watched the drama unfold as 2 runners emerged neck and neck from the tunnel. One appeared to still be remarkably fresh and even looked quite clean, but the other had a haunted look on his face. He looked like he may topple over at any second. He was covered in mud, his eyes were vacant and he was lagging further behind. The hooded runner was practically dancing towards the finish line. The crowd was clapping and yelling encouragement.
Was this to be my final shaming? The long slow death of the long distance runner had seemed finally over. I felt like Christ at the Stations of the Cross, aiming for a moving target. It just wasn't fair. I'd already been tagged as last. Now I was really last. No, not fair at all…….Rinka mooshka…. Rinka mooska….

…….The Mud Ball Kid's head went down, his little arms pumped like a death twitch and his muscleless limbs drained his fuel tank to empty and beyond. His mind went to a place beyond pain and marsh. A place where resides an inner whip. The astonished intruder felt, too late, a presence on his shoulder. For a moment he thought an angry bull was charging him. He leapt aside and with 2 steps to go he was passed by a life size claymation figure.

I remember bending double and being incapable of getting enough air into my lungs. I couldn't breathe fast enough. Between my heaving gasps, I managed to squeeze out the words, "Going to be sick". A friend of mine (Paul Murphy) who was waiting at the finish for me was laughing and laughing while the phantom runner was complaining that he'd been swindled.

And so ended my first Pad Race. In my head I still picture that I finished last yet in the end I was actually 3rd last. I'd finished ahead of the injured figure at the gate and the bush man. I have no idea who won.

Epilogue.

The following year I entered again. I don't know why. It's like the mystery of child birth amnesia. If women could remember how excruciating a birth is, then they'd never have a second child.
But there I was. Of this race I remember nothing at all. I know that I finished 6th out of 26. My time over the 4 mile course was 23 minutes. The 5 guys who finished before me were all adults.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots minus Tree.

As the sun went down over the bay, it really felt like Summer had arrived. The Honeymoon had its doors flung open and the terrace was quite busy. There were even mosquitoes. Yes the place was certainly buzzing. Yup. Buzzin' and a-swattin'.
By 9:30pm most clientele had moved inside.

As we know by now, the Honey moon is a small place. It doesn't take long to get intimate. So there was a sociable and lively atmosphere.
Whatever it is they drink in there, it sure makes folks happy and chatty. Or perhaps it's the cheese.
We set up at the back and I do declare we had a great night.
Sound was good, the bar was full and we even got fed and paid a little. A fairly relaxed gig. Didn't really feel like work at all. Which is how it should be.

………………………..

A few days earlier, I'd taken my guitar to a guy called David Payne to get fixed. I think (hope) that the problem is finally sorted. Apparently it had a dodgy jack plug. He also moved the battery to a more accessible place. With luck I'll have no more embarrassing guitar malfunctions in mid gig. Nor will I have to loosen all my strings to replace dead batteries. Ah luxury. Thanks Dave.

I almost didn't get to test it because after I set up the PA. I noticed I was missing the mixer cable. We were on the verge of an acoustic evening when Charlie turned around and handed me the missing cable. It turned out he'd packed it up last time by accident.

Over all it was an evening well spent. There were a few musical clangers but it was a good gig. The audience was very forgiving to the point of complimentary. I forget sometimes how much fun the Muddy Boots have, playing music together. I guess certain songs like Injara and Dandelion are great canvases for solos. Fortunately Phil and Charlie are great at pulling them off. Other songs like Spoonful and Smokestack Lightning have great grooves. And as we can all appreciate, Groove beats Lyric any day in the Gollum game of Rock, Paper, Scissors

We also played "I will go". I definitely like playing this old Scottish classic. Charlie's backing vocals sure help at the chorus and Donald's bass line is right in the middle between melodic and angry. This song seems to gather life the longer it goes on. It only hits its stride around the 3rd verse.
It might be interesting to end each set with a Scottish song.

Thanks to everyone who showed up. Maybe see you all again next time.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots
The Fairhaven Martini Bar.

Good gig. Nobody there.
A familiar story.
The Fairhaven is a big place. All the bigger when it's empty. Nice chairs though.

We were preceded by a comedian. I use the word loosely. I don't want to put the lad down, so let's skip past him and his act which comprised of crude verbal diarrhea. I can appreciate the artistic value of toilet humour as much as the next guy but I can safely say I've heard far, far superior stuff whilst actually sitting on a toilet pan.

Our Gig was scheduled to last an hour but due to a lack of everything from audience to live music, we played a while longer. It was good practice and I think we were all on decent form. The whole band had showed up. It was a nice big stage too. We started with Rock that Cradle for a sound check then played Spoonful and Blowing Down the River. Then my guitar crackled and died. After some head scratching we got it miked up but lost the volume on the monitor. After that the gig was fine but I'd lost my enthusiasm a bit because I couldn't hear my guitar. Everybody else sounded fine though. The word on the floor was that we were still coming across solid. So that was encouraging. We actually stuck fairly close to our set list which is most unusual.

I'm really getting fed up with empty bars especially when we play well and there's no one there to hear it. There's no denying there are some great musicians in this band with years of experience yet bad luck transpires against us again and again and keeps us surviving off tips, free drinks and menial jobs. Why do we do it? I guess we enjoy it.

Anyway, we played a bunch of original songs with some blues thrown in and we had a blast. When Chuck the host asked us to play a bit longer, it was nice to see the band all nod and agree to continue to enjoy ourselves.

After us, there was another short act. A ventriloquist. He wasn't side-splittingly funny but he came across well and was quite fascinating to watch. He seemed friendly and relaxed and at least acknowledged the intelligence of his tiny crowd. He appeared a far more likeable character than the comedian (Even his dummies were more likeable).
I think his name was Leonardi. Not sure though but it was certainly something Italian.
One of his dummies was a Gorilla dummy. He gave it a Scottish accent. Ironically, afterwards I'd swear Leonardi couldn't understand a word I said.

Thanks to Bruce Hendler for showing up and pitching in to help when my guitar died. At least he got a good seat: right at the front. Sorry we couldn't play Guernica. Maybe I should try work out a band version of it. Thanks also to Hil and Janice for yelling encouragement. (Janice, please remember, if you must graffiti, please sign your own name.) Super thanks to Chuck the host who did a great job setting us all up and making it sound great.

Thank you. Goodnight. You've been a great bunch of chairs.

………………….

But it just wouldn't be right not to end with some toilet humour.
Me and Peter and another Irish guy were waiting for a train in the Furth Bahnhof bar.
We were talking about food handler permits which are required for everyone who works in bars and restaurants in Germany. As part of the procedure the applicant must give a poop sample. The powers that be (The Ampt) send out all the proper equipment so that this procedure can be done in the comfort of home. They supply 2 small plastic jars; one slightly larger than the other. The first is for the sample; the second is to enclose the first for extra security as it travels by post to the head office. They also provide a small plastic spoon, some paperwork and a large brown envelope to seal it in.
My Irish friend was telling us about two friends who were discussing this. The first guy says," Did you get your sample sent off alright?"
The second guy says," I did."
Then the first guy says, "Jeez it's a bastard trying to scoop all that poop into the wee jars before sticking it in the envelope."
The second guy looks at him and says, "What jars was that?"

………………………………….

Paddy's Day
James Higgins
Solo Gigs at the Boundary Bay.

Lunchtime.
So this Scots guy walks in to a bar with a guitar….

Despite the ungodly hour, a troop of high stepping Irish dancing girls were River Dancing athletically around the bar. The crowd was already fired up and enthusiastically clapping along to some traditional Irish techno music. The young ladies gave quite a spectacular performance. I guess it was a sort of kung fu, tap dancing, jigging, Can Can. Just the thing to help the corned beef and cabbage go down well.
Most definitely a tough act to follow (the dancers: not so much the corned beef. Though that can be tricky too.)

So, me and the soundman Mike (not mic), set up the stage in the corner and I played an hour of Irish and Scottish standards.
A fine line exists between keeping an atmosphere lively whilst maintaining a semblance of digestible lunch time entertainment. Thankfully they were a forgiving sort of audience who were going to be happy with or without my intervention. Bearing this in mind, I mixed sing-along songs such as The Star of the County Down, Whiskey in the Jar and Cockles and Mussels in with more laid back tunes like, The Wild Mountain Thyme and Jock Stewart. In a rebellious moment, I threw in The Foggy Dew. There were no objections.

My set was about an hour long and I had a lot of fun. There were some familiar faces around too, which was appreciated. Jim and Sally were there, and Hil of course, and her friend Barb.

……………………..

Later that Same Day back at the Boundary Bay.

I had a second solo gig there scheduled for 8:30pm.
When I arrived, the Irish dancers were bouncing around again. The crowd were even rowdier then before. There was whooping and shouting and all the usual Paddy's night clatter and chaos. It was difficult just to get in the door. It felt like New Years Eve.
I thought to myself again, "Yup. This'll be a tough act to follow." The dancing girls finished up to rapturous applause. But just as I thought I was to play, up piped a pipe band trio. They commenced to blast the room apart while the crowd got even more worked up. I thought to myself, "Yup, This'll be a hard act to follow too. Perhaps I should just invest in a snug pair of concrete shoes and a vat of quicksand." I was beginning to feel like the incredible shrinking man. Why hadn't I invested in bagpipes instead of a guitar?

Finally, the pipers finished up and I squeezed through the crowd to the stage. There sat Robert Blake and band having a casual dinner of corned beef and cabbage. There'd been nowhere else to sit. A band on stage eating corned beef! Well that looked like an act I might be able to follow. Though as I stated earlier, you never know.

I let them lick their plates before I plugged in. I was in no real hurry. I figured the more time that elapsed between my act and the dancers and pipers, the better.


When I did finally start, I dispensed with anything resembling a ballad and went straight for the sing-along jugular. Naturally this involved a half hour of such inevitable classics as Cockles and Mussels and The Wild Rover. Yan got onstage during Whiskey in the jar O and played some harmonica. Then quite suddenly my St Pat's night was over for another year.

…………………..

I guess the organizers knew that Paddy's Night attendees have a short attention span. Hence the evening program had comprised of a snappy bout of Irish Jigging, followed by a calamitous outburst of bagpiping, followed by a crazy indecipherable screaming Scots guy, followed by the star attraction. Yes, quite an extravaganza and cheap at half the price.
Really it's all about the atmosphere and the craic. I would have liked to stay longer but it was wee Ronan's bed time.

James Higgins and the Muddy boots.
St Paddy's Parade.
Boundary Bay Brewery Pub

Thanks to the luck of the Irish, the noon day sun shone upon the St Pat's parade. After a colourful noisy meander around town, it all ended outside the Boundary Bay and the thirsty multitudes piled into the beer garden. This fun afternoon was a warm up event to celebrate the upcoming St Patrick's Day and it proved to be a successful dress rehearsal. There was plenty of emerald green on display with a collage of imaginative costumes with Irish themes. I saw 2 people dressed as enormous beach balls in kilts and red haired Tammy hats. Leprechauns were well represented. There was also a guy putting on the ritz with a top hat, coat and tails. Was Fred Astaire Irish? It wasn't till the end that I realized it was Dave from the Irish pub (with Molly there too.) Long time no see.

All members of the Muddy boots Band were present for this one. I'd say we had a good gig: up-tempo and lighthearted. But it was far too short. We didn't even get to play half of our Celtic material. We had tonnes of songs still to play but our one hour slot flashed past.
I wish we could have started 20 minutes later. Most of our audience was watching from a long slow moving beer queue that filed past the stage like a communion line. The majority were just getting comfy when we finished. Everyone though was in good spirits and all out for enjoyment. Their needs were simple: Beer and entertainment. The more beer they drank, the more entertained they felt.

We started with "When Will We Be Married Molly." That got things moving in the right direction. We followed that with Whiskey in the Jar and Donald Where's Yer Troozers. And many more. Well actually not so many more because we didn't have time to get to stuff like The Black and Tans, I Will Go or Whiskey in the Jar O (Yes that's a different song). Due to circumstances beyond my control, we were reduced to a mere skeleton gig.
Originally we'd been scheduled to play for 2 hours but an extra band had been added to the program at the last minute. They took up a half of our original gig time. Then the country dancers upstairs wanted us to stop 10 minutes early so they could jig to their own music.
I guess for us, our gig was kind of anti-climatic; sort of like the last lines had been erased from a short story and replaced with the words, "etc, etc, etc."

We had barely finished our set and were still onstage, when a duo with a fiddle and guitar jumped up and hijacked the moment. They just started playing some apparently unscheduled old timey music. Normally I wouldn't mind, but they were kind of rude: sort of took over our space and never spoke a word to me even when I said hello. I had to pack up around them while they launched into their pre emptive unannounced gig. Yip, welcome to Paddy's Parade fever. Where it's was every man for himself.
On top of that, I left without my tips.
But we did get paid.

So it was compact chaos as would be expected in the home strait into Paddy's Night. But we all knew what we'd signed up for. All things considered, I'd say everyone had an enjoyable warm up experience. Roll on Paddy's Night proper.

It's a jungle out there.

James Higgins and The One Muddy Boot.

An interesting gig. What do you do when the band don't show up? Charlie had completely spaced it out. We kept waiting for him to show up but by 9pm it was clear he wasn't coming. Phil was busy elsewhere and Tree and his drum kit skip this venue as it's too small. Thus it was only me and Donald on stage. We'd pulled off duet gigs like this before but we hadn't expected to be stuck on stage completely unrehearsed. We had to rethink our whole approach. Normally a band with 5 musicians can drag a 2 minute song into a 5 minute epic without even trying. So a 2 hour gig might only require about 24 songs. But when all the soloists are removed, the song returns to its bare boned 2 minute self. We figured we'd need twice as many songs as usual. Best thing to do was take it all one set at a time and see what would happen.

We eased into it with a bunch of semi acoustic tunes that at least had some twiddly guitar parts. Rock That Cradle, Bootlegger Blues, Stone River, and Please Don't Go. Some songs such as Can't keep me with its threadbare arrangement of bass, guitar and harmonica actually sounded quite haunting. In fact we began to fairly enjoy ourselves. It was all very pleasant but there were 2 more sets still to go.

In the second set, we threw in a few Irish tunes. Someone then requested some Dylan. So we played You Ain't Going Nowhere, and Bob Dylan's 115th Dream. We also played Willie Dixon's Spoonful which somehow managed to end up as long as ever.

By this time we had ad-libbed our way to the final set. We played The Henhouse with an extra long cazumpet solo, Cardboard Box with a couple of Bass solos and I even twanged a guitar solo on Any Old Time. Suddenly the evening was over. Time flies when your improvising. It had been quite a musical trip. Well done Donald. Thanks Jan for the ride home. Thanks Darla for babysitting Ronan. Thanks also to all those kind mead drinkers who shared our little adventure.

I've never tried mead. Which is odd because I've drank about every alcoholic beverage that's crossed my path. Jan said it is very sickly sweet. Like extra sugary apple juice. It's made from honey. I doubt I'd like it, but I imagine bears could drink a barrel load.

The 3 Ds
Chuckanut Brewery.
Feb.20.

I guess there were five of us. I'm not sure if it was the 3Ds or was it the 3 Denneys plus a mix of Whiskey Galore and The Muddy Boots Band. Whoever it was, they entertained a happy crowd with a bunch of Irish tunes and some bluegrass. Occasionally we'd toss in an unusual ditty like What a Wonderful World. Obviously it's a classic and I love it but it's a bit out of place. Louis Armstrong jazz can be like that when set in the midst of a set of traditional Irish jigs. If you've never heard Wonderful World played on a washtub bass then you better get to a 3 Ds gig at a cinema near you soon.

There were plenty of instruments on show at this gig: Violin, mandolin, banjo, flute, guitar, bouron, tambourine and wash tub bass. I think they were mostly in the capable hands of the Denney Clan while Phil played his acoustic guitar and I twanged away on my wash tub bass. Usually the tub's sound carries really well, but for this gig I literally heard nothing coming out all night. It all got swallowed up by the other ambient noises around the bar.

The wedding party (from Stuarts) showed up again to confirm us as their reception band. I think they wanted another listen before they committed to it. The Bride To Be was approached and was asked, "Do you take this band to be your lawful wedding entertainment?"
"I do", she replied. And everybody cheered and wept tears of joyous abandon.
But just in case… maybe we should do a pre-nup contract in the event that the groom backs out and leaves us waiting at the altar.
At least Wonderful World is a nice song for a wedding party.

Anyway, it was a compact little gig at the Chuckanut Brewery. No real sound check or anything to worry about. We started around 7:30 and ended at 10:00.

Outside during the break, Donald was having a cigarette when a guy emerged out of the shadows of the neighbouring freight yard and bummed a smoke. His voice was one of those gravelly sand paper drawls. He lifted up his shirt and showed us the fresh blood encrusted stitches on his belly. Said he was new in town; had gotten stabbed. Didn't even know the guy who'd attacked him.
The wound looked severe: like someone had etched a game of X and Os on his abdomen with a serious blade. Perhaps some crazy Zorro type with an X motif. Maybe he couldn't sign his name. Probably never heard of "What a Wonderful World".
We wished the stabbed guy better luck and headed back inside. Jan had caught the tail end of the conversation. "Who was that" she asked?
"Friend of Phil's", said Donald.

When all is said and done, I'd say this was fine easy going gig. Not well paid but it was a local venue with minimal hassle: tasty food, good company and generous tips.

What a wonderful world.

………………………

Speaking of, "What a Wonderful World", I guess I first learned it from Peter, way back about 1990. He had a way of knowing unusual songs and pulling them out unexpectedly. Coincidently his main repertoire was also Irish music. It seems Wonderful World could have some Irish ancestry.

Alan Green was an American working for Bayerish radio back then. Somehow he heard I knew the chords for Wonderful World. (News travels fast in Regensburg.) I'd written the chords down from Peter's book. That practically made me an expert. Alan wanted to learn it on his keyboard. So I wrote out the chords for him at the bar in the Harp. He got back to me the next day and launched into an attack about how the chords were all wrong and how they weren't even the right key. He was very upset and vowed to return the following week and submit to me the correct chords. Well I was all a-tremble as you can imagine.
So the next week he handed me a piece of paper. "These are the proper chords" he said.
I thanked him and compared them to my set of chords. Apart from the handwriting, they were identical. I scratched my chin and said, "These are the exact same chords."
"Listen James", he said. "I don't feel comfortable talking to you."
"Well I'll get you a cushion", I offered……

Well that's what I get for trying to be helpful.
…………………………………

I think Peter's father had given him a book of miscellaneous busking hits. It had contained Wonderful World and the Wabash Cannonball. It also had the Carpenters song, "On Top of the World"; a sugary happy smiley hit from the seventies.
I recall Peter had started learning this song around the time we set off on a wee busking tour up around Heidelberg and Frankfurt one summer. At least I think that's where we were headed. These dates and towns and places have all blended into one very confused collage. I remember we set off on countless little tours that meandered from here to there and back again. Once upon a time we set off for Norway but Peter ended up in Eastern Europe. Another time we set off for France but keeled over in an alcoholic stupor near Offenberg thanks to 3 jumbo sized bottles of plonk that we'd carted 5 miles up a vine yard hill. I recall the view was quite spectacular then it grew hazy then it went black.

Whichever tour it was, somehow we ended up in the tiny town of Lohr; a little picturesque fairy tale place with a large population of Italians.

The way I remember it, we arrived on foot. The local train had dropped us off about a mile outside of town. The walk into Lohr was quite pleasant. The road was fairly deserted though the heat was intense. We stopped to buy some take away beers at a roadside kiosk. Then we back tracked to a shady picnic bench we'd passed earlier. Being in no real hurry, we soon had the guitars out. Peter started picking away at The Carpenter's song, On Top of the World. Shortly we were both working out the chords and laughing about this song's chances as a money maker on the street. We must have looked a sight: 2 unshaven hairy bums dressed in dusty rags, swigging Weizen and singing, "I'm on top of the world looking down on creation."
Not to mention our strange accents. Peter's lilting Irish mixed with my guttural West of Scotland dialect. "Am oan tap o the wurruld lookin doon oan crea-aishin."
Scary stuff.

I remember that day was a Saturday because the shops were all closed by 2pm. We had busked right outside an Aldi supermarket. Aldi supermarkets are dirt cheap. They sell stuff still in their packing boxes. Labels are plain. The Beer brands are obscure. Just before it closed for the weekend, I entered and bought a 6 pack of beer.
Peter was still busking when I came out. There was a little street urchin standing in front of him. He looked up at Peter and Said, "Me, Italiano." To which Peter asked, "Can you sing, O Solo Mio?" The kid launched straight into it. "Oooo Sooolooo Miooo". He had all the actions too. I think he wanted money.

We left him there and found a quiet park to sit and enjoy a leisurely count of the day's takings. Lohr had been very kind. I took a long swig of beer then spat it out. "What the…" It tasted like vinegar. I studied the label. "Berliner Weisse Bier".
That sounded right. Weizen beer from Berlin. I figured it would grow on me. I'd never yet found a beer I couldn’t drink. But this day was the first. Peter's taste buds agreed. A few more goose pimple sips later and the whole 6 pack was in the garbage can being swarmed by wasps.

The yucky beer was a small setback. We had planned to relax there for the rest of the afternoon. The park was deserted. We played in the sandpit for a while then we decided to have a race. Twice around the park. Off we went. Peter set a good pace and I kept just behind his shoulder. The first lap was full of giggles and smart comments and sniggers but by the second lap, we were grim faced and focused. Peter stayed in the lead till the last 20 metres when I over-took him and won. I apologized and he called me a bastard. I should have mentioned that I used to run the 800 metres. Peter had done a couple of marathons in his time and had been understandably confident. If our race had been a marathon, he'd have won. I doubt I could have even ran another lap.

So we went into town and had a real beer on a terrace. I posted some money back to Regensburg so I wouldn't be tempted to blow it all.
As early evening settled in we headed back towards the train station. German train stations often seem to be on the edge of town. We checked the schedule to see if any trains were going anywhere. Nothing. We crossed the deserted street and sat on a bench for a think.
There was a freight train sitting a little way out of the station down the tracks. One of the box cars was open. I strolled innocently over and peered casually inside. The whole car was filled with old clothes. It was like striking gold. This demanded closer inspection.

We decided to wait till it got darker before venturing inside for a serious rummage. There were a few houses that directly overlooked the yard. We didn't want to draw attention to our movements. We weren't sure how illegal we were about to be.

The long twilight finally faded. All was quiet. We stashed our gear behind the bench and approached the wagon. We jumped silently in. It was completely dark even though the far door was open too. Using my lighter for illumination, we moved quickly. There was no time to scrounge in detail. We couldn't be fussy. Peter got a pair of shoes and a sleeping bag and a pair of jeans. I got a pair of jeans. In less than two minutes, we were leaping triumphantly out the far door and skulking back to our bench.
On a nearby bike trail we studied our swag properly. Peter was pleased with his new sleeping bag but the jeans didn't fit. The shoes were an inch too big but would do. My jeans didn't fit either. We were both standing half naked on the path and looking very guilty. When we swapped my new jeans for his new jeans we discovered they fitted perfectly. My old jeans had been the same ones I'd dropped battery acid on in Kyle of Lochalsh. They had been visibly dissolving a little more every day. Now I'd scored a new pair, I was feeling great. Peter danced a jig.

Me and Peter are basically honest people. We don't mug or kill people. So taking the stuff from the train made us feel a little guilty. We'd noticed it had been marked for charity. We figured we were so poor that it was coming to us eventually anyway. But to ease our weeping hearts we decided the least we could do was to put our old jeans and the old sleeping bag in the train car as a small token of our appreciation. But when we returned to the freight train we found that the wagon's door was closed.

We swaggered into town that evening feeling like 2 sharp dressed bums. We plunked ourselves up on some bar stools and I have to say that when we left at closing time I could barely stand in a straight line. Our swagger had crumbled to a stagger. Must have been that sip of Berliner Weise Beer in the afternoon.
Down the road we zigzagged towards a bridge we'd discovered earlier on our rambles. We planned to sleep under it.
It was a long walk but at least the cool evening air sobered us up a bit. Soon we were singing the filthiest version of On top of the World, you can imagine.

But looking back now I think how simple our lifes were. We wanted nothing but freedom to do nothing. For years, our movements were dictated by whim and by mood and by innocent curiosity. I loved it.

I awoke the next morning and I was lying in my sleeping bag staring at the bright blue sky. It took me some minutes to realize I should have been looking at the underbelly of a bridge and not the open sky. Something wasn't right. I sat up suddenly and found I was in the middle of the highway. Apparently I'd rolled down a slope in the night. Fortunately it was a Sunday morning and the road was empty.
I thought myself lucky because just a few days earlier in Erlangen town in a similar stupor, we'd slept on a ledge under a bridge behind the main train station. The ledge was about 12 feet above the street and barely 3 feet wide. To even reach it, we'd balanced precariously on bicycles and back packs and had somehow jumped and scrambled and hauled each other up. If I'd fallen off that ledge that night I'd have killed myself for sure. It was vertical straight down onto solid concrete and a pile of bicycles.

…..And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

PS. It turned out that Berliner Weisse Beer is supposed to be served with a sweet flavouring as a kind of dessert drink. It's not supposed to be drank "straight".

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
Rockfish Grill.
Anacortes.
January 30 2010

Good gig…. I think.
Yup. All the right ingredients were there. Everyone played well, the sound was decent, we had a nice big stage, there was an appreciating audience, there was dancing, and we even got paid.
A three hour gig though is a long night and my voice sighed, cracked and died right on the last song. Good timing I guess.
But I think we all enjoyed ourselves. Amazing to have the whole band together for 2 gigs in a row.

We seemed to have ironed out a lot of the dodgy moments we'd discovered at the Green Frog on Thursday. Still, we took no chances as this gig was a new venue for us. So, One Step Ahead of the Blues, Christiana, and Smokestack Lightning were all dropped. Neither did we risk playing Tramper Ticket in its speculative untried new key of G. We did keep Cardboard Box, King Bee, Fontainebleau, and Dandelion.

The only real near disaster was the forgetting of the speaker cables. But luckily a whip round within the band produced enough spare wires to string it all together for the evening.

Considering that this was kind of an important gig, it was surprisingly non descript. I feel I should have more to say but nothing comes to mind.

………………………

Décor wise, The Rockfish kind of reminded me of the Archer Ale House in Fairhaven but maybe a little bigger. Mentally I couldn't help but be reminded of the Irish Harp in Regensburg. I wonder how many of the guys propping up the Rockfish bar counter were resident musicians. All in all though, I got positive vibes from the staff and clientele.
One of the servers who was dancing enthusiastically to Driving Down Chuckanut deserves the Quote of the Night Award. He came up to me afterwards and said with a beaming smile, "Me and Chuckanut are tight." I'm not sure what that meant but he was sincere; like he was prepared to die for Chuckanut Drive. Good man.

Special thanks to the kind folks who keep showing up in odd venues and give us a cheer. It's always great to see friendly faces.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots
Green Frog Acoustic Tavern.
Thursday January 28 2010.

For the first time in about 5 months, the entire official Muddy Boots Band were on stage together. We certainly had a lot of catching up to do.
We had another gig coming up at the weekend so we really had to have a real full scale live practice. A rare event. Tree had never heard of half the songs on the list so we just dived straight in and zipped through as many as we could.
I enjoyed the gig a lot but we had a few hysterical bad moments. Not least of which was when I started singing the Board House song in the key of A# while everybody else was in A major. One line in to it, I realized my mistake. I grabbed my capo from the 3rd fret and clamped it on to the 2nd fret then slid my voice down a notch all in one foul swoop. How I managed to land in key for the 2nd line was a feat indeed. Somehow the song just carried on. I wonder how that must have looked and sounded to the audience. Probably like someone had slowed down an L.P. record for a second with their finger then let it go again. Well it made me laugh. That'll teach me to concentrate on music instead of waffling on about babies sleeping in drawers.
On top of that fine clanger, the battery on my guitar died on the first note of the gig. Luckily, Donald had a spare one but it took me 15 minutes to loosen all the strings and grope about blindly inside the sound hole like a mad gynecologist before I managed to get the new battery in and the guitar retuned.

Despite my determination to sabotage this gig, we did get some good practice in. Overall I think we were quite tight. The sound wasn't bad. We got to premiere Fontainebleau and Christiana plus we got to dust down a bunch of other stuff such as Broadway.

Right at the end we played Smokestack Lightning at a pace that would have bored a snail. It was so slow that it was unsingable. We persevered though and just took it for a walk (more like a plod) to see where it would go. Which in the end was nowhere at all. Sometimes you lay an egg and you just can't unfry it. I burst out laughing about 3 times during its long tedious lifespan and its long death speech. "…...uuu…ugh…Rosebud…ugh….thank you goodnight."

I guess if these comical errors had occurred at a higher paying venue, we would not have been laughing so hard. But as it was, we live to giggle another day.

…………………………………..

I guess I mentioned before that the green Frog reminded me of the Seoben in Munich.
Me and Peter used to go there quite often. It was like the last bastion of insanity in the Schwabing District.
It was a tiny place: dark, smoky and full of hidden corners. Heavy rock music blasted (and I mean blasted. BLASTED) from the walls. The walls were… well I don't know what they were. It was too dark to see them. The tables were ancient but solid. They may have once been work benches or dinner tables. They were scrawled with names and pictures. One huge table about the size of a snooker table just fitted into one of the alcoves. Around it there was just space for benches to squeeze about 20 people in against the wall. If someone wanted out to the toilet they simply spelunkered under the table or else everyone picked up their beer and the person leaving would simply walk across the table as casual as he was crossing a street.

I remember we were crammed in there one cacophonous evening when a woman with a weather beaten face across from me began building a miniature Stonehenge from cigarettes. She balanced them carefully on end in a little circle then laid some half cigarettes across the top. Her motions were sleepy and deliberate: almost like slow motion. Structurally, her creation looked quite sound. Steadier than her in fact. After a while she put a cigarette to her lips but didn't light it. She then put one up each nostril and one in each ear. The guy beside her smiled and pulled out a lighter. He ignited the one in the ear closest to him. He didn't appear to know her. She didn't laugh but she pulled it out and took a puff of it before climbing up on the table where in a teetering trance like state, she proceeded to do a strip tease. At this point the barman quickly appeared and jumped up on the table. He didn't burst into a John Travolta routine as you'd expect; instead he squeezed her back into her clothing before propping her back in her space. He then patted her head and returned to the bar while the dancer turned to the stranger with the lighter and suddenly kissed him so passionately that they fell under the table never to be seen again that evening.

I miss the Seoben. Hardly a trip went by to Munchen that we didn't pop in for a pint and bask in its unique atmosphere. It wasn't so much a dive; it was more of a gopher hole where a colony of lunatics sat blinking in the dim light with license to drink.
In my mind I still picture me and Peter, sitting up at the bar, tall beers in hand, big silly smiles on our faces. Pissed as farts.

I guess I said the Green Frog reminded me of the Schwabinger Seoben but actually …..actually they're nothing alike at all.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
Stuart's Coffee Shop.

Actually it was just me and Donald doing this one.
I didn't bring any amplification though Donald had the bass plugged in at room temperature. Normally that's plenty loud but tonight I became aware of the enormous drone given off by the ice cream machine next to the stage. It sounded like a vacuum cleaner. Though I could sing over its hum, it rendered any talking with the audience as obsolete.

So we played through a bunch of stuff and got a few practice songs in too.
A night of low drama. I even got a free coffee.
Golly.

Washtub Bass with the 3Ds at Stuarts.

Just Donald, Jan, Dale and me having a quiet session of bluegrass stuff. Not much of a crowd but it was still fun. In fact I hardly noticed the lack of people.

A girl spoke to Donald about playing her wedding on the 4th of July. She liked what she'd heard. I'm glad we didn't know she was there evaluating us or we'd have gotten a bit nervous. She left happy but half an hour later her Mother came in with what seemed to be her husband and some bonified in-laws. She introduced herself then sat to listen. I figured they were going to be the ones to foot the bill at the wedding and she'd obviously want her moneys worth from the band.
Naturally we all got instantly really nervous. We'd been fine up till then: happily playing away and minding our own business. But now, the pressure was on.
A few notes into this ambush audition, Jan's bouron drum stick flicked right out of her hand as she was playing. It went twirling across the room like a boomerang. All relevant chords were momentarily suspended in mid air. Fingers fumbled, washtubs clanged and great rivers ran backwards.

It was comical. Jan started laughing. We all started laughing.
Anyway, after some furtive onstage whispering and giggling, we decided to just play what the Bride-To-Be had heard and liked. The Mother and entourage left after about 15 minutes. They gave no clues as to what they thought of us except they were adamant that they wanted a fiddle involved.

I don't think there's been that much excitement at a 3D gig as long as I remember.
Then the waitress insisted I pay for my coffee. Things were getting down right controversial. Obviously she didn't realize that the wash tub bass was a very serious instrument.

22nd December
Allied Arts Fair

Me and Donald were set to play then Dale showed up with his mandolin. So we had ourselves a jam.
I guess this was probably the last gig of the year. I think it was the quietest I've seen the fair yet. But 1pm on a Tuesday isn't an inspiring time of week.
Not much to say. It was enjoyable but non descript.
There was an odd moment when we played Fontainebleu. A woman came rushing up all excited, saying "Where can I buy this song? I want to buy it. Now! Who wrote it? Was it you? Do you have more?" She was all a-fluster. "I want it! I want it! I want it!" We were a bit taken aback because we'd just been mucking about. Dale had never even heard Fontainebleu before and I was calling out the chord changes.
In the end she asked us to play something from Driftwood. We played Chocolate Girl. Then she breezed out the door without buying anything.

A few minutes later a woman came up and said that she recognized me. Turns out that during last year's snow storms she'd picked me, Hil and Ronan up somewhere in the Happy Valley and driven us home. It was a pleasant surprise to see her again. I think her name was McBride related. Not only did she give us a lift last year but I think she even bought a CD this time round. Double thank you.

Allied Arts Fair
Dec 20

A casual hour trying out a few tunes with Donald, Jan and a friend of Jan's from her work.
We put the emphasis on the Irish and Scottish material like, Jock Stewart, I Will Go and The County Down. We even played my old nemesis, Whiskey in the Jar.

It was lucky I'd checked my email this morning. There was a message from Donald saying he'd see me there at one o clock. I'd thought we were scheduled for 3 o clock. It was a shock to the system because I was barely awake by noon. I have to admire how cockerels manage to get straight out of bed and start crowing every day at the crack of dawn? I need to get one of those old hand cranks that cars used to have. That might get me jump started.

Well our one hour set flew past and I think we all had a good time. Toes were tapping.
Cock a doodle doo.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
The Honeymoon.


The Honeymoon is not a sloppy drunk of a place. It's has a merry rowdiness that resonates from a purring clientele who snack on platters of cheese and sip wine and mead. Their contentment rubs off on us musicians which makes this venue a pleasure to play.
We don't generally play our rockier material there but we do still keep things moving along at a fair clip.
Yan dropped in with his mandolin and jammed the last set. It was good to see him again.
We gave Cardboard Box its first public performance. It went down well enough but I still trip over the lyrics. I may have to edit them a little.

All in all it was positive night considering our practicing has dropped off to a trickle since we voted to drop the unpaid gigs.Those freebie shows at least kept us tight, confident and in the public eye.
Fortunately, Donald, Charlie, Phil and Tree are all excellent musicians. Even on bad nights they can still pull off a good gig.
Hopefully we'll get back on track again. Charlie was really ill recently and the Donald has so much family and Christmas stuff to deal with at the moment. All the recent North West storms, gales and floods haven't helped either. I guess it's only natural that band practice drops out of life's priorities.

Thanks to all the friendly faces that showed up. We appreciate the moral support.
Special super thanks to Barb for taking some great band pictures for us. I hope we weren't too hard to work with.
…………………………

Anyway, about the song, Cardboard Box.

Cardboard is a very useful commodity when sleeping rough. A simple layer of cardboard between your sleeping bag and the ground makes an incredible difference in comfort level. It forms a shield from the cold ground and stops the dew soaking the underside of the bag. It is cheap and easy to find. Thus it is also easily discardable: meaning it doesn't have to be carted about everywhere as perma-luggage.
Back when I was hanging out happily homeless in Annecy in the Alps, I always kept an eye open for a piece of cardboard for the evening.

When me and SJ had returned to "Our" (the Fox's) apartment that April from Scotland, the Fox was not pleased to have us move back in. In fact he'd already rented the place out in our absence. Well if that's not a hint, then what is? Looking back, I see his point but at the time, I was a bit angry and the whole affair almost turned kung fu nasty.
So we found ourselves back on the street which was nothing new. The real trouble was that it wouldn't stop raining. It had been pouring incessantly for weeks. It was very depressing.
We'd busk every day in the subway and then haunt cafes and bars till evening when we'd scurry around Annecy like rats, searching for some dry corner to curl up in.
One desperate evening we crept under the stage in the Rue Royal Park but the rain dripped through the planks till by midnight we were in an underground river. My cardboard floated off. I remember watching it going over the top stair of the park steps and down onto the Rue Royal like a paddleless kayaker shooting a waterfall. The rain fell in sheets from the sky. Gutters overflowed. Streets became torrents. SJ ran off screaming into the night. All was despair. The flying hat was lost.
Later, in dire misery, I sneaked into the Fox's shared landing bathroom. He discovered me there as I was drying myself off on the shower curtains. "Ou est John", (Where's John?) he asked?
Shais pas", (Don't know.) I shrugged.
He shook his head and quietly invited me in. He had a good heart but next day I was back outside.

The rain continued without pause for breath. Day after day it rained and rained and rained. All we could do was live with it.

Late one afternoon after busking, I was squelching aimlessly up some medieval alley, when I found an enormous cardboard box. It was chest height tall and cubed. I looked into it and knew exactly what I was going to do. I quickly scoured the neighbourhood and filled the box with every large piece of cardboard I could find. This included a second box almost as large as the original one. Then I put my guitar and sleeping bag and groceries in it and began to push, shuffle and carry it through town. I wove through the crowded pedestrian zones all the way through the old town till I saw SJ who was busking under an archway.
He had noticed this enormous box coming down the street towards him and had been watching it warily through the corner of his eye. Then it stopped beside him like it was listening. He was a little apprehensive. Then my smiling face poked out from behind it. "What do ye think" I asked?
"It's a big box."
"It's a mobile home."
He laughed and then we both pushed it on out of town. We didn't go along the lake road past the Hotel Du Police. Instead we went uphill towards the Visitation church which overlooked the town. There was a small park enroute where we'd often eaten lunch in previous Summers. Across the street, lived an old man. He too frequented the little park. In Summers past, he'd often hobbled over and sat with us and spoke of his resistance fighting days in the war. One afternoon when we were sitting up in the park, two girls strolled by on the street; he pointed and said, "Hollandaise." (Dutch).
"How do you know? He made a motion with his forefinger as if he was wiping butter from his crotch. Then he sniffed his finger, pointed at the girls and said, "Hollandaise."
Yes indeed. A regular Dirty Old Man.

We parked our box at the park entrance and went in for a discreet smoke which gave us the giggles. Then we continued on up the steep hill, with big smiles on our faces; literally out of our box with a big box. The dirty old man waved out his balcony window and a few little kids buzzed around us but it was surprising how little attention anyone actually paid us. We were just two everyday, ferociously stoned, hippy freaks from Scotland, pushing a giant box up a steep hill in the French Alps in torrential rain.
Finally we arrived at our destination: a seldom trodden pathway just below the Visitation. On one side of the path was a high wall of perhaps 15 feet tall. On the other side were bushes. The path was unlit and formed part of a pedestrian shortcut up the Semnoz Mountain. As it was almost dark and pouring with rain, we figured no one would come by that night.
So we set to building our shelter. We placed the two biggest boxes on their sides with the open tops facing one another. Next we piled lots of the extra bits on top as waterproofing. We placed a lot around the sides to prevent the rain from turning the supporting sides all soggy. Finally we cut a little cat box door and we crawled in. It was pitch dark as a coffin, so we cut a letter box sized hole to let a little light come in. Satisfied with our little cave, we spread out our sleeping bags to sit on, and ate pate sandwiches and drank cinque etoile vin extrordinaire. We laughed and laughed and paid no more heed to the rain pounding angrily outside.

All that night, and all across the mountains, it rained and rained and rained.
For the first time in a month we were immune to the fury of the elements; safe and dry in our cardboard cocoon.

We awoke next morning and heard a gruff voice outside. Footsteps were shuffling nosily around. We sat very still till they walked off. Ten minutes later we emerged. The coast was clear.
"I think we'll just leave that there for tonight" I said.
We nodded in agreement and started heading into town. We were feeling good.
Then we saw the garbage truck at the end of the path. There were 4 burly unshaven, gauloise smoking, garbage men lounging around it. "Oh oh." Was this what was meant by a Visitation?
"Salut", we said cheerfully as we walked past. But we knew we weren't getting away that easy. The chief garbage man spoke. "Pas si vite" (Not so fast). He pointed back at our creation. "La France est pas une peubelle" (France is not a garbage can), he declared authoratively as he crushed an ironic cigarette underfoot. He ushered us back up the path and made us demolish our precious cardboard mansion and toss it into the truck.
Once again we were back on the street.
But it had stopped raining.

…………………………….

There was another irrelevant cardboard box caper some weeks later which I record here just for posterity…..

We'd found this latest box in town and dragged it to the same spot. Not wishing a repeat of the garbage men incident, we decided this time to hide it in the bushes and not on the path. It turned out that these bushes formed a perimeter around Annecy's official campground. Our friend Michael, the English violinist was staying there (on an official capacity). He'd invited us up for a big party. Not wishing to be homeless at the party's end, we'd cleverly brought along a box. Very smart.

There were quite a few folks at the party, mainly buskers and other street artisans but I really can't remember who. I remember an English speaking person laughing about our box idea. "Why don't you stay in a hotel?" he'd asked me skeptically.
"No money", I said.
"Don't you have a tent?"
"No. But I do have a sleeping bag."
"Where do you normally sleep" he asked?
"Sometimes in the woods by a fire. Which is nice. Sometimes by the lake. That's nice but not as nice as the woods. Sometimes at girls' houses. That's very nice. Sometimes I just fall over. Sometimes I sleep in a box."
"Ha! A box", He laughed. "That's crazy. That's dumb. Dumb and crazy."

I also recall a tall German one man band who kept talking about how Germans could hold their beer and how he challenged us to a beer drinking contest. He was still muttering about it just as he passed-out while we were carrying him back to his camper van. I guess he really could hold his beer; he just liked to sleep while he was doing it. But we've all been there, haven't we.

Since our original box episode, the weather had improved but on this particular night, the rain was lashing down again. We were determined not to let it ruin our evening. Michael cooked up a blood red Harissa noodle soup and we stood around it like double dipping cannibals and slurped straight from the pot.
The rain turned torrential. Even as we wolfed down the food, the pot wouldn't empty. It kept overflowing like Manna from heaven till finally with strained taut bellies, we gave up. Somehow it seemed hysterically funny. In the end the party fizzled out. The fire place looked like a tide pool. The rain hissed like white noise. The pot was abandoned. The soup turned to broth and the broth turned to water. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We slopped off, drenched, to our box in the bushes.

There were two problems with this new box. First we'd set it up on a slope. This caused us to keep sliding down to the bottom. Secondly, this box was oblong shaped like a giant cornflake packet. There was no headroom. The night turned into an uncomfortable, grumpy and bad tempered experience.
When a familiar English voice came staggering by and asked apologetically, "Excuse me, is there room for one more?" He was greeted with three short answers. "F@@k @ff."
"Who's laughing noo ya plonker?" And "Get yer own box."
The absurdity of that situation did make us laugh though. People have sought room at the inn or asylum from politics but a voice on a stormy night asking, "Is there room for one more in your box?" That's definitely different.

For a few minutes he continued pleading his soggy case. "My ride into town hasn't worked out as planned".
I could picture him bent over our box speaking to it. It would have looked crazy to a passerby. "Oh please Mr. Box please let me in".
"Not by the hair of my chinny f@@@ing chin chin" scoffed the box.
He gave up and wandered off.

………………………….

There's more.

Our final box mischief happened spontaneously one Autumn evening in Annecy's deserted old town.
In High Summer, Annecy is a carnival. The streets and terraces are packed with sight seeing visitors. There is street music on every corner. Fire eaters on unicycles singe waiters' waxed moustaches. Gypsies walk barefoot over broken glass. There is copulation of strangers in chestnut groves and gravel car parks. Ensembling orchestras gather to tune up in the park every available sunset. Boat loads of tourists patrol the lake night and day. There are fetes and festivals and parades. In short, it's a monkey house.
Off season, Annecy presents a different face. By 7PM her streets are devoid of life. This Jekyll to Hyde quick change occurs in a blink: like someone suddenly switched off a hundred radio stations.

Anyway we were walking along, minding our own biz, when we saw a fair sized empty box beside a garbage can. It was about the size of something you'd pack a large badger in.
We didn't have much to do so we climbed in and waited till a passerby came within range. Then we burst out with a yell and scared the hell out of them. The only hint that there was life in the box was a few wisps of smoke and much muffled laughter.

Not satisfied with that drama level, we then moved the box into the centre of the pedestrian zone where it looked like it had been blown there. Anyone coming along the street had a good long time to casually view the innocent box. Plenty of time to register it as non aggressive. When we jumped out, it made it all the more unexpected. We took shots each at leaping out while the other watched the victim's reaction from out of sight. Sometimes we'd pop out like we'd been just sitting watching TV or something. We wouldn't even look at the passerby but they still got a shock. It was all great fun till one victim threatened to punch our heads in.
The non Summer months of Annecy were very boring.

I think it was shortly afterwards that we set off for Amsterdam.
There were no more cardboard box adventures after that. Though there was the umbrella tent.
……………………

Small Notes about Boxes.

I wonder if anyone ever booked into a campground and set up a cardboard box. I imagine that an A frame bivouac would be quite east to erect. If a complete slit was cut down one corner of a large square box, then the 2 end parts could be placed under the sleeping bag while the rest would form an A frame. How to close the ends would be a problem but at least there'd be roof and 2 layers underneath.
I imagine the family deluxe model might be trickier.

I went to the Bellingham museum yesterday. There were plenty of "Artistic Chancer" pieces on display. They say art is never wrong. Well some of the pieces on display were stretching the boundaries a bit. Just because it has a frame around it seems to give something the right to be called art.
Back when I was studying SYS Art at school, I took an old car tyre and painted a section of treads various colours. While the paint was still wet, I rolled it across a piece of paper. The treads left marks on the paper which I proudly framed. I showed it to my teacher who summed it up in a word: "Rubbish." The experience stuck in my mind. So as I perused the Bellingham Art Gallery and saw a piece that was created by someone who'd put graphite on a rubber ball and bounced it on a page to see what mark resulted, my old teacher's word came back to me. "Rubbish."

Another "Artist" had stacked a pile of used tea bags in a long box."

But amidst this disappointing flotsam, someone had constructed a cardboard motorbike. A moped actually. This piece stood out a mile to me. There was nothing random about it. Hands and mind had been at work here. This was humour and skill blended in the act of creation. I'd suspected maybe there was a real moped encased within it but I was informed there was not.

It all brings me back to my Alpine Cardboard house. Was it art? It took time and effort, and imagination to construct. Was it art? Was it art through desperation as opposed to art for arts sake? It was practical art. In that respect was it architecture? Whatever it was, it was garbage in the end. But was it rubbish?

James Higgins
Allied Arts Fair
December 12 2009.

It certainly feels like a long time since I did a solo gig. I kept if folky with the emphasis on the Scots / Irish material. It was a casual hour spent dusting off a bunch of obscurities and rare oldies. The Cow Cow Hicky song hadn't surfaced in ages. Same with Cluck old Hen. I don't think I'd sang Peggy Gordon since I recorded it about 3 or 4 years ago. I even threw in The Star of the County Down and, Donald Where's Yer Troozers.
Someone came up to me later and asked, "What's this word you sing, troozers?" When I explained it, he said, "Ah, trousers", and then went off muttering, "Trousers, troozers, trousers troozers".

James, Donald and Jan at the Allied Arts.

A relaxing hour of eclectic songs. Some Scottish, some Irish, some original and some odds and ends.
This new venue up the Meridian feels less cheap and dumpy than last years place on Cornwall. Quite cozy actually. The people were friendly. Store detectives have always been some of my best audiences.

The 3 Ds at the Allied Arts Fair.

A sociable wee gig playing my washtub with the 3Ds. It definately feels like Christmas is looming. Everything seems to suddenly bloom very red. "Commercial Red", should be an official colour. (Trimmed by Furry White of course). Do decorated Christmas trees grow from little light bulbs planted on the third Thursday of November?

But anyway, It was an agreeable afternoon. I think the shoppers enjoyed it too. It's always nice to sit in (or stand on one leg) with the 3Ds. One day I hope to be able to connect the titles to the music.

3Ds at the Chuckanut Brewery.


As ever a pleasant night "Tubbing" with the 3Ds. These days they should be called Dale and the Denneys.
The place was quite busy and the 3Ds', Irish, bluegrass style really blends perfectly into the atmosphere of a lively bar without ever being obtrusive. I'd brought my guitar along as an emergency back up because Dale had hurt his hand and I may have had to croak out a few tunes. But it turned out well in the end with Dale picking away on his mandolin as good as ever.
I always enjoy playing with the 3Ds. Wash tub bass playing is a hoot. Seems the less strings I have, the better I sound.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
Green Frog.

Green Frog November 18

A gale has been on the rampage these past few days. Feels like it's blown the days of the week out of order. The neighbourhood lost power around 7pm. A tree crashed down as we were setting off for the gig. It landed across the drive way.
Charlie didn't make it to the gig at all. He was up at Gooseberry Point, being pummelled by winds, floods, falling trees, plagues of locusts and evil spirits.
Jason never made it either. Not sure why. Perhaps he was up at Gooseberry Point, spooking Charlie.

So it was a skeleton crew of a Muddy Boots Band who blew into town. Me, Donald and Phil.
The gig went fine. We tried out a couple of new songs and some oldies. Dandelion made it's first appearance. Can't Keep Me was resurrected.
There were a few rusty moments but overall we were on good form.
There'd been another beer fest closing down when we showed up. Donald staggered out at the end looking a bit rough. Phil kindly gave me a lift home. (Thanks Phil).
The house was still standing when I got back. I'm not sure though if it was in the exact same spot where we'd left it. At least I had a home to go to.....

The Honeymoon. Bellingham. (The Almost Rowdy Town)
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

The Honeymoon is a cozy little wine bar tucked away in an alley off State Street. We'd played in there a couple of times before and always enjoyed it.
Previously we'd played it unplugged but this time we set up my wee P.A. system with the volume down low.

The space quickly filled up with what proved to be a warmly enthusiastic crowd. They (and a decent sound check) put us on good form. At times the atmosphere was almost rowdy. But it was a sophisticated kind of rowdiness. We breezed through the evening playing mainly our more laid back stuff. When I looked at the set list, I realized there were 16 original songs written on it. Quite a lot. The rest were mainly old spooky blues.

……………………………….

It had been raining all day long. Charlie had had to detour to avoid flooded roads as he drove into town from Gooseberry Point. He could easily have cancelled but he didn't. Thanks Charlie. Phil made a last minute appearance too which filled out our sound nicely. So with Donald on bass and with Jan yelling encouragement we rounded off a great little night around 10:15.

We didn't mean to finish so early. Someone had whispered to me in urgent tones that it was getting late. I had no idea what time it was. But I got the impression I was being told to stop. Unfortunately it turned out we'd packed up a half hour too early. A shame really as I think we had been enjoying ourselves. So apologies to the establishment for the misunderstanding.

In the end though, a good time was had by one and all. Lot's of wines and cheeses were consumed. We were even invited back.

………………………….

Scotland is not a country renowned for its fine wines. We probably have few true wine connoisseurs but we do have plenty of Winos. The word "Wino" sort of sums up Scotland's view of the grape juice. It evokes dour images of bearded hoboes dressed in filthy trench coats, passed out in Glasgow Central train station.
I'd never really drank wine till I went abroad. For us, as young men in Scotland, wine was not about taste, it was about price and alcohol content. My first few encounters with wine in France involved refundable bottles (Cinque Etoile) with plastic tops. We'd open these bottles, toss away the lids and go for a stroll. We'd swig that rotgut down like it was cola though it tasted like cold black sugarless tea. Unidentified things floated in its depths and it left a sandpaper aftertaste on the tongue. The adventure generally ended with me passed out on the street: face down, palms up. I guess I wasn't so different from the Glasgow bums.

I remember when my old Scottish friend Julie came to visit me and Hil in Regensburg, Germany. We went into a supermarket to get some wine. Hil said "Let's get a bottle". I said,"Mmm, there's three of us. Better get two". Julie said, " Mmm, three of us. Shouldn't we get three?" So we got four.
Then we went for a pint.

…………………………………

Green Frog Acoustic Tavern.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.


The Green Frog was hosting a beer fest when we arrived. This was the busiest I'd ever seen the place. Plenty of beer was getting swigged and the place was loud and boisterous.

As usual it took us a few songs to come to terms with our sound check. With 5 of us playing, it was all a bit murky. There were amps all over the tiny stage in no particular order. The Donald's bass amp was sitting right beside me though Donald was off stage across the breadth of the room away. Naturally he couldn't hear it from that distance so he had it blasting. That drowned me out completely. I actually jumped with fright when he played his first note. Charlie's amps were set up right behind him practically in his back pocket while at the back, Phil had his amp wired up to be heard over the bass. He was behind Charlie's amps so he probably didn't catch much of what Charlie was playing. Jason was in the corner right behind me with his drum kit. He needed to hear the bass amp to give him something to groove with. I couldn't hear him at all but I bet he could hear the bass. So it was a confusing evening. As we stood amid the amps, it felt like we were in a fortress of noise. Or maybe more of a barnyard of din. Amp-Henge. Remember The Bashstreet Kids? All par for the course I guess.
As usual nobody in the crowd seemed to notice. Perhaps the alcohol had numbed their hearing.

Despite the mania, there were some good moments through it all. The slower songs had better resilience against the ragged sound check we'd cooked ourselves into. Chuckanut went well. So did Blowing Down the River, Spoonful and Smokestack Lightning. They were all a little faster than usual but still had a groove. Most of our endings were chaotic but at least we nailed the ending of Annecy. As shows go, it wasn't bad. Jason last played drums with us way back last year some time. We'd had a quick practice in the cabin on the eve of this gig.
Once again it was dodgy sound issues that marred the evening for me (and probably everyone else). Though it wasn't as bad as last time, it was still very distracting. Bad sound makes a gig too much like hard work. I want to ride the sound waves not be drowned by them.

Bruce Hendler dropped in and he got up and sang Dylan's, "It Takes a Train to Cry". He's a big Dylan aficionado who just wanted to sing a Dylan song. He did pretty good and seemed to enjoy the experience.

But my lasting vision of the evening must be while we were playing Wang Dang Doodle. I looked over at Donald who was on a stool by the front door. He was playing his bass but was simultaneously checking IDs and taking money from customers as they came in. He was haggling and giving people change while still keeping that pounding riff going on. I don't think he missed a beat. That's multi tasking.
……………………………….

I guess the Green Frog beer fest was some sort of honourary Oktoberfest. Most people are surprised to learn that the real German Oktoberfest actually takes place mainly in September. Shouldn't it be called Septemberfest?
Over the years I guess I've been there about 4 times. It was always a laugh but gets a bit repetitive after a few visits.

The first time I went to Oktoberfest I was coming from Venice on the 6 P.M. train North via Innsbruck, Austria. Oktoberfest was the last thing on my mind.

Stepping off the train in Innsbruck was like looking up in New York, except it wasn't tall buildings but towering mountains I was gaping up at. They hemmed the town in: ominous, jagged and already streaked with snow.

Back in Venice I'd exchanged the 100 pounds Scottish that I'd swapped with John B in Annecy a few days earlier. I thought I was doing him a favour but at the Venetian exchange office I was informed that my Scottish money was only worth 60 pounds. I'd given John a thousand francs. Now it had shrunk to 600. Well I needed Lire quick if I wanted to buy a train ticket, so I accepted their miserly exchange rate. That made a further nasty dent in my cash.
I was only in Venice for the day. After wandering around for some hours, I decided it was pleasant enough but kind of boring. I felt I was strolling through a still life painting. There wasn't even a busker. The old town had a sense of neglect. Plaster had tumbled from buildings like flaky skin. I was surprised by the amount of graffiti that tattooed the crumbling facades. Litter blew around the streets like flocks of dust devils till it finally gathered in corners where it accumulated in drifts of wrappers and paper cups.
It was all a little disappointing. Compared to Annecy, Venice was a dump. Here was a great work of art whose colours had faded and washed out into the elements. A trampled Mona Lisa with boot prints across her face.
Eventually I found myself seated on the front steps of the train station entrance watching the crowds and boats. The Plaza there seemed quite busy. I heard lots of languages and accents all around me on the steps. The biggest excitement was when a busker dressed in a black vampire cape set up to perform but was quickly arrested. He was literally picked up and carried off screaming by the police who appeared from nowhere like pest control. I guess that explained the lack of buskers.
As 6 PM approached, the entire population who were seated on the station steps, all got up at once and got on the Innsbruck train. Obviously they'd found Venice as enlightening as I had.
I spoke to a few back packers and the conversations were all the same.
"When did you get here?"
"This morning"
"When are you leaving"?
"Tonight".

……………………

In Innsbruck I waited all night in the station. In the morning I caught my connection to the tiny German town of Mittenwald. The train burrowed through tunnels and chugged around mountains, perilously tracing the edges of narrow cliff tops carved out of the alpine rock. Looking straight out, there was often no sign of the land we were traveling on: just blue autumn sky and a few nosey clouds. There was nothing but thin air unless I glanced nervously down where far far below was the lush green valley floor spread like a live page in an atlas.
I crossed into Southern Germany, with no border hassles. Some hitching later, I found myself in the ski town of Garmisch. It didn't seem to have a pedestrian zone so I didn't try busking.
As night fell I was tired and weary. Apart from the remains of my currently useless Scots pounds, the only money I had was a 5 mark coin that I guess someone must have dropped in my case sometime during the Summer.
I was walking out of town to sleep by the roadside when I passed a gas station (Tankstelle). I went in and with the 5 marks I purchased 4 beers. When the attendant handed me my change he eyed me with distrust. I smiled and was about to leave when I realized I had money enough for one more can of beer. He fetched it for me and shook his head as I left. I guess I must have looked kind of bedraggled, shifty and suspicious. So armed, I went merrily down the road till I came to some tennis courts. There was a picnic bench under a tree with a beautiful view of the mountains. I parked myself and cracked a beer. Oh boy it tasted so good. What a long day. But now here I was happy as a tramp. Sunset, beer, tobacco and what looked like a quiet corner to sleep.
I sat lost in my thoughts and drew a sketch of the mountains. It was a peaceful moment, blowing smoke rings towards the peaks and enjoying the beer and the alpine panorama.

So, why was I in Germany and where was I going, I hear you ask? Yes there was method to my wandering. I'd recently left France where I'd been hanging out. I'd taken a night train to Venice just for a change of scenery. I had no real solid plan, but on arrival in Venice as you now know, I quickly deduced that Italy was not compatible with a bum like me. So I'd immediately headed North in search of cheaper climes.
There'd been a girl I'd met in France who had given me her address in Schwabisch Hall in Germany where she was studying. She'd said that if I was ever in the neighbourhood, I should look her up.
That now looked like a very good idea.

Meanwhile back at the beer.
I'd picked up a free map at the gas station and I located Schwabisch Hall. It was a kind of out of the way place to get to. From where I was, there was no direct road. I'd have to go past Munich then west towards Ulm, then North till I could weave my way towards Schwabisch Hall. After that I had no idea what my plan was.

I must have been about half way through my 4th beer when I sensed something wasn't right. Surely by now I should be getting a bit groggy and sleepy. I flicked on my lighter and studied the can. By its light I could read the word Alcohol. So far so good but what was that word that preceded it? "Ohne" what did that mean? Only alcohol? But then under it written in French, the dreaded word, "Sans". Sans Alcohol. No alcohol!
I couldn't believe it. My only coin in the world and I spent it all on 5 cans of alcohol free beer. Now I realized why the tankstelle man had looked at me so oddly.
I was mad. I drop kicked the can across the tennis court then with a sigh of resignation I laid out my skimpy sleeping bag and climbed in. Goodnight Germany.

In the morning I was up bright and early. At least I didn't have a hangover. The day was mild and sunny but hitching was hopeless. I stood beside a noisy secondary road with a lot of construction work going on. The Autobahn was still some miles north so I walked and walked till finally a green Volkswagen bus pulled over. I was about to ask the driver where he was heading when 3 tall policemen burst out and formed a tight circle around me facing inwards and downwards. I felt like I'd suddenly fallen down a well.
"Ausweise".
"Wo hin gehen sie?"
"Wie lang bleiben sie in Deutchland?"
So many questions and I never understood a word of it.
Fortunately this routine was very familiar to me as in the past few years traveling it seemed I'd gotten frisked every second day. In fact I'd just been frisked in Italian a few days earlier and now I was being frisked in German. The words were different but the subtitles would have read the same.
When they realized I didn't speak German they switched effortlessly to English. "Palms against the car and legs apart". Electing to take the path of least resistance, I complied. My only worry was that they'd deport me for vagrancy without even drinking a proper beer.
They found my tobacco.
"Do you smoke hashish?"
"No"
"How much hashish do you smoke?"
"None"
"Open your back pack"
They put my back pack in the side door and we examined it together. Then they searched my guitar.
"Where do you buy your hashish?"
"I don't".
"Have you ever smoked hashish?"
"No".
"You look like you smoke hashish?"
I shrugged.
Now they wanted to strip search me but there seemed to be some protocol about this. They couldn't do it in the middle of this construction and traffic jam.
"Step into the car".
I ducked into the side door and they all tried to fit in with me. The scenario was getting comical. Heads bumped and eyes were poked. I started to smile at the idiocity of the scene. They got as far as taking one of my shoes off then they kicked me out and drove off. The moral of the story? Always wear your socks for a week or two before a strip search.
What pissed me off most was that the van drove off in the direction I wanted to go.

Eventually I got a lift from a young man about my age. He was a cheerful kind of guy, driving to Munich to meet a friend he hadn't seen in years. He mentioned something about having lived in Peru. He was no longer sure if he'd even recognize his friend. They had arranged to meet in the Munich Bahnhof (Train station) that day at a certain place and time. They were then going to the Oktoberfest where I was welcome to join them. When I explained I was broke, he reached in his pocket and handed me a token. He said it was worth a half chicken and a stein of beer at the fest. "Well" I said, "looks like I'm going to Oktoberfest.
At the Bahnhof we met his friend and went straight to the Fest. It was quite overwhelming. A carnival with huge beer tents and lederhosened oompa bands pumping and oomping. Glazed eyed revelers stood on tables and sang. Big bosomed waitresses carried ten huge overflowing beer mugs at a time. We sat ourselves at a long wooden table and were soon chomping chickens and slurping huge frothing beers held in two hands. My companions were chatty and amicable and at the beginning spoke English. A second round of huge beers appeared. I thanked my new friends. Soon they drifted into speaking about old times in German. I spaced out and began to think about how to leave town. I decided that when that beer was gone, I'd head for the Autobahn but they insisted that I stay for one more beer. I really had to go but they had been hatching a plan. They wanted to find some hashish and wondered if I could help. I said I didn't know Munich very well but had heard that the English Gardens might be as good a place as any for a stranger to start looking.
By the time we left the October Fest we were all completely fried. We crumpled unconscious on a lawn near a subway station. I don't know how long we lay there and I can't even remember if we went to the English Gardens.
Next I recall it was night time and I was getting off a train in Ulm, a town some distance west of Munich. I turned left outside the main entrance. Then immediately turned left again. There was a motorway bridge. I crept under it without hesitation and was asleep instantly. I guess I must have changed some more Scottish money somewhere. I can't recall.
I never saw those two guys again. T'was an exciting day though. My first Oktoberfest.

For the sake of tying a knot in this story, I made it to Schwabisch Hall. It was a beautiful little medieval town, all timber beams and cobbled streets.
I met the girl I had sought and I stayed in her student house, communal kitchen thingy for a week or so. She was studying German as were all the people there. They came from all over the world.
There was an elderly Chinese man named Dr Woo. He was a traditional noodles, raw fish, sake and ping pong kind of guy but by the time he left town he was strictly Pizza, beer and cigarettes.
One afternoon he saw me juggle 3 potatoes and he asked "can you do this with eggs?"
I said "No, I'm not very good. Maybe if they were hard boiled, I'd try it".
He said "you must try it with raw eggs. I have some". He fetched three eggs from the fridge and insisted I juggle them. I said that I couldn't but he had an impish grin on his face. "Go go go", he said.
"But I'll break them".
"No problem", he laughed. "Have many eggs".
So with a sigh, I began tossing them in the air. 1,2, 3. Splat, splat, splat. Mr. Woo howled with laughter.

It turned out that the potatoes belonged to an American named Jim. He appeared later in the communal kitchen. We got talking about how he'd searched the town for cooking oil to cook his potatoes in. He'd had no luck and was annoyed and hungry.
"…So now I've got this big bag of useless potatoes", he says to me.
"Why don't you boil them" I suggested?
"Boil them? What do you mean?"
"Just stick them in a pot and boil them till they're ready"
"Boil them? You can do that?"
"Yes".
"Boil them" he mused. I could tell this was big news to him.
"Then just add some salt for flavor and there ye go."
"Salt? Do I have salt? How long should I boil them?"
"Twenty minutes."
"How will I know if they're ready?"
"Just poke them with a fork. If they cry out then they're ready".
"What about the water?"
"Make it into potato tea".
"Really?"
No. Just joking. Pour it out".
"Oh". Then he laughed and said, "That's so funny".
I doubt he understood a word I said.

He told me that he'd just been to the October Fest.
"Me too" I said.
"Boy that beer is powerful stuff", he said. "Just about felled me. Went straight to the head. I thought I was going to throw up."
"Jeez I know", I agreed. After three I was seeing double."
"THREE" he cried out in disbelief "I only had one!"

The Green Frog Acoustic Tavern.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
The Trouble with Tripling.

Strange gig.
The sound guy was doubling as the bar tender and dishwasher. Or is that tripling? He came over as we were plugging in our stuff and asked us what we needed. He had a little note pad where he jotted a few things down. He looked like he was taking our order at a pizzeria. Which may have been of more use. I think we ordered too much of all the wrong stuff. Sadly after setting us up, he was too busy to alter his original mix. He did occasionally step out from behind his counter and tweak a knob on the mixer but we were lost in a sea of random notes. At one point I think Donald was playing a different tune than me. His bass had the weirdest sound check I'd ever heard from him. It was as if the entire bass end had been removed by suction. Each note sounded like clogs tap dancing on a wooden floor. I don't think my guitar was in tune all night. I wish I could blame that on the sound guy too but sadly that was completely my fault. I could hardly hear Charlie's guitar at all. But he seemed fairly oblivious and happy. Phil just kept his head down at the back, astride his electric chair. I can't read crowns very well, so I don't know what he thought. Slowly though we all began to realize that something was amiss. We were under attack from a shaky Steam Boat Willie sound check.

Fortunately the Mudman Mark Flanders dropped in and on witnessing our floundering confusion, came smartly to the rescue. When the sound guy returned from a world record cigarette and telephone break, Mark, fine politician that he is, shook his hand, had a word with him and the mix was thus improved slightly. If only congress moved so quickly. Thanks Mark. Thanks to the sound check man too. He really was run off his feet. I guess he did his best. Last time we played there though, he did a lot better.
But that's the trouble with tripling.

So it was kind of an indifferent gig. We thoroughly massacred Michelle Shocked's, Old Woman but did get to test drive Blackberry Pie and we tackled Creeps in a new key.
A harmonica player got up too and played along on a couple of blues tunes. His efforts got lost in the mix with the rest of us but he seemed to have had a good time.
I believe his name was Feron.

I guess we were kind of on a bit of a low when the gig was over. I counted the dollars in the spittoon tips jar. There were 12 bills in it. Eleven 1 dollar bills and one 100 dollar bill. Whoa….. What was that? Yip. A hundred dollar bill. Well that brightened up our night pretty quickly. For sure it's not a lot, but it's a hundred dollars more than what most bosses give us. I don't know where it came from (Maybe the boss) but we quickly exchanged it for four 25s. Thank you mystery donator. And if you're reading this, you are welcome to come to all our gigs.

Well that gig was yesterday. Right now it's September 2nd.
That date sticks in my mind every year…..

…………………………………………………..


Once upon a time, as we all know by now, I was a bit of a wanderer; I travelled aimlessly across Europe with my guitar. Mostly I was alone in my misadventures but from time to time I was joined by my old friend and nemesis, John Brown.
As in all genuine artistic relationships, our friendship was a pendulum of musical highs and pointless punch ups.
We were in fact from the same tiny village in Scotland yet we never actually met till we were about 17 years old. Sometimes I think it might have been better if we hadn't crossed paths. We weren't good for each other.
When we began playing music together we had all kinds of delusions of grandeur. We dreamed we'd go to Chicago and make it big playing the blues in smoky bars. If we'd known that Chicago was a cold and windy city and that (more importantly) the legal drinking age was 21, we wouldn't have entertained that scenario so enviously. Fortunately John had some kind of criminal misdemeanor on his record which forbade him entry to the States. So instead we dreamed that we’d go to the continent and be discovered on some street corner by Bob Dylan himself, who would invite us on a world tour as his backing band. We’d live the rock and roll dream and be filthy rich. It was a compact little dream but friends told me we'd "end up in the klink".
Well, we got as far as the continent but Dylan didn’t show up. Thus began my career as a street musician. I was not destined to be filthy rich. Just filthy.
If there was an autobiography of John's life, the jacket notes would read, "Based on fiction". For sure John had a natural talent for exaggeration. He also wore the biggest shoes I have ever seen outside of a circus. He used to say, he could swim at over a hundred miles an hour. I don't think he exaggerated that one. Generally though, he wore steel toe capped work boots. Theoretically he could walk with great purpose underwater, which was handy in an ambush.
But maybe most of all, he was just a dreamer who craved a constant change of mentality with never a thought for the future. It was genetically impossible for him to save a penny overnight never mind to have anything as grand as a bank account. He would have been a hopeless squirrel. As for me, I wasn’t much better but I had a tiny grain of prudence which John often found unforgivable.

There came a time in Annecy when I hadn’t seen John since he'd returned to Scotland the previous year. Together we'd busked up his fare for a local Crolard Bus. I'd elected to stay on in Annecy for that Winter.

So one summer day in the alpine town of Annecy, some months after his departure, suddenly there was John, staggering towards me like a rubber tightrope walker down the Rue Royale. Blitzed out his head and dressed all in black in an under takers suit. Top hat and tails and a pair of steel toe capped industrial boots. His dented top hat looking like someone had pried it half open with a can opener. He carried a guitar case in one hand and a half empty bottle of five star vin ordinaire in the other as a counterbalance. We came face to face in the crowd and he grinned and greeted me with a cross-eyed, "ahright brer", and we passed the first of many bottles of that Summer.
Between passing bottles and pipes and passing out, we spent that tourist season playing music with a little street band we'd assembled the previous year with some fellow down and outs.
Artistically John and I worked quite well together. He was a natural born rhythm guitarist whereas I was more of a doodler. I don't recall any disagreement ever on who should play what. We were able to nudge each other's songs just enough to bend their shape from straight lines into more interesting depths. Usually all it took was a change of one chord or one lyric. Simple things that we'd never have noticed on our own. But really what I remember most fondly about our sessions was the helpless laughter we often descended into.

Unfortunately throughout that French Summer, our amicable musical ESP did not spill into our social lives. Outside of music, we would disagree on any topic. Much of it was plainly due to our overly indulgent homeless bohemian lifestyle. We had everything but a castle. But really the lesson here was that you should never travel, live, or work with your friends. Follow that advice and you’ll remain friends.
One evening, whilst chatting up two girls in Le Munich, we degenerated into a particularly drunken argument which culminated with a guitar being hammer-thrown into the lake. The girls wisely left us to it. The guitar never resurfaced but I always wonder if anyone ever found it. I recall we'd abruptly stopped fighting to watch it sink, as if it was the Titanic or an unexpected holy moment. Then I believe that we actually laughed.

By the end of August we were sick of one another. Thus once more, we were shortly to be going our own roads. I was heading to Italy and John was going to pick grapes near Lyon.

With the arrival of September, the tourists fizzled out and a sense of tranquility descended on Annecy. With new adventures on our horizons, a ceasefire was declared.
Well a friend of ours was driving a delivery truck through Switzerland to Lake Constance in Germany on business. He offered us a free trip there and back (1000km?) if we met him promptly at six a.m next morning at his house. We jumped at the chance. We knew we had no hope of being up at that ridiculous time, so we decided to stay awake all night. We wandered up into the forest. Then we meandered around town like ghosts, chain smoking till towards dawn we found ourselves perched on a wall beside the big "Visitation" church that overlooked Annecy. John asked me for a scrap of paper. I handed him my little sketch pad. For ten minutes he scribbled inside it till it was time to go and meet the truck driver.

Our trip was a disaster. We got strip searched at the Swiss border and then kicked straight back out of the country. Our driver drove off without us. We’d only gotten forty kilometers down the road. Now we had to hitch back to Annecy. We sat by the roadside, too weary and grumpy to put our thumbs in the air. Finally we decided to split up to hitch. I got a lift back by a driver who was the first person who ever mentioned the name Andre Brugiroux to me. By evening John and I were both back in Annecy where we'd started.
Yup. A great day out.

My memory of September though, is not really of that day. A few years later I was working on the Isle of Skye up in North West Scotland. One quiet afternoon, I was sitting in my room tinkering with a tune I had been working on. I’d found some lyrics in an old sketch pad. The words were not in my hand writing but they fitted perfectly with my tune. At the bottom of the page there was a signature. John Brown. September 2nd 1986. I glanced at the calendar on my wall. September 2nd 1988. It was two years to the day that we'd sat on the wall overlooking the dawn roofs of Annecy. I was bowled over as the memory rushed back. Such an odd magical coincidence.
Every time that date comes round now, I think on those two Septembers and I wait for something supernatural to happen, but it never does.
I haven’t heard from John Brown in a few years. We are still friends. I think he is on a fishing boat off the West Coast of Scotland. Maybe he’ll call me up next September 2nd. Maybe I'll call him. Maybe we'll have a jam.
Hell, maybe even Bob Dylan will show up.

…….September takes the rope
And then she takes the strain
How I hope we blow along
Till September comes again.

Paso Del Norte

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.

A good enough gig but nobody there. Hugo wanted us to play till 1am and we obliged even though by midnight the Paso Del Norte was just about empty. Earlier, the place had been quite lively with some imaginative rubber dancing. The Muddy Boots were in good form but empty bars really sap the energy out of musicians.

Blaine seems to be such a ghost town. We arrived on the main street around 8:30pm and even then the streets were deserted. No pedestrians. No cars. Not a squawk. The view across the harbour was very picturesque but we had it all to ourselves.
We'd have been in Blaine at 8 but en route to Donald's house I realized I'd forgotten the bass amp. We had to go all the way back and get it.

Stephanie was filling in again on drums for us and she did a great job. We even managed to have a bit of a practice before the gig.

Not much to say about this night. In short: a long gig in an empty bar. Not too inspiring. There doesn't seem to be enough people in Blaine to fill a bar. On the positive side, we did get to try out some different material like Michelle Shocked's "Old Woman".

The Paso Del Norte had 3 TVs on. All were featuring different channels. The one directly ahead of me was showing an old "Saturday Night Live" show. We were singing "Tramper Ticket", when a comedy sketch began which involved a pregnant white trash girl in a bar trying to pick up some cowboy guy. Somehow the whole skit fitted perfectly with the song lyrics. Seems only me and Donald noticed but it cracked us up. A few minutes later the Saturday night Live news crew were dressed as Eskimos and dancing in perfect sync with Chuckanut Drive. They were so unbelievably in time that I dragged the song out a bit longer just so I could laugh more.
Exciting stuff.

North West Washington Fair.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots

Stephanie was sitting in on drums for us again. She hadn't played or practiced with us in over a year. There'd been no convenient time to get together before this gig at all so we literally did the rehearsal in the car during the 20 minute drive north to Lynden.

We played at 4:30 for 45 minutes and all things considered I think Stephanie did a fine job. As did Charlie and Donald as ever. (Phil sat this one out). We played some originals, some blues, and a Scottish one. Unfortunately we'd had to leave a few songs out due to lack of practice.
The gig was quickly all over. With a pat on the back and a "Next please", we were suddenly on the road south again to Bellingham.

It was quite enjoyable though. The fair is very family orientated. There were rides and games and llamas and tractors and food and drink. Loads of everything you'd expect at a fair on a massive scale. Even a ferris wheel.

Was it a good gig? Not our best but it was definitely "fair".

Majestic Inn Anacortes
In the Beer Garden.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.

By the end of the evening, this had turned into a great little gig, but by the time people began shaking their hips we'd already been going for three hours.

The trouble with this gig set up is that I think passersby thought that it was a private function. The Majestic Inn looks very formal: somewhat ritzy and a trifle aloof. I saw a lot of people come in and stand nervously by the gate as if expecting to be ejected at any moment by angry bouncers.
I saw the bbq chef trying to encourage them in but he was too far away from the gate. He explained later that they'd once had a sandwich board outside on the sidewalk advertising free live music open to the public. Unfortunately someone had stolen it. Maybe they misread it as a free sandwich board.

But to the gig…..
We began at 6 o clock. The garden was fairly empty so we played a half hour warm up set of our lesser well known stuff. An old friend of Charlie's from his early hippy days had come up with his wife to visit from Oregon. He had some pictures of them in a band back in the 60s. There was Charlie framed for posterity, looking very much a folky. He even had a mandolin in his hands. I didn't know he played. A man of surprises is Charlie.

After a break, we upped the tempo a tiny bit but still held back because by now it was only around 8 o clock. The garden had become a few bodies busier, but not much.

As dusk and alcohol settled in we began an extra long third and final set where we played all we had left. Sure enough, toes began to tap, fingers twitched and strangers snuck further into the garden.
But it was the first few catchy notes of Chuckanut Drive coinciding with the birth of the Bus Stop Shuffle that finally brought the crowd to the dance floor where they stayed for the duration.
The Bus Stop Shuffle is a dance invented especially for the shyest and least accomplished of dancers. (Such as myself). Its simple steps are based on my casual observations of bored peoples' actions at the bus up at Whatcom Community College. Here's how it goes. First slide your hands into your hip pockets with thumbs outside. Take one step forward. Lean slightly outward and look left. Then take one step backwards and check wrist watch. Replace hand in pocket. Repeat until song is over.

I guess this was a gig of two mentalities. The first half was played for a crowd who were either eating or digesting their dinner. The second half was for a crowd who had been on the town and had stumbled upon a good time. Then both camps united and it was all fun, fun, fun.

So I'd say that in the event of further gigs there, we need advertising in the papers and around town. Also a new sandwich board. Place it outside with an armed guard on duty for the night of the gig. Let the sandwich board clearly state that the garden is open to the public and that there is no cover charge. Kick off shouldn't be till about 7:30pm instead of 6pm.
Let's see what that accomplishes.

………………………..

Another odd thing about this night was the date: August 14th. It occurred to me that it was upon this date many miles and Earth orbits ago that I set off from Scotland in search of nothing in particular. If it was fortune I sought then I can officially state that I definitely did not find that. Not fame either. I guess I found a whole pile of mixed up junk and underneath it somewhere I found some interesting jigsaw pieces of myself.

It seems to me that I have been penniless my entire life. My entire existence has been hand to mouth. Some moments have been slightly more affluent than others but the breadline has never been quite as distant as I would have liked. Not that I regret or hate my circumstances but I can safely say that money is not attracted to me.
I've never been happier though than when I was homeless and sitting under a shady tree on a lazy afternoon with nothing to do. As I write, I have my life savings in my pocket: one crumpled 20 dollar bill and a few coins. So right now life is pretty good. I guess I've never been richer than when I had nothing at all.

As a young man, I think my biggest dread of all in life was the thought of a meaningless job where I would get comfy and find myself still doing it 50 years later. Perhaps I've spent my life running away from that scenario. In Scotland there is a serious pressure on a 16 year old to get out and work till you drop. I remember an uncle telling me that if I couldn't find work that I should turn up at a building site and work for free. This would supposedly impress the gaffer so much that after 6 months he might hire me.
Yikes.
So I have always found my self lurking around the fringe habitats of various international societies. I have worked a bunch of part time jobs over the years, usually in bars, restaurants or building sites but I never committed myself to anything remotely permanent. My reasoning was that the terrifying 5 day work week was surely the curse (and maybe the saviour) of modern society. Who was the Smart Alec that worked out that by devoting five 8 hour days to a job earned a man the privilege of 2 days off? If a further 8 hours sleep and a 2 hour commute and two hours for cooking, eating and bathing, are subtracted, that only leaves about four scrap hours a day that could be squeezed in as leisure time. Keep the masses busy and they'll have no time to revolt.
The sacrifice to me was not my labour for a wage but my precious time on Earth for something I was never destined to have vast amounts of anyway. But still, for many people this system is a blessing. It offers the promise of a financial safety net, food on the table and the comfort of a routine. In those terms it is in fact a sweet deal which definitely beats freezing in a cave. At times it might even be better than busking on some desperate Winter corner. I guess it could be argued that the five day work week is in itself a form of social security.

Sometimes I wish I was greedier on the material front. I have never really wanted that much. It's a sharp stick of an existence. Security versus freedom. If you can balance both at the same time then you are a lucky spud. I think I was greedy for freedom. Freedom was my addiction and I still can't seem to shake it off. Music unexpectedly gave me a chance to enjoy liberty on a level I would not have imagined. In the end, freedom comes down simply to being self employed and working when you feel like it.

In many ways a street musician has far more freedom than a bar musician. A bar musician expects more comforts. In return he has dates and schedules and must sacrifice his time. A street musician's schedule is dictated by thirst, hunger and weather. Winter and Summer are vastly different seasons for a street musician but for a bar musician there is often only night or day.
It's not that street musicians love hard times. Winters can be horrible but a trip to Spain is just a hitch hike away. I'm a lot older now than I once was. Tales of hard times on the road are great for a laugh once they've safely passed. I think most of my busking tales are now done.
Was it Andre Brugiroux who said, "The road is just a street"? I'm not sure but I have come to believe that "The Road" is in fact a roundabout.

It was probably Mr. Springsteen who best summed up playing music for a living. "Beats working".

………………………………………..

It was raining torrential in the West of Scotland that August night. My brother Gerry was on his bed reading the newspaper. He looked up just as I was closing the door and said, "See ye in 2 weeks".
I was traveling light: a tiny backpack containing a sleeping bag, some underwear, a spare T-shirt, a pair of socks and a toothbrush. In my pocket I had 20 pounds from a welfare check and some money from selling half my scratchy record collection. I also had a little guitar. Hardly a toy. My good friend John Bee was bringing a much larger backpack. It had a metal frame and a million pockets. He too had a cheap little guitar. I guess in the back of our heads we must have been planning to busk at some point.

Two buses, a ferry and a day later, me and John Bee, were in Calais, France, trying to hitch a lift vaguely South in search of grape picking work. But the first car to stop was heading North into Belgium. Calais was flat, sandy and desolate with no sign of the actual town. An old lady trundled by on a clunky bike. We jumped into the car.

The driver was a black man from Louisiana whom we'd met earlier on the boat. His car was some kind of Porsche. His name was Dave. He was in the US army and he was stationed in Prum in Germany. His car tore off up the road like a rocket.
The windows were open and the wind whipped noisily through the car like a gale. "How fast can this thing go", yelled John in awe?
"Hell Ah don't know. Jist bought the thang", laughed Dave.

Dave dropped us off near St Vith in Belgium where the road suddenly changed into a motorcycle race track. We camped there a few days. There seemed to be a big racing event going on. We didn't know it, but during our first night there, a fence had been erected around the area. We were in the inside. Thus we had gotten ourselves accidental free entry. We wondered freely around the bike pits for a couple of days till one morning we were asked for our passes. We were then swiftly booted out.
We found ourselves hitching through some picturesque rolling hills on one lane roads where we got a lift from an Asian man who stopped at a farm full of rabbits and he did an operation on a sheep's hoof while we watched. It was quite gory. Blood was spilled. Back in his car afterwards I said conversationally that I'd once wanted to be a vet. He said, "I'm not a vet".

Later we found ourselves in the little town of Coo. The scenery had turned a bit alpine which was a bit unexpected. I'd never heard of any Belgian highlands. We lazed in the town square in the late afternoon. Some local kids were pouring washing up liquid into the fountain. Soon clouds of soap suds were blowing all over the town. By now after a few days on the road, we were getting fairly ripe. I guess we could have used a few of those soap suds.

By twilight we were on another deserted highway with dark forest pressing in all around. We were just plodding along looking for some shadow to sleep in. Soon the Milky Way was spread out spectacularly above us in our ribbon of visible sky. We had no idea where we were. Then a van pulled over. We dived in and explained where we wanted to go. The driver spoke no English. We tried our hysterical French. "Je cherche travaille" and "Il est quelle heure?" Comment tu t' appelle".* He got his map out and pointed here and there till we figured out that he hadn't stopped for us at all. In fact he hadn't even seen us. He was lost too. We piled back out and the car did a u turn and disappeared. We plodded on. Clueless, in more ways than one.

(* I look for work. What time is it? What is your name?)

A while later we heard a moped approaching. We'd stopped walking and were just loitering aimlessly in the leafy shadows. The moped came closer. We stuck our thumbs out jokingly as it passed but it slowed and spun in a wide arc and stopped beside us. The driver was a girl about our age. She introduced herself as Lolita. We asked her where Luxemburg was. She said it was all around us. She told us there was a small town just down the road and offered to bring us there on her moped. So one at a time she took us into town. John went first. Being more experienced with motorcycles than I was, he shouldered my small pack and took a guitar in each hand. Off they zoomed with a whoop. When Lolita returned about 20 minutes later, I hoisted John's pack onto my shoulders. I swear that at first I couldn't get it off the ground. It was so heavy that it felt like someone had nailed it down. I had no idea what was in it. Perhaps a slab of tarmac. Anyway I heaved it on my back and staggered to sit astride the little moped. The poor little thing spluttered and gasped as we set off, involuntarily wheellying down the road, heading for darkest Luxemburg.

Shortly, we came screaming downhill like a runaway hairdryer into the sleepy little village of Goovey. Lolita was steering crazily, trying to keep the moped upright. Suddenly directly ahead there was an abrupt left hand turn and a looming high wall. We didn't turn as abruptly as the road and my right shoulder slammed into the wall even as I was already leaping backwards off the wobbling moped. I found myself clattering wildly down the street, bouncing erratically off the wall, while Lolita wrestled her jelly bike back to her will. We all came to a halt outside a bar. John was waiting and he was doubled over laughing. Quite an entrance. We must have woke the whole country. Welcome to Goovey.
Oooh…a bar.

………………………………..

With tearful goodbyes to Lolita and her friends, we tumbled blearily out of that bar in the wee hours and went to the train station. Via Luxemburg City we arrived in Metz, France. I recall that as we crossed the border from Luxemburg to France that John had had a piece of very illegal hash in his tobacco tin. A roving band of French border guards appeared from nowhere. They ignored everyone in the busy carriage except me and John. They put our hands up against the wall, legs apart and frisked us top to bottom. At one heart stopping point a guard held the tobacco tin in his hand whilst groping in John's jacket pocket. He examined various pieces of scrap paper then stuffed the tin back in the pocket without opening it. Then they swarmed off. That could have been the end of our wee trip right there.

We found ourselves heading slowly South. Hitching was diabolical. We weren't really sure where we were. At some point a map came into our lifes. A map is a useful thing. Each new day we passed through a number of its towns. Macon, where John left his hat in a car and by a miracle got it back. Dijon, Langres, and Vaucaleurs where the natives spoke in awe of an eerie cult figure known as John Dark.

In the middle of one balmy night we came into Lyon, the second largest city in France. The Autoroute was hemmed in by high rise apartments. Our ride sped between them like a tiny boat caught in the rapids of a canyon. I remember a window blind not 2 lanes distant being lifted and 2 frightened eyes peering out. We flashed past as it snapped shut. Then our road flowed underground like a vast rumbling torrent, directly below Perrache Train Station where we were spat out into the bowels of Lyon.
By now we really were francless. Busking time had arrived. The sun had just risen and its heat was instant. We decided to split up and see if 2 pitches were better than one. So I went into town where I found a pedestrian zone. I guess I did my very first official solo busking pitch there. It was terrible. Talk about stage fright! I was like a deer in the headlights. I was terrified but I survived. John seemed to have taken to it a bit easier than me. We stayed there for about 2 weeks and fell in with a band of English Dickensian rogues about our age. We busked on the underground trains and slept in the park or below bridges. But Lyon was too big for us. Sleeping rough was too dangerous. John had his hat stolen off his head but others weren't so lucky.

It took us 3 days to hitch out of Lyon. Between us we'd busked up a 200 franc nest egg. Things were looking good and we had no regrets about leaving Scotland. We lit a fire one night near the roadside where I ceremonially burnt my old shoes. They'd been falling apart anyway so I'd bought a pair of really cheap sandshoes.

We finally got out of town and got stuck half way to the Alps in a place called Coirainne. A couple returning from India picked us up and drove us to Aix les Baines.
We did a little busking and camped outside a camp ground where we sneaked in and used their showers and toilets. Till one morning the boss discovered us and made us empty our pockets.
Now we were flat broke. But as we were being yelled off the premises, a camper came up and kindly gave us 50 francs. A gesture that was much appreciated.

………………

So we found ourselves walking along a pleasant country road. We came to a crossroads where a small river bubbled under a quant little stone bridge. It was decision time. Where to now? Having used our map up as toilet paper with each passing mile we now had only 2 squares left. I guess that ruled out going back. I studied the tattered remnants. On the one square was Annecy. On the other was Grenoble. I disappeared behind a bush where after an intense period of meditation, I returned but Grenoble did not. As I mentioned earlier, a map is a useful thing. We were off to Annecy.

A car pulled over as I returned to the roadside. I swear Albert Einstein was at the wheel. He drove us all the way to Annecy and on the way there we discovered that he really was a scientist. He dropped us on a corner near the pedestrian zone. We didn't know it then but our fortunes were bound up with Annecy for the next few years.

From time to time after that day we'd run into Einstein. He always had a smile for us. He'd shake his head and laugh. I think he found it hilarious that he had picked us up and set us down where and when he did: like he'd set in motion a Big Bang Theory kind of event. Well maybe it was more of a random fizzle than a huge boom. But in youth, nothing seemed important but everything was relevant.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.
La Bella Strada. Arts Fair Bellingham.

This was a great morning and a thoroughly enjoyable gig. But before I tell you about it, I want to waffle off track about what makes bad gigs bad.

Though I love playing live music, I am amazed how often a gig can be more negative than positive. Or at best a "so so" experience. The most common failure is the bad sound check. But there are often other factors such as empty bars and grumpy bar owners who seem to think that live music should be a miracle cure for their ailing business. And when it doesn't help, they blame the musician. It's like blaming a doctor for the fact that you have a terminal disease. Which isn't his fault unless he did actually give it to you directly.

Too often, musicians and artists must bare their souls to the wrong people. Bar owners are not necessarily music lovers, they are business men. They see music as a commodity. Usually it's the people around the musicians who are making the profits. People selling instruments, people renting equipment, selling records, making movies etc.
I believe I mentioned before that if a musician is making money, you can be sure there is someone in the background making a whole lot more.

So why do we do it? Sometimes I think we're afraid to stop. We fear that if we cease to play, then we lose part of our identity. All those years of practicing and learning are engrained into our being. if we were to forget it, it would be like a slow leak in a boat. Imagine a musician who knows 500 songs: that's like memorising a novel by heart. Well that isn't easy info to retain for years without reciting it regularly. No one likes to lose pages from their book.

What are musicians looking for? I don't know. But me, personally: I'd just like to be able to make a humble living doing what I enjoy. It would be nice to tour through some scenic places and play music with friends in venues to audiences who are there to enjoy themselves.
Not that much to ask really. I don't have to get rich and famous. I just need to get by.
Throw in a bit of hiking, camping and skeching and I'm happy as Clamland. I guess I'm really still a bum at heart.

Anyway. Please forgive that little detour. Let's get back to the gig.

This was a great day. The outdoor stage was erected at the end of Cornwall Avenue. Stalls displaying local artists work were set up the entire length of the street. The sun shone. Kids were chalk painting on the sidewalks and there was even an Art Bar.

Scott Peterson and his assistant Bruce Hendler did an excellent sound check and it was a pleasure to play. We did a tight hour and a half of our greatest hits. In fact it was such fun, we could have played longer.
As we were the opening band of the day, there wasn't a huge crowd but there was a pleasant atmosphere. Those folks who sat around did seem to be quietly enjoying themselves. We were done by 12:30. Who would have thought people would be grooving to Smokestack Lightning at that unearthly hour? In fact the organizer said that she wished she'd booked us as a later afternoon band. She'd had no idea what we sounded like. I think it was Beth at BIMA who had suggested us. Thanks Beth.

I'd been a bit apprehensive about this gig because my guitar has been so temperamental recently. It's been crackling and distorting at some gigs yet perfectly fine at others. I think it is allergic to certain PA systems. Whatever the problem is, it wasn't a problem today. In fact we had a great sound which was inspiring. I think we were all on good form. Maybe the morning gigs suit us better. Just being able to play and be assured that we're sounding good to the listeners is like luxury. Or to be able to hear each other clearly too is as rare as monkey tusks. As rare as a smile from Tree. An eye-witness reported that he was seen smiling during this gig.

Anyway, today was a very positive experience which restored my sometimes shaky faith in live music.

What makes a good gig? Good soundcheck. Monitors. Low profile bar owners or organisers. Pay. Good music. Receptive crowd with a high percentage of couples or women. (seriously, almost without fail, it is always women who instigate dancing.) Good musicians. Alcohol and good luck.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.
Bellingham Saturday Market.

This was such a short notice affair that we couldn't rouse any drummers from slumber. So me, Charlie and Donald set up with my little PA at 1pm and played about an hour and a half. It was just our luck that the one time they wanted us to play loud, my PA system refused to be cranked up. I don't know what is going wrong with it but it distorted the vocal mics while my temperamental guitar seemed fine.

The gig was fair enough but no great shakes. We played about an hour and a half on a stage area outside the Boundary Bay across the road from the actual market. Thus with the low volume and distance issue, this gig got walked past by a lot of people going somewhere else. But I was pleasantly surprised to see some faces from the Anacortes gig show up. Unfortunately, they went into the Boundary Bay for lunch.

Donald tweaked away at the PA for the whole gig but could not get it to behave.
Not to worry. I'd say it was a good little gig but ultimately an anonymous performance.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.
Anacortes Majestic Inn.


Nice place. Immaculate and a bit more upscale from our usual haunts but the staff were helpful and very friendly and seemed very down to earth.
We played out in their manicured beergarden on a permanent stage built of stone.
The crowd were a bit sparse but quite chatty and sociable. They were an older crowd and they seemed to be mainly there to enjoy the comforts and healing magic of the inn.
We were scheduled to play 4 hours. That's a lot of music. Understandably some of our repertoire was a bit rusty. Most notably, Wang Dang Doodle and Comes a Time which went way off track.
But in general we got most of it right. We were fed, watered and fairly payed for our troubles.
Anacortes seems quite a pleasant town. On all my previous visits, I'd been en route to the ferry or heading down Whidbey Island. People there (Anacortezians? Cortezones? Tezies?) were talking about "Island Time". Which seems to be a slower pace that approximizes and decelerates the time zones around it. A definate "Manana" attitude. I can live with that. From the outside though, this building didn't quite ooze good gig vibes. But it turned out to be a good night.

The place kind of reminded me of a gastehauf I played years ago in Bad Kissingen. The Izzy Skint Band were in one of their latter day formats. Me, Rick and Roman were the featured artists this night. Izzy Skint had changed their style a bit since their early more riotous days. Peter, who had sang most of our songs had headed off to Spain and Rick had banned the use of capos from all songs. He also banned B minor chords from the song, Knocking on Heavens Door. And I quote;" There is not, never has been and never will be a B minor chord in Knocking On Heaven's Door", unquote.
Thomas, the drummer had also disappeared somewhere. He had the most unfortunate last name I'd heard in a while. Fischdick. "Oh come on", I hear you say! Yes indeed. Thomas Fischdick. No wonder he disappeared. Actually I hear from Thomas now and again. I believe he is living and still playing quite happily in Vienna. He was an excellent drummer. I don't know what he was doing with izzy Skint.

So the band needed reshuffling. Roman was borrowed from his band the Travelling Beerbellies and we didn't bother with drums. Previously I'd been the bass player but now I was suddenly elevated to guitarist and singer. In this new esteemed position, I found myself attempting (and failing) to sing ridiculously inappropriate songs for my limited vocal range. Run to You by Brian Adams comes to mind. What were we thinking? And another one; Run Like the Wind by some guy called Christopher Cross. He sounds like a war medal. I should have been awarded one too for going beyond the call of duty. Either that or I should have been shot. We certainly played some serious crap. Izzy Skint had been a semi punk Irish folk band of dubious musicianship but good craic who had a reputation for just being nuts. Now we were just going through the required motions as we waited to fizzle and die. We'd not cry on our death beds. We'd just say,"Thank f@@k.
Rick had a strict rehearsal policy that he stuck to religiously: Namely, that the band will practice but once in its lifetime. Whatever gets played at that one and only rehearsal is the set for the duration, no matter what. Hence the pile of slop that I was forced to dredge through every gig. To be honest though we did play a few good songs that I enjoyed. None spring to mind though.

Well we turned up at this Gasthauf place and the crowd had paid to see a different band who had cancelled. I don't think the management had broken the news to them yet. They were expecting reels and jigs and bluegrass music. Instead, they got me, Rick and Roman. Most of the crowd were middle aged Bavarians dressed in their traditional Sunday bests. Ruddy cheeked and plump as dumplings, they sat at two long banquet tables and glowered at us as we set up.
We found ourselves outside pre gig, muttering and whispering. I thought Roman was going to pee his pants in fright. Rick strutted about sniffing and saying, "I knew it man, I knew it. We're doomed."
I racked my brain in desperation and had to agree with Rick's analysis: we were indeed gef***ked.

When we were set to play, the Bavarians hushed one another to silence and I timidly said hello.
In fairness, they did listen to us for a few songs then the talking volume rose and we began to get drowned out. The boss scowled from the kitchen. It was time for some drastic action. I knew a bunch of Irish stuff so I just started singing it acopella. That got their attention and suddenly they were all engaged again.
At one point I was singing Jock Stewart and I got to the line, "I took out my dog and him I did shoot", when a little Jack Russell dog leapt out of the crowd and started snapping at my ankles. The crowd thought it was the funniest thing ever. They were roaring with laughter.
By break time we were all feeling more relaxed and relieved. Taking to the stage again I remember saying, "Wir sind …Verrucht." The crowd lapped it up and guffawed heartily. For non German speakers "wir sind verrucht" translates as, "we are mad." I must have been getting the hang of the German language stuff. The joke being a play on words verucht (mad) and zurueck (Back). I think it was funnier too because I believe the audience had quickly deciphered that we were not the Irish band they'd hoped for but were doing their best. They found our struggles to come up with appropriate songs hilarious.
Afterwards the boss was happy that the crowd were happy but he was disappointed that we weren't the complete authentic Irish band he'd hoped for. Rick was blind drunk by that stage and waffled away to the poor guy for about an hour about the pros and cons of Irish music in a post war economy. "Hey man, it's prostitution of the arts."
We were given rooms for the night. I went to bed with a bottle of beer. Rick and Roman went out looking for some entertainment. They ended up in some disco and by 4am Rick was standing gloriously naked outside on his balcony, addressing the town with an old Hitler speech. Something about "Ein reich, ein volke, ein land." A man a plan, a canal, Bavaria.
Exciting stuff.
Stepping out of the Irish scene we found an unexpectedly enjoyable gig. Though we were never invited back. So Anacortez was a brief step outside of the Bellingham scene. They asked us back too. In fact some of the crowd even showed up in Bellingham the next day.

…………………………………..

I must say though that Bavarians have consistantly proven to be good audiences. I lived and worked in the Irish pub scene for a long time. Those gigs payed low wages but were regular work. Most of those Irish pub gigs were fairly average: probably because I'm an average musician but they definitely weren't very spiritually rewarding. Outside of that bubble of gossip lay the continent of Europe. Here lay the international cultures I'd left home to discover. I'd never even heard of an Irish Pub till I met my good friend Peter Jordan from Dublin. Once I got in on that scene it was easy to become musically complacent. Most of those gigs fell into the same category of blandness but whenever we ventured away from the Irish circuit, this was when the real stimulating gigs were to be found.

Lummi Island Arts Festival.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.


I'd forgotten we'd played this gig. Not that it was particularly forgettable, it was just that I went home afterwards and we (me, Hil and Ronan) started packing for our trip out to Montana.

The gig went fine. I always enjoy going over to Lummi Island. It kind of reminds me of my time in Scotland working out on the Isle of Skye. The Ferry trip over was about the same length of time too. A quick five minutes.
On arrival at the gig site, even before we were unpacked, a woman came up saying, "You look like you need a broken clarinet." A beer would have been better but she only wanted 50 cents for it, so I took it. We haggled over the price and I talked her up to a dollar. She also had an ancient yellow racer bicycle for sale. It was so heavy, I could have sworn it was constructed of granite. I didn't buy that. I'd have needed a squad of workmen to carry it home for me.

We set up and played a half hour then there was a brief outbreak of Highland dancing. When that was over we played another hour and departed.
All in all it had been a happy family day out. We'd perused the stalls, walked on the beach, checked out the beer garden, sampled the food and bought some junk.

Next stop Montana. Or thereabouts. Hil's Mother and sister were off to Europe to cruise the Mediterranean, so Hil wanted to visit them in Montana before they headed off.

Monday morning, we set off down Interstate 5. At Seattle we turned left on to the 90. At the Columbia River in Vantage we picnicked up at the petrified tree monument park. From up there we could look across at the wild horses statue on the far side ridge of the canyon. Then on we went across treeless Eastern Washington and into Idaho, We spent the night in a motel behind a dive bar in St Regis.
We'd also stopped earlier in the town of Wallace for dinner. Strangely, a few years ago I snapped a random picture in some anonymous little town we were passing through. I don't know why. Anyway it turned out it had been Wallace. Thus we had an unexpected moment of déjà vu and we found a great playground there for Ronan to enjoy. All the stuff was made up from old mining equipment. It was sort of half playground, half museum exhibit.
Wallace boasted 2 motels; both apparently owned by the same guy. One was far too expensive and the other looked rancid. So though it was getting late, we decided to drive on.

………………………………

The room in St Regis was compact, but cheap and clean enough. Ronan slept on his camping mat on the floor and despite the oppressive heat we slept well enough. Before we turned in for the night, we relaxed on the creaky old cowboy deck and had a midnight picnic of Bread, cheese and fresh Rocky mountain air.

………………………

Last time we'd been in Missoula we'd had Huk the dog with us. Missoula still had its big M on the hill. We'd climbed up there once with Huk. This time we stayed in the lower elevations where we tracked down another play park for Ronan to climb about in. We realized traveling with a little boy wasn't much different than traveling with the dog. Instead of looking for walking trails en route we now looked for playgrounds.

"What does the M stand for", I asked Ronan. "Monkey" he said.

…………………………….

We drove past a couple more sweltering towns. One had a big F on the hill. I had a few suggestions what it stood for but kept quiet.

We arrived in Bozeman the following evening. The heat was ferocious: a merciless arid fury that pounded down like a red hot sledgehammer on our dehydrating craniums. Shade could be auctioned in this state as prime real estate.
Hil's Mother lived up near Peet's hill, near the big water tower. From up there we could look across Bozeman and the see the whole valley. To the North there was a Hill with a big white M near the top. I was expecting a B but there wasn't one. So I guess M stood for Montana. Or M for mountain.

…………………………………………..

Before we'd even reached Bozeman, our car CD music selection was just about exhausted. We noted too that that same country singer was still haunting the radio airwaves after all these years. So for stretches of time we drove in thoughful silence. Hil had told me she'd had a musical education on road trips with her parents. As an impressionable kid, she'd been introduced to John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel on those outings. Now she hoped to give Ronan the same "captive audience meets omnipotent front seat D.J." treatment. So far, he hadn't really shown much interest in music. His teachers at school all say he loves to sing but I guess he doesn't bring it home from school. He has actually made a CD with his classmates. His teacher, Steve, recorded the kids singing a bunch of children's songs. So at the age of 5, Ronan has already released his first album. He's way ahead of me.

First up in the car stereo, he got the usual kid's stuff about animals jumping on beds and honking in farm yards but then as night fell he graduated onto Tom Waits. That was too much too soon. So we eased back a bit on the scary pedal. It was time for Simon and Garfunkel. "Hello darkness my old friend…." Aha. That got his attention but it only held it for about 3 songs. Off went the CD player. Down went the windows.


…………………..

We spent the next few days enjoying the town and surrounding valleys. Hil did some cycling (I even did a little too). We did some hiking but it was really limited by the heat. We visited a few lakes and went to the Museum of the Rockies. We went to the Bozeman Ale Works Bar and to The Leaf and Bean coffee shop where I'd played a gig a few years back. We also found a swing park for Ronan to enjoy where he had his first real tree climbing experience.
And of course we went to Yellowstone National Park where despite the vast herds of free ranging tourists, it wasn't quite as claustrophobic as I'd expected. We managed to find a few quiet corners for picnics. We saw some buffalo, some geysers and some elk. We didn't see Yogi but we did see a black bear with cubs.
Yellowstone though feels more like a safari park than a National Park. I guess when the busy loop roads are left behind, the sense of wilderness intensifies. For me, the best corner we found was up in the North East in the Lamar Valley. Here was a huge wide valley with a slow moving river lazing through like it wasn't going anywhere in particular. As far as the eye could see, it was devoid of tourism except for 2 fishermen. We sat on a rock and while Ronan skimmed stones, we had a coffee from our flask.

The return trip back to Bozeman from Yellowstone was long and hot. I looked through all our CDs and put on the only one we hadn't played yet. From the first note, a slow unstoppable smile spread like an incoming tide across Ronan's face. I knew he was hearing magic. The song? "It's a Long Way to the Top if you Want to Rock n Roll", by AC/DC. From there it was but a small jump to "TNT". Within 45 minutes, Ronan's musical education was complete. The transition to Neil Young's "Live Rust" would be child's play.

……………………………

I guess by now I've been in this region of the States several times. The first time was back in 1994 when we'd come over from Regensburg with Michael and Zigi. We'd stayed with Hil's cousin Gardener and family on Malcolm Forbes' ranch of all places because Gardener had gotten a job there as a caretaker. We'd had a great trip, spending most of our time on the south side of Yellowstone, in the Tetons and around Jackson Town. I remember a great hike to Phelps Lake where we saw a moose. We also got stoned one night and went hiking around the Forbes property in the moonlight. "Reckon you'll scare up some big critters", said Gardener. He had quite a sense of drama. We did scare up a large lumbering shadow which shuffled off grumbling across our path. It may have been a bear. It may have been a drunk. It may have been Malcolm Forbes. I don't know. We forded that river twice in the dark. It was only knee deep but it was wide and deceptively powerful. One slip and a person would be tumbling head over heels down stream. We braced ourselves against the current as we crossed using branches as improvised walking sticks.

Back on dry land, I remember some plovers on the pebbly shores. I guess I'd accidentally flushed out the mother bird and she ran off to one side. I walked in the opposite direction till she came and stood in front of me again. Then I'd repeatedly walk away from her in the opposite direction (the same distance) till each time she grew closer and closer as I neared her unseen nest. It took me about 10 minutes of zig zagging till the Mother bird was standing a mere arms length away and I was suddenly looking down at her tiny family of plover chicks. They scattered off with their heads down in all directions looking like a troop of feathery pebbles. Their fight or flight distance wasn't far though and I knew that their mother would soon have them rounded up again. It was kind of magical. Such perfect camouflage on the run. Such tiny wildness. I stroked one on the back of its head then I left them to regroup from my intrusion.

…………………………….

Between Jackson Town and the Teton Park entrance back in 1994, there was a bar called Dornan's. I don't know if it's still there. I recall it had huge windows that looked out at the magnificently in your face, Teton Mountains. On Tuesday evenings, Dornan's had what was known as a Hootnannie. Here in Bellingham we'd call it an open mic night but a Hootnannie does sound like a lot more fun. Somehow I got talked into playing a slot. Typically it turned into one of those long hanging around nights that involve too much pre-gig smoking and drinking. By the time I went on I was having trouble seeing my guitar. I think I was having trouble standing up too.
I vaguely remember playing a Leadbelly song then I staggered off babbling into the Wyoming night. Luckily the crowd seemed as wasted as I was. Sure, what else would they be doing out in the Wild West?

Over the years, I've collected a lot of fond memories of that valley: camping, white water rafting, hiking, sketching, playing music, encountering wildlife, drinking, walking with Huk the dog, hanging out with Nina and Peter. It makes me sound like a real outdoor sports guy but I'm not. I feel no urge to scale peaks or hunt or hurtle down hills on snow boards or skis. I am an outdoor guy but without the sport part. I'd rather sit under a tree than a roof. I'd rather sketch a moose than shoot it. But that's just me.

I don't know what Jackson Hole is like now. We didn't go there this time round. I hear it's become all private property and very elitist. I guess it was always heading that way. Shame.
Nice place though. A nice place to be Rich. Can't blame wealthy folk for moving there. The Tetons are a spectacular back drop to any postcard. They'd look good in Paris.

………………………….

I remember years ago, watching an old movie about the Lewis and Clarke explorers who mapped much of the North West and traveled all the way to the Pacific. Charlton Heston was in this movie. He may in fact have been on the original expedition too. Each scene from their departure by canoe (Missouri?) to their arrival at the mouth of the Columbia River showed the same backdrop scene of the Teton Mountains. No matter if it was South Dakota, Wyoming or Oregon. That's artistic license I guess. The world was bigger in the 60s. Didn't Shakespeare write about the dark stormy mountains of Denmark? The world was even bigger back then.

I always thought it was fortunate that Lewis and Clarke had such photogenic names, especially as they named a bunch of places after themselves. Imagine instead of the Lewis and Clarke expedition, it had been the Sparky and Fleishman expedition. There'd be towns like Sparkytown and Fleishman's pass. Not quite so poetic really.

……………

Meanwhile back now in 2009 Bozeman, we decided that before we left town we had to climb up to the big M on the mountain side. We weren't sure if Ronan would be up to the task. At the bottom we spoke to a hiker who said there was an easy way up and a hard way up. We opted for the easy way up which apparently offered more shade. A few minutes later we realized we'd accidentally taken the more difficult route. We were making good progress though so we decided to forge ahead. But the terrain steepened and became more scree than solid. Ronan began to tire so we set ourselves small goals and stopped at every 20 metres or so under whatever shade we could find.
Each time we stopped and looked down, it became more apparent that the easiest way back to base camp was to reach the M and then descend by the easy path. We staggered on. Poor Ronan was such a wee trooper. He was obviously suffering. His legs were tiny and sometimes the hillside was so steep he was using his hands and feet. I had to walk behind him in case he fell and just kept tumbling all the way to the bottom.

Finally we made it to the big white M. It was an incredible achievement for a 5 year old. In blazing heat, at altitude and scrambling for footholds on slippery rubble for over an hour. I was very proud of the wee man. We stayed up there for a half hour or so singing, "It's a long way to the top if you want to reach the M". His face looked beat but he was smiling.
The view was spectacular. That's not unusual for Montana. We took the easy way down which proved to be almost as difficult as the other way.
We went into town and rewarded Ronan with a cool refreshing treat.
"What does M stand for?"
"M is for ice cream".

James Higgins and The Muddy Boots Band
4th of July Tour.

Three gigs in one day.

The first gig was at the Saturday Farmers' Market.
We started around noon and played till 2. Chuck and Chris both played drums with us which produced a great stereo shuffling backbone that chugged us along nicely. Between them they had all kinds of implements: wash boards, cow bells, tambourines, wood blocks, road blocks, and even some drums. They made quite a spectacle.
As for the gig itself, I think everyone had a good time. This was the biggest Muddy Boots ensemble to date: two drummers plus Charlie, Donald, Phil and Myself. Having never practiced in this particular line up, there was obviously space for plenty of spontanious musical moments. We mixed it with humour and soaked it in sunshine which resulted in a heap of fun for crowd and band alike. This was a very organic performance which was apt for a farmers' market.

The second gig was at Zuanich Park down by the marina. Mr. Tree was back on drums for this one.
This show was a little jinxed. After just one song, I had to mic my guitar as it began to crackle. Unfortunately the mic failed to give the guitar any volume so in the end I gave up and played my guitar totally unplugged. It wasn't any more that a prop really. Just to rub in the bad luck, I accidentally left my plectrum in the house. I had to borrow one off Charlie. Then the plectrum broke. Understandably I didn't put my heart into this performance. I lost track of the times I messed up the lyrics while concentrating on not bumping into mic stands and mics. Fortunately, this gig was only an hour long.
As often happens in these Gremlin matters, nobody in the band noticed except me. According to Hil, the crowd never noticed either.

This gig was some kind of Haggen Supermarket 4th of July celebration. Haggen had provided no pay for any of the bands so Hil had campaigned for tip boxes to be set up around the park for people to donate tips for the music. We thought this would make it easier for listeners to casually tip as they left the area or moved around.
After I completed a pre-gig tour of the vicinity, I saw only one donation box. It was set up in front of the stage. We might as well have just brought our own. It was opened and emptied after each act. It even had a key. After our set, Beth from BIMA opened it up. Inside was one crumpled dollar. Twenty cents each. We're living the dream. Almost enough to get Donald a cheap cigar.
The strange thing was that the box seemed brand new: hand crafted from solid shiny wood inscribed boldly with the word, "Donations". I heard that local school kids had constructed it as a community project. I guess Haggen couldn't even be bothered paying for that either. I bet the materials cost more than a dollar. Even the padlock must have cost a few dollars.
So, I don't feel so bad about messing bits of this gig up because in the end, you get what you pay for.

The 3rd gig was at the Paso Del Norte up in Blaine.
Other than constant arrests at the border crossing, not much seems to happen in Blaine but it does seem a pleasant enough little town. A few years ago there was a movement to change its name to Blaine Harbour. The idea being that it sounded a little more inviting than Blaine. The motion failed but I think the idea was good. The word "Blaine" conjures up other words like, plain, bland, bla or bleak. Not very romantic.
But on the night of the 4th of July, Blaine had a spectacular fireworks display at sunset.

We started our gig around 9:30 and took a break after 45 minutes to let people go watch the fireworks. I'd never seen Blaine so busy. It was a warm still night. The sidewalks were bustling with families. The Café Del Norte's terrace was full. The fireworks went on for about an hour. After a while they all began to look like exploding dandelion pollen.
We started up playing again around 10:30 till after midnight. For this second set we threw in some better known songs like Cocaine and Heaven's Door. The place actually got quite busy and there was a fair bout of dancing. One woman played a set of spoons and she spoon danced everyone in the room which was fun till she stood on my cazumpet whilst trying to kiss the whole band.
On the whole this was probably our best gig up there so far. I guess Hugo had never seen the whole official Muddy Boots Band play. He seemed happy enough though understandably frustrated by the turnout. It was heartening to see customers in the place at last. Once again the dancing mood was set by the women in the house.

I doubt Hugo made a profit from this venture but it couldn't have been a complete disaster either. It is sadly ironic that Haggen the chain store wouldn't pay us but could easily afford to, yet the Paso Del Norte did pay us though it must have hurt.

It was a long day for everyone. I bet there were some sore fingers in the band. Our songs tend to be a little longer now that there are several lead instruments at large. We'll be keeping Tree fit.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots
Wild Buffalo
June 30 2009

Me, Donald, Charlie and Phil went on stage about 9PM. We played Who'll Rock That Cradle, Spoonful and Holy Smoke.
I think it was a solid enough little performance. My guitar developed a crackle during Spoonful. I'll need to get it seen to. It has been acting strange recently. I played the 3rd song with it actually turned off. There's always something to go wrong in this 15 minute slot. I guess if it was a full length gig then we'd call this a sound check which we'd have sorted out by the first 20 minutes.
Anyway, it was still a good night. Often it's more sociable than musical.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band
June 27 2009
Paso Del Norte

Going through the motions. That's how I'd describe us at this gig. At its busiest there were perhaps 10 people. Most of them were lined up at the bar with their backsides facing us. We played 2 one hour sets which were devoid of any real enthusiasm. In fact some of the songs almost died in their sleep. I can't really blame the Boots for this. I reckon it was my fault for watching TV whilst singing. The television was directly in front of me and constantly distracted me from the job at hand. Once again Rodeo Riding and Ice hockey were the TV choices. Obviously the television was offering more than we could give.
It is an odd mixture: live music and television both competing in one room. I mean who would listen to the radio and watch TV simultaneously at home? Obviously one or the other would be better switched off. At the Paso Del Norte, the clientele chose to watch TV whilst The Muddy Boots Band were condemned to be muted.

I guess our performance wasn't helped either by the fact that I was up till dawn the previous night for no other reason than insomnia. Then I spent the afternoon, renovating my cabin studio space.
I felt a bit disjointed and seemingly incapable of playing in time. It was annoying and exasperating. But you know what they say…? A bad workman blames his television.

On the bright side, Hugo was his usual ever helpful self and had us all set up and sound checked in no time. Alas it was all in vain.

But the experience did spark some debate: whether it would be better to die death by cricket chirps or death by lonesome tumbleweed. This gig was death by over exposure to Bar Stool Butt Crack Syndrome.

So what is the secret of a good gig? It's simple. No TV and more women.

As an afterthought, I find it fascinating that the highway I 5 travels 1381.29 miles from Mexico to Canada and runs right past our house in Bellingham. A mere 5 minute walk and I could hitch all the way to Central America. It's kind of ironic that the very last eatery before the Canadian border should turn out to be a Mexican restaurant. I wonder if the first Californian eatery down by the Southern border is also a Mexican restaurant. Maybe it's called the Paso Del Sud. Or maybe it's a Canadian restaurant. Wonder if they have live music?

I guess that after the rousing stuff at the Green Frog gig the other day, this gig was always going to be a let down. It's funny how gigs can be so different in short succession.
Years ago I played a gig in an enormous circus sized tent in Straubing in Bavaria. It was for a volleyball tournament. People came from all over Germany to compete. In the evening there was live music. That's where I came in. I'd gotten this gig one day when a man approached me in Straubing as I was busking. He gave me the details and said be there on a certain date at a certain time. I remember I'd been playing a Dylan song at the time when I'd noticed him looking at me. I saw him nod to his companion and they came over and offered me the gig.
On the appointed day I showed up and was shown to the beer tent which was empty but filled with beer hall benches and tables. Now the organizer put his arm around my shoulders and with a dreamy look in his eyes he recalled previous evenings here with people dancing on the tables and in the aisles and singing, drinking, clapping etc. …"So James", he said. "I want you to have these people up on the tables and dancing and singing. You can do this, ya?"
Well what is a poor penniless busker supposed to say? "Eh? What? Me? Ya. No problem."
Then he left me to my sound check: me, my guitar and then 1500 thirsty Germans.
Thirsty for beer or thirsty for blood?
Never underestimate the power of a stein of German beer. The crowd filtered in. The organizer joined me on stage and introduced me to the crowd. "Mein Damen und Herren…James Higgins. I gulped and stepped up to the microphone. Somehow I knew that Bob Dylan wasn't going to win the day.
So in desperation I launched into every conceivable rock n roll standard I could think of. Within 3 guitar strums, the folk were already on the tables. Obviously they'd played before. The organizers could have put a monkey on stage with a rattle and the masses would have danced to it.
I must have played 2 hours of songs I didn't know I knew. I did Bobby McGee, Johnny B Goode, A Horse with no Name, Country Roads, Ticket to Ride, Get Back, Get up Stand Up, The list went on and on. The people danced and prosted and sang their hearts out until out of the blue…. TWANG. What the… Disaster struck. T'was the dreaded broken string. I was in the middle of a rocking version of If I had a Hammer. The crowd was at the sing-along bit and they just kept singing. They probably hadn't even noticed I'd stopped playing. So I looked for a spare string but couldn't find one. I should have been singing," If I had a String". Then I found an old rusty one. I hastily put it on and it snapped. Jeez. I'm up on the stage with 1500 Germans all singing and I am on my knees like a surgeon sewing up a patient. I sensed the singing begin to ebb. Then I heard a drum beat. I looked behind and it was the band leader from the headline band stomping on the bass pedal of the drum kit. The crowd were rejuvenated and got into the song again. Meanwhile about 15 minutes had passed. The string was finally tied. I'd discovered I had accidentally put the wrong string on. I now had 2 Ds. There was no time to change it now, even if I could. I got up, went to the microphone and we were off again. There was a huge cheer. Maybe it was a sigh of relief. The crowd was rowdier than ever and so, with the drums and sing-along we carried on happily for another ten minutes.
When that escapade of a song was over, I still had to keep the crowds adrenalin flowing. So I played Hey Jude. I skipped the verses completely and went straight to the catchy sing-along bit. That kept them busy for a few minutes while I racked my brain for something else. Just in time, I switched over to Sweet Home Alabama. By then I was mentally exhausted. All that thinking on my feet. Rockin' All over The World morphed into the American Pie chorus. Then it was all over. Everyone was happy. I was even invited back for next year's tournament.
It had been a helluva night. Obviously it wasn't that I played that good, it's just that the crowd were that drunk.

There'd been 1500 people there and incredibly they really did dance on the tables and had sung every song. I never would have believed it. It made for a good memory.

The next evening I played at a venue called the Alte Malzerei in Regensburg. I stood on the stage and looked out at the room. Not a soul was in sight except the barmaid perusing a magazine at the bar. But even if I didn't play If I had a Hammer that night, I did play another song that would set a strange chain of events in motion.

3 Ds at Stewarts
June26

A pleasant little gig. Dale, Donald, Chris and myself meandered our way casually through some Irish tunes and some bluegrass tunes. Sitting in with the3Ds is always a very relaxing event. Very informal and chatty.
Someone had left an armchair on the stage. Donald sat in it during the gig which made thinngs even more casual than usual.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots at the Green Frog Acoustic Tavern.

June 22.

I think I speak for everyone in the band and in the audience when I say that this was a very satisfactory episode. A very enjoyable evening for one and all.

This gig wound its way from Ronan's favourite school song, "Ain't No Bugs On Me" and culminated deep within the psychedelic intensity of Hawkwind's "Orgone Accumulator". Mmm. Sounds like a case for Kermit the Freud. It certainly was an interesting trip.

On the night, the band comprised of Donald, Charlie, Phil and myself. We decided against drums as the Green Frog is such a small venue.

When we showed up, the place was almost empty. Out of the house PA, some finger picking Appalachian mountain music was lulling the darkened interior of the Green Frog into a lazy hilbilliac stupor. This was pleasant enough, but a hard act to follow without fair warning to the public.

Thus, we eased gently into this gig: ingratiating ourselves into the bar's atmosphere like an anonymous car merging with traffic.
Instead of starting with the usual bluesy Baby Please Don't Go, we played an old spooky Appalachian tune ourselves. "Who'll Rock that Cradle". We continued in a folky vein with "In the Boardhouse and Bootlegger Blues. Then we baited the waters with something more adventurous; Blowing Down the River. The signs were encouraging and we carried on taking two cautious musical steps forward then one small step back. We may have tiptoed our way into this gig but we charged out.....

By the break, the place was brimming with keen and friendly faces. At this point in the tale, I should say a big thank you to all those kind souls who showed up to give spiritual support to The Boots (even generously paying the 2 dollar entrance fee).
It's a well known fact that musicians rely on the positive vibtations generated by audiences in order to exist. This is the oxygen that artists breathe inside the vaccumous limbo of society where they dwell. Without this life force (also known as feedback) they would swiftly turn blue, then black, then shrivel like old potatoes and fade. Tips help too.

We started the second set and the Muddy Boots really hit their stride. Charlie and Phil began to swap solos. The Cazumpet was out, the harmonica was blowing. Even I did a guitar solo (golly). We were finishing up with a Vampire Blues / Tears Tears Tears medley complete with Donald's bass solo when we unexpectedly thrust ourselves into the suicidal overdriven chaos of the Orgone Accumulator. This song is like a mix of Booker T's "Green Onions" and The Dr Who theme tune. It can go on forever and often does.

Earlier on, I'd seen one of the local musicians walk in during our sound check while we were playing Ain't No Bugs On Me to an empty bar. He'd given us an odd look, then turned swiftly around and left. He returned a few hours later and seemed somewhat taken aback to see the place had transformed into some kind of psychedelic heavy grooving mayhem. Yes it had been quite a subtle trip via the likes of, Enjara, The Henhouse, Smokestack Lightning, La Ville D'Annecy, Good Morning Little School Girl, Chuckanut Drive, Chocolate girl, (Hi Maggie), spoonful, Any Old Time.

We put a lot of energy into this one.

Anyway thanks to everyone who turned up and tuned in. We had a blast.

The quote of the night? "Here's 5 dollars. Go buy yourself some Lego".

Ain't no bugs on me.

The Band Currently known as Bob's Yer Uncle.
The Bagelry.

This gig was a lot of fun. Really I just plucked my washtub bass and enjoyed the novelty of listening to great musicians play around me. Chris on her drums, Phil on guitar, Donald on bass and mandolin.
The Bagelry is a café on Railroad Avenue. They sell bagels. Before I came to the States, I had no idea what a bagel was. I'd heard Bob Dylan sing about them in a song from the 60s. "He's eating bagels". That was the lyric. I'd no idea what he was talking about. Was it something celebritys ate? Then I saw one. It looked like a doughnut and tasted like plain tasteless bread. Such a disappointment at the time but you get used to them. Cheese ones aren't bad. Or warm with melted butter dipped in coffee works too. As long as your not expecting excitement then they suffice as a chewing exercise.

We set up outside on the pacement and played from 11am till 2pm. The sun was shining like a big friendly bagel in the sky. A lively ambience wafted down the street and a general good mood was abuzzin' round downtown Bellingham.

We started off with some Irish jigs followed by some bluegrass tunes. Then me and Chris sung a few before we took a break. The second half was the same format.

Song flavour of the month seems to be the ditty, "Jump at the Sun": a very odd jiggy tune that Donald dug up somewhere in his basement. It actually reminds me of the first few notes of the theme music to Roobarb the cartoon. It also seems to be public domain. I wonder if we could record it and incorporate it into ,"Living in a Trashcan" or something?

Like I said, this little gig was a lot of fun. Very relaxed and sociable. The day was warm, the boss was unseen and we were left to our own musical discretion. Very good for the brain. Let's do it again.

University Faculty Gig.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band at the Boundary Bay.

This was a bit of a short notice gig which left us scrambling to scare up a drummer. Finally though we got through to Tree and he agreed to do it.
When we arrived at the Boundary Bay Beer Garden, the sound man had left us with a semi assembled pile of gear while he went off to mix another gig. This wasn't a good sign. But somehow Tree and Donald doggedly sorted out the flotsam of cables. An unpredictable crosswind was blowing feedback around while my guitar stubbornly refused to stay in tune. Thus it took us the whole first half hour of the gig to iron the gremlins out of the mix. It was a nervy period of knob twiddling until we emerged suddenly from the swill and hit our stride. I guess the upward turning point came when we played Bootlegger Blues and Rock That Cradle. At this juncture we began to enjoy ourselves. And that's what it's all about.
It was great to have Tree back on drums again. It's been a few gigs since last he played. There is something reassuring and familiar about his beat.

This gig was an End of Year party for the university faculty staff and students. For a laugh I changed the words of Factory Girl to Faculty Girl. When I spoke to one of the organizers later, she mentioned this song and how she identified with the lyric "Back Country Girl. Another faculty guy spoke up saying he had understood it as a "Fat L.A. Girl". This is the frustrating curse of the Scottish accent. This problem of misunderstanding is partially why I am reluctant to tell stories at gigs. People just hear an undecipherable mumble whereas I think I'm speaking clear English. It's comical but sometimes a little disappointing to realize no one has caught a word you've said. Maybe it's just as well. That'll teach me to be a smarty pants.

So the evening was very sociable. The people were entertained. The sunset was spectacular. Me and Hil shared some delicious fish. Ronan ran around all night. I don't know where he gets the energy. He leaves a wake of exhausted kids slumped in his wake. He'd leap on stage again and again then race across with his fingers in his ears before exiting stage left. When we got home about ten PM, he wolfed down toast and cheese, apple juice and ice cream. Then he finally collapsed into bed. I think we'll need to get him a giant hamster wheel.

There'd been a 3 piece punk band on after us. They played about a half hour and were very good. Very polite and well dressed for a punk group. Friendly too. I think D.I.A. was their name. I don't know what that stood for but there was something philosophical about it.

Fairhaven Wednesday Market Opening Day.
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots.

What a scorcher of a day. Luckily we had a tent canopy to provide some welcome shade.

Today's band comprised of me, Phil and Donald. Maybe we should just have called ourselves, a half of Whiskey Galore.
It was a solid enough light hearted little gig. We had only had one practice in preparation, so we kept things simple. Most of our stuff is simple anyway. We played about 2 hours with an emphasis on the bluesier material. I notice that my wee P.A. system still seems to distort even though we weren't playing very loud. Donald tweaked a few knobs and it seemed to settle down.

Enjara was the highlight song of the day in my opinion. Phil pulled off a couple of great slide solos that hit the spot. I am constantly amazed how so many musicians can put their own character into this song and still keep it rolling along within the spirit of the tune. When we introduced Steve to Enjara, a few weeks back, he and his drums brought a space and depth to the proceedings. Tree gave Enjara its original rock beat that dictated that this was to be a serious song. Charlie put his blues and backing vocals into it. Donald gave it motion and I guess I gave it a spark of precious life (and 42 dollars). I guess you could say it's jammable. No better compliment than that for a song.

The market vendors were really appreciative too. We had offers of teas and salads and sandwiches from various stalls. We all got bandanas too: gift wrapped. The tips weren't bad either though no one was tossing jewelry. Rick said he'd gotten a little money together for us and a wee check would be in the mail. That'll be useful.

There were more stalls than usual this year. Some were set up on the stage area behind us. I didn't get a really good look around the market as I had to pack up in a hurry and fetch Ronan from school.

There is a festival atmosphere to this little market: something alternative. Perhaps a little hippyish. Whatever it is, it makes for a very relaxed and sociable day.

The other market on Saturdays takes place in a downtown concrete car park. It's definitely a lot busier than the Fairhaven Wednesday Market. But the Fairhaven Wednesday market is set up around the village green which is flanked by cafes and gift shops. This lends an aura of tranquil antiquity to the afternoon which the bustling Saturday Market lacks.

A very pleasant summer's day.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band
38th Folklife Festival in Seattle.

Judging by the enthusiastic crowd (275,000 people over the weekend) and countless performances at the Folklife Festival, I'd say folk music is alive and well. What a sensory overload. There was just too much to take in all at one go. It was a bit overwhelming at first but what a beautiful day.

I'd forgotten there were so many ways to make music. Seattle was shaking with everything from cardboard boxes and bagpipes to plastic tubes, wooden crates and …well…shakers! Every second person seemed to playing a home made instrument. It was nothing short of a free-for-all carnival.
We shuffled through the crowds with no real plan of action. Every few paces there was some new spectacle to see. Belly dancers swirling to the beat of a garbage can. I saw a kid play a drum kit made of buckets. Wash tub basses were everywhere. A man on stilts was playing a squeezebox. Someone was pounding a suitcase with a drum pedal.

Our humble gig was indoors in a space called The Shaw Room: a stark windowless room with carpeted walls. At first glance, a little intimidating but after the claustrophobic sideshow frenzy of the great outdoors, this venue was somewhat soothing. We took to the stage and played a tight little set to a very appreciative audience.

We kicked off with No Hens in My Henhouse. I know that's a bit ambitious but there was no time for warming up. We followed that with Can't keep me, Hedgehog Song and Annecy. Then we finished off with Enjara. For the first time ever, at a gig, no one really saw my cazumpet as a novelty.
It was an interesting performance. The Audience was all sitting on rows of chairs like in a theatre but the room quickly filled beyond its seating capacity. Everyone stopped talking when we started playing. It was one of those do or die gigs. All too often we play in half empty bars or rowdy drunken dives, so it came as a shock to suddenly be expected to do something more than go through the motions. This audience of about 200 even looked sober. They regarded us as if they'd paid to be there and wanted their money's worth too.

It was fortunate that I'd had some previous dodgy experiences in similar situations in the past. Most notably in a tiny kitchen with a bar near a tiny town in Germany called Windisheschenbach. This Brig O Doon of a place was at the end of a dirt road somewhere in the Bayerish Forest. To be honest I have no real idea where it was. It was dark when we arrived and darker and somewhat fuzzy when I left. But anyway in this lost kitchen, a table was set up. On the table was a stool and above the stool was a spotlight. I wasn't really aware of my impending fate when I took that gig. I was a busker at the time. Passersby were my usual audience. Suddenly I'm sitting on this coffee table looking out at perhaps 40 Germans crammed in all around me. They're staring up at me and they're expecting entertainment. But me? To quote a phrase, "I gat Nothin". It was a sobering moment but by no means a sober one.

As sometimes happens in these crunchy situations, I forced myself to rise up and talk crap for two solid hours. By the end of the night we were all friends. I was speaking fluent whisky/Weisen influenced German. Not exactly Hoch Deutch: more like Hic-cup Deutch. I even had the audacity to ask if there was any song anyone would like to hear. Someone piped up with Knocking on Heaven's door. No problem. Must've been my lucky day. The stars were in alignment in the black sky outside the cosmic kitchen. The moon was passing through Jupiter and the Sun was shining out Uranus. Then some smart Alec mutters, "Play Green Sleeves". Oh oh. Sharp intake of breathe. The crowd gasp. They shuffle their feet. They know Higgins is busted. The stars stop twinkling. So near yet so far. But wait…Hold on. What's that noise? It's a miracle. Can it be true? He's playing Green Sleeves. And he plays it all the way through. He's not even strumming it either. It's the real thing. Finger twitching and all. There is weeping, hugging and ticker tape. A marching band bursts in the door playing, "Green Sleeves Reprise". Well okay maybe the marching band was pushing it a bit, but the rest was true. But how? Well, that's another story.

And for readers just joining us……

Meanwhile back in Seattle at the Shaw Room. Our half hour of glory was over. I Saw some familiar faces in the crowd but never really got to speak to anyone. Everyone was shaking hands and talking just as we were coming off stage but we were dismantling our gear and the next band were going on. Too much jostling. We were saying goodbye even as we were saying hello. We met Joe's pal, Fae. But in our confused tumble off the stage, I forgot to ask her if she'd played yet. It would have been great to go and listen. We also spoke with her friend, a film maker called Captain. Captain who? I don't know. Cook? Kirk? Coconut? Then I spoke briefly to Reuben Banjo from Whiskey Galore. I also encountered our two favourite girls from Bellingham who kindly show up regularly at many of our gigs.
And that was that.

So with our one official piece of business over with, Me, Hil, Ronan and Charlie had a picnic and wandered round till about 4pm then went home. Donald and his clan had disappeared after our show and we never met them again that day.

I left Folklife in awe of the inventive determination of human beings to create music or racket. I guess the roots of folk music can be dug out of the heart of Africa where Primitive man bashed upon logs with bones through the millennia right up to modern man plucking on a kitchen sink attached to a stick and a piece of string. Yes, plumbing's come a long way but musically we're still hooked on the same free swinging jazz of the jungles. You would imagine that with such an acutely instinctive gift for music, that Nature would have provided us with elephant sized ears and incredible hearing. But I guess she didn't and that's why we are so easily entertained by loud thumps, bumps, hoots, twangs and rattles.

Folk music travels well. It was born to wander. In many ways it is affected by travel in the same way as people. It can adapt to any culture but remain the same entity. It will take on the mantle of its environment but retain the essence of its original melody.
Omnivorous Folk music's ability to befriend new instrumentation, language, tempo and audiences is the secret of its longevity. This rich soil of creativity is what makes the North West Folklife Festival what it is: an intense magical pool of unquenchable, living, ingredients that never lies fallow. To stand in its midst, is to hear the history of civilization presented as a cacophonous immortal waterfall. Yet it's really all one song of countless strands and verses.
As songwriters, we only write one song in a lifetime. Our one song is barely a petal on the eternal beanstalk of folk music but I am honoured to be part of it.

The small seaside town of Blaine is truly the last stop on the map in the North West USA. We could not be further from Florida if we tried. The Canadian border guards could probably hear us play. The US border guards were probably in the building.
Blaine was in the middle of a beautiful sunset when we drove into town. The main street was eerily silent and deserted. The view out to sea was crimson and it was all ours.

At the Paso Del Norte, we were plugged directly into a disco PA system by Hugo who seemed to be the man to talk to. He couldn't have been more helpful and he really made the evening go smoothly.
We set up on a tiny raft of a stage big enough for Steve's drums but not much else. We had to place the mic stands on the dance floor which was marginally bigger than the stage. Donald stood offstage to one side.
We rattled through 2 one hour sets and were done by 11:30. The crowd, such as it was, had more interest in the ice hockey on TV. Thus we basically did our thing and left with a minimum of fuss.

Thanks mainly to the mind bending powers of the Hens in the Henhouse song there was a mild breakout of dancing at one point but it was short lived. I figure this could be a useful song to play in an enemy sniper zone. It would only require a few notes of this ditty to set the bushes rustling. Curtains would twitch, and floorboards would creak. Any neighbourhood snipers would quickly give away their positions: and when finally they'd been rounded up, they'd be placed in padded cells and forced to listen to it till they went insane.

Musically we played fine but with no great inspiration. There was a hush in the room and I also had a feeling of trying to behave myself. I guess it was the proximity of the border. Borders are tense, volatile places of strip searches and frayed nerves. Armed smugglers and families wait in anxious queues while border guards treat them all as equally potential threats. It's not an area conducive to musical appreciation. I also had a feeling that half the audience consisted of plain clothed border guards. They possessed those dead pan features that suggest they couldn't spot a joke in an ID parade even if it had neon flashing arrows pointing at it. The uniforms were a dead give away too.
Only joking, but No-man's-land is no place for a gig. (No-Gig-Land). Maybe we should broadcast the Henhouse song across the barriers.

Over the years I have become traumatized by border crossings. So many times I have been minding my own business just trying to get from A to B and found myself being suddenly interrogated by uniformed strangers. It wasn't so long ago that Europe had border crossings every couple of hundred miles. As a street musician, I was constantly moving from country to country and thus I came into regular contact with all nationalities of border patrols.
Often I wouldn't even be at the actual crossing when I'd be intercepted by overly frisky friskers. Once upon a wander, me and an Italian friend called Nicola were hitching out of Geneva. It was just before Christmas and freezing cold. The airport was nearby so we walked over to stand in the arrivals lounge for a quick heat. It only took about 5 minutes before we found ourselves in separate rooms, stripped to our underwear and being questioned by Swiss officials. I remember one guard rummaging manically through my affairs. He scrutinized every lining and pocket. Finally he said "remove your underwear". And here was where I got the last laugh. As my underpants dropped to my ankles and I stepped out of them I saw a look of sudden alarm cross his previously smug features. I had been a quite a few days on the road when we arrived in Geneva and thus my underwear had not been overly spoiled with soap. Even now it gives me a warm glow just thinking about that little dictator's defeated eyes as he stared helplessly down at my crumpled underwear and then up at my triumphant smiling face. I could have stashed a gold bar in there and he wouldn't have touched it.
They let us go in the end. I guess we had looked suspicious. Nicola was dressed completely in white. Must have been his Italian blood. (Leonetti) I was dressed completely in black like a chimney sweep. We looked like quite a pair. He was too clean and I was too scruffy. I bet I looked like his bodyguard. I was wearing a big heavy black coat like something that might shuffle around in a prisoner of war movie. The lining in the pockets was completely worn through. I could put something in my left pocket and pull it out of my right.
Not long after the Geneva incident, I was crossing from Germany into France at a small border post near Mulhouse. I had my guitar in a garbage bag and I was still wearing the black coat with the magic pockets (probably the same underwear too). I had some spare German change. So I decided to spend it before the border. I bought a bottle of chocolate milk and 3 leberkase sausages. The sausages each had different coloured wrappings. One was black, one was yellow and one was red. As I recall, one was made from mashed pig brains. Yea right. I also bought a loaf of bread and a small cheese. Thanks to my incredible pockets, I stuffed it all easily into the lining of my jacket. Thus armed, I marched boldly up to the border. The German guard didn't even look at me but the French guy demanded my passport. Lucky I had it handy….in my jacket pocket. I delved in but couldn't locate it fast enough for the guards liking. It must have seemed to him that I then suddenly started vigorously scratching my bum with my hands still inside my pockets.
Up went his eyebrows and once again I was ushered quickly into a generic bare room. "Empty your pockets" he ordered me. I sighed. Out came the cheese. I placed it on the counter. Next came a big black sausage, then a pencil, a loaf of bread, a penknife, some tobacco, another sausage, a sketch pad, a harmonica, a lighter, another sausage, a plastic bottle of chocolate milk, various scraps of paper, a crumpled map, a guitar strap, a harmonica holder, and some individual rusted guitar strings. A fair sized pile was amassing when finally my passport showed up in the procession. He examined it, asked me where I was going and kicked me out.

Once, crossing into Czechoslovakia with the Izzy Skint band, we rolled up to the border in a rented BMW. The guard asked us where we were going. We told him we were a band playing at a nearby festival. He asked us "What is the name of your band?" And we all cheered together, "Izzy Skint". He laughed and spread his arms. "Welcome to Czechoslovakia".
Why can't all borders be like that?

Nowadays the borders are all open in Europe. But at the moment I live in the States and sadly their borders are sealing tighter every day.

We arrived to play around 5pm. The gig was scheduled for 6pm but the place was deserted so we took the opportunity to have some of their delicious food. I think the Back Porch specializes in Cajun food: traditional dishes from the Deep South. It's addictive stuff.

At 6:30 we started playing. The place was still empty but we felt guilty sitting around. The owner Laine seems like a friendly guy. When we showed up, he greeted us openly and warmly. We were welcomed in and fed and watered and sound checked. Most certainly a nice change from some of the bars we've played where the owners barely acknowledge your existence.

In the first set we practiced a bunch of new tunes: songs like Desolation, Lean On Me, Comes a Time, This is Hip, and a few others. We eased ourselves into this gig but ultimately it was just another empty bar performance. I felt we were just warming up as we finished. I think there were 2 more bands to play after us. Must have been a late night.

The back porch Alley is still a relatively new place. It's still in Child Labour. I hope it works out for the owners. So many bars in Bellingham are stillborn. Their first and last breathe are one and the same. Well I hope this place makes it. All shall be revealed in the coming Summer months.

For us as a band, the gig went fairly well. Steve slotted in on drums and the sound was quite solid though it bounced around the room a bit. We never reached any great heights but had a few comedy moments, not least on Annecy when we tried our new ending. We must have crashed that plane about 4 times before it landed. But it was still a hoot.

Lettered Streets
James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

We sat up at a high table in the corner by the window and rattled through a couple of hours of tunes. The evening flew past and I sensed that the small crowd was quite enjoying our unobtrusive wee acoustic repertoire (no drums). We tested out some new stuff and dredged up some oldies. "This Is Hip", "Play For Free", "Fontainebleau". We were spared playing The "Hens in the Henhouse".

This was more of a live practice than a gig. Still what else would we have been doing. We even made a few dollars. We felt like we were just jamming to ourselves and watching the sun go down on a beautiful evening.
I love acoustic gigs.

Tub Aches
3Ds at Stuarts

Dale on the mandolin, myself on the washtub bass, while the Donald clan playing everything else. A pleasant night as usual filled with jigs and bluegrass. Charlie sat in for a few songs near the end. All in all a low key fun night with Bellingham's least controversial band. I must say though, it's amazing how stiff I feel after playing that wash tub for an hour and a half.

The wash tub bass is an unusual instrument. It's a three part affair consisting of a stick, a string and a large tub. Like swimming or deck chair wrestling, the playing of the tub demands the use of a combination of mismatched body parts. Most musical instruments take a small physical toll on their players. Musicians with stringed instruments develop calluses on their finger tips to protect them from the cutting strings. Trumpet players develop cheek jowels and often have sore lips. Bagpipe players probably go stone deaf, but the majority of their bruises come from being struck by projectiles from their neighbours who are trying to get some sleep.
But the wash tub bass provides the player with an unfamiliar array of unexpected aches. When first I played the tub, I had rope burn after a mere 15 minutes. This swiftly blistered and left me unable to play my guitar for a few days. To avoid future rope burns, I took to wearing a gardening glove on my twanger hand. Next came a dull throb in the upper arm muscle caused by balancing the tension on the wash tub stick all evening. This sets in about half an hour into a gig. Funnily enough, I've experienced both the rope burn and the sore arm whilst doing archery. I guess the action is similar. Could I hit a target at 50 paces with an arrow fired from a wash tub bass?
The third ache is a leg cramp caused by leaning on one leg all night. I'm sure herons are familiar with this one as they play a lot of tub. I wonder if I continue playing the tub, will one side of my body become more muscular than the other. I'll be like a before and after fitness ad. I could do with a few muscles right enough.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band

This time round, our canopy tent had been moved over by the goat statue on the pavilion corner. Rick, the market chief, who seems like a fair minded person, pointed to the vendor lady at the first stall. He said that if she gestured after one song that it was too loud then try to turn it down a bit. Then he disappeared into the crowd. I turned to Charlie and said, "Well ye know what means? We'd as well turn it down now." But I knew that even if we did, she would still signal to turn it down.
I remember Steve Shorrock playing in the Irish Harp in Regensburg, Germany one night. One of the bar's upstairs neighbours, an old lady, had recently taken to complaining about the noise levels. Every night, just as the live music started, she'd telephone down to the bar's public telephone to voice her grieviance. On this particular night, Steve was expecting a long distance call from France but the upstairs lady wouldn't stop phoning down. Each time the barmaid answered it, she'd yell across the room for Steve to turn it down. The evening began to follow a recurring pattern. Song, ring-ring, "Turn it down." Song, ring-ring, "Turn it down".
Steve was getting well pissed off. Shouldn't old ladies be hard of hearing? Then the phone rang for the umpteenth time and the barmaid picked it up and yelled across the bar, "Steve. It's from Paris!" And Steve yelled back, "Ah come on, It wasn't THAT bloody loud!

Sure enough after the first song the beacons were on fire and we turned our volume down. The oddest thing though is that we are not a loud band. My little PA system is incapable of extortionate volume. I think we look loud…. Or maybe we're crap. Not to worry. We were content to be a sideshow attraction. The market belongs to the farmers, not the musicians: otherwise this event would be called the Musicians Market.

We started around 11:30am and it was soon apparent that this was a cruel, windy and shady corner. We seriously struggled to physically play music in the morning chill. My hand muscles tensed, my nose dripped and my rhythm strumming was erratic. It wasn't so much a bitter cold day; it just wasn't a day for playing unpaid music outdoors in the shade. Nevertheless, somehow the situation seemed funny and I think we had a good solid gig. Despite the elements, we all enjoyed ourselves: vendors too. In fact according to Hill, Tree actually smiled. It may have been a grimace or a chattering of teeth but there did appear to be a brief cameo of the pearly whites.
We played about an hour and a half. The market was its usual lively self. Tips were exactly the same as last time which was fine but strange.

Songwise, we kept it simple and threw in a couple of kid's songs such as Ally Ballie and Old MacDonald.

"Old MacDonald Had a Farm. E,i,e,i,o.
And on that farm he had a wife. E,i,e,i,o.
With a "Wipe yer feet" here and a "Milk the chickens" there. Here a nag there a nag and "yer dinner's in the oven…etc." Then there was something about Fred Astaire. E,i,e,i,o.

Not sure how that went over with the pre-schoolers.

We played a little bit of something for everyone so it was rewarding to see quite a lot of people dancing. Perhaps they were just trying to stay warm. But just like Tree, they were all smiling: and I guess that's what matters.

This was a late night 20 minute slot at the BIMA annual meeting. We got on stage and after a non existent sound check we dived straight into, Baby Please Don't Go. Alas we were just too late to notice that no one was in tune. Amazingly though, a happy couple got up and started dancing. Then to complete my bewilderment, everybody cheered at the end. I could only conclude that the beer had been flowing freely before our arrival. I think we played about 5 songs and zigzagged in and out of each other's tuning like speed boats in the night. Fortunately by the miracle of alcohol nobody seemed to notice our discord.
As soon as we were finished our set, the male half of the dancing couple rushed up and warmly shook our hands. As it happened, he was the bar owner and he said he loved our stuff. He wanted us to come back and play again. We said we'd be delighted.
If my disbelief hadn't yet been complete, then that just put a lid on it.

Standing up on that stage, I had a brief flashback to the stage in The Dubliner in Seattle a few weeks ago. Both stages were of similar size, shape and height. Even the grey carpeting was the same. Both stages were about 2 feet high and set up against the window. This gives musicians a good view of the interior but from the outside, we look eerily like shop window mannequins.
Up there on the Back Porch Alley stage, in mid song, I looked over at Charlie and I looked at Donald and I wondered to myself, "How many stages have we stood on during our undulating musical careers."
I can't speak for them but for sure I've performed in some dubious makeshift podiums.
I remember in the Brookdorf Mull, I used to stand on the speakers. I'd place them side by side on the floor by the bar and climb up. They were big hefty things. Concrete shoes. From up there I could actually touch the ceiling. I'd point them at the ankles of the crowd and start bashing away on my guitar. Things got a little perilous after a few drinks. On stage and off.

Up in a tiny hamlet called Staalwang somewhere in the Bayerish Wald, I played a gig in a bar. The owner was a heavy metal singer name Ritchie Rocket and he had a demo to prove it. He informed me that Staalwang was very conservative and advised me that perhaps I shouldn't wear my hat. A bogard hat: nothing too radical about that, I thought. So I looked at him then and re-appraised him. He was a squat faced little rocker with dark curly permed hair, who had squeezed himself from head to toe into black leather biker jacket and trousers lashed on with a studded belt. He wore black cowboy boots on his feet and sported a Japanese red sun bandana upon his forehead. In Glasgow he would be termed a, "Bus Stop Biker": all gear and no bike. He obviously loved his heavy metal but he could easily have sung," It's fun to stay at theYMCA".
I decided I'd take my chances with the natives.

But anyway when we got to his bar, there was no stage to be seen. When I pointed this out to Herr Rocket, he directed me to an electrical output between two slot machines. These machines were side by side' against a wall and about 4 feet apart. This space between them was to be my stage. At first I was convinced that he wanted me to plug into a slot machine but somehow through the miracle of electricity and amnesia, I got connected into the house speakers where were suspended from the ceiling. Right in front of my "stage" was a pool table. Well it was a tricky situation but I was getting paid for my troubles.
It's a very odd feeling to be singing whilst almost face to face with two intensely focused slot machinists and dodging cue sticks and cue balls. Surely this is pure invisibility. At least there weren't any anti hat people in the bar.
Most of the clientele had gathered around the bar area. If I wanted to make any eye contact I'd have to lean out and look to the right. The slot machinists would growl at me and I'd jerk my head back in. Then I'd hear puzzled German voices over at the bar asking, "Did you just see a head poke out of the slot machine?"
Now Joeys Irish bar up in Furth; whoa, what a set up. Therein sat a stage about the size of a suitcase. Behind it there was a shelf. Upon that shelf, at ear level, lurched the world's largest amplifier. Let me tell you about this brooding implement of torture. He was a monster; shackled to the very foundation of the building. Like a mysterious pagan idol, he cast a shadow of delirium over all who dared come near. When first we met, I fought an urge to pick up a stout chair and point its 4 legs up at his three steely knobs. The first knob was marked "Volume", the next was marked, "Lots More Volume", and the third just said, "Fuck Off". Pre-gig, this angry slab of Stonehenge was plugged in and cranked from slumber by cowed native bar staff who stood back and chanted," Kong, Kong, Kong".
That beast would not be tamed. Not by chair or whip, nor soothed by Irish music. This abomination needed an immediate return to his natural habitat of inhospitable bogland and mountain before someone was injured. There in the wilderness he could roar his defiance to the cruel world far from human habitation. After a period of rehab, perhaps he could find a little female amp he could connect with and maybe start a new stack.

In Irish bars you either cross the noise barrier or die ignored. Ignored means sacked. So even though the Joey's amp was a mere six inches from the back of my skull, I was forced to raise the volume so that folks near the back could hear too. The feedback alone could have driven a man insane.
Yes, the first time I played there, the unsuspecting public fell over themselves as they stampeded to the back of the room. Tables toppled and people choked. I witnessed several bemused individuals moving straight backwards like they were on fast moving skateboards, straight out onto the street. I would have joined them if I could have, but I was strapped to that looming apparatus. Desperate clients were screaming: myself included. The beast roared. Hair blew away. Laugh lines and wrinkles were sandblasted from ruddy faces while a few determined dregs, (probably Scots) grimly refusing to surrender their drinks, left vain receding claw marks etched into the bar counter as they were slowly leveraged backwards degree by degree. Their ears wiggled as fast as bee's wings till finally with an audible "ping", they were pried loose like bent nails and shot out the door still clutching their Guinnesses. It was horrendous. And all the time Joey's Dublin accent yelling like white noise in my tortured ears, "Jaiz yer brutal James. Brutal so ye are."…
And all this ado in a matter of seconds.

Nobody knows where Joey found that unearthly amp. But legend has it that an angry mob gathered around his castle one night with pitchforks and burning torches. The place was razed to the ground. No trace was afterwards found of the demonic amplifier. Joey vanished too. But… some suspiciously Joey sized footprints were discovered that led directly from the ashes to a nearby insurance office and from there they faded into nothing.

But as I was saying, the Back Porch Alley had a real stage and the sound check wasn't too bad. It looks like it'll be a fun place to play. I guess the real problem was that there were no monitors. Donald actually got offstage so he could stand in front of the speakers to hear himself.
The sound check guy did his best in the short space of time allotted. I guess we should be grateful that at least there was a sound check guy. Up at the Alte Malzerei bar, in Regensburg, the mixing desk was situated behind the bar. If the sound engineer didn't show up, then the chef would come out and have a go. He did make some interesting mixes. A bit soupy.

Funny gig.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots at the Holy Smoke.

The Mount Baker is quite a touristy stretch of road. It travels from the Pacific coast up to a dead end on Mount Baker's volcanic slopes. In general it is well tended and pleasant to drive on.
From Sunset Drive, Bellingham falls behind. At Nugent's Corner, the highway crosses the Nooksack River, curves past the Mount Baker Vineyard and past the Eagle Park. The mountains gleam snowy and clean as the highway winds closer and closer towards their roots. Past the pizza Shrine restaurant and up to the Maple Falls Junction. Everything is beautiful. At the Junction, the highway turns sharply right and continues its tranquil path into higher altitudes of tall trees and long tumbling waterfalls. It's all so very picture postcard perfect. It makes me want to stick a stamp on it and address it to a friend.
The left fork of the junction turns away from the mountains and becomes the Kendal Road. Recently Kendal Town has been more famous for its meth labs and addiction than for its scenic attractions. The Holy Smoke is on the Kendall Road.

The Kendal road is an odd place. The homes along its sides have an aura of damp dilapidation and neglect. Untended front yards are strewn with broken appliances and rusted cars. There are hand written sign posts nailed to trees. One of them read," Giggles the Clown".
The Holy Smoke is a converted church now a bar. I guess alcohol was more profitable than preaching. The main room was divided into 3 distinct sections. To the left; two pool tables. In the middle, separated by a couple of old church pews, is the dance floor and bar counter. To the right: a sort of lounge area.

We set up to play in the middle section. The place was not busy at all but the scattered inhabitants were quite appreciative. The bar owner seemed a little perturbed when I asked for the TV sound to be turned down before we begun, but he complied. It was soon clear that the listeners wanted music they were familiar with or could dance intimately to. One elderly couple requested a slow blues. We played, It Hurts Me Too. They got up and danced a cheek to cheek. The only song afterwards that anyone showed any real enthusiasm for was "Knocking on Heavens Door". I felt like I was fly-fishing, using various musical baits to reel in the scattered audience. As the night progressed, I realized we were now playing to the backs of a short row of drinkers at the bar or saying thank you to the few people who remained far to the right hand side. Between songs, I was talking to myself. We become more insular and though we stuck professionally to the set, I think there were too few women and too many men to instigate enough of a dancing atmosphere. In fact when I think on it, I think all the women danced but the men generally hugged the bar or played pool.
This was an incredibly long gig. We played from 8:30 till 12:30. People came and went but we remained. My fingers were in bits and my brain was dead when we finished. It is impossible to maintain any sense of focused cohesion for that length of time especially in Terra Incognita. But I think we played well and quite enjoyed ourselves. Most of those who were present really seemed to enjoy it too. In fact I sold quite a number of CDs.

Once again advertising let us down. Due to miscommunication, neither the Herald nor the Cascadia Weekly printed our ads. As I mentioned, the Holy Smoke lies on one hell of a bleak stretch of highway. Looking up and down that road during a break, there was just overwhelming silence and blackness. I doubt many people would travel out there to see a well known band, never mind the Muddy Boots.

I rode in the back of the pick-up truck on the way home. It was quite cozy. I had a little nest in the midst of the gear. Charlie and Donald rode up front. Two seatbelts between three didn't feel very reassuring. I was content in the back. Lucky the roof was attached or it may have been less comfy.

Years ago in the town of Schweinfurt Germany I wrote a song called Holy Smoke. It's strange to find myself playing it 10,000 kms away in a converted church off the Mount Baker Highway. Naturally, we had to play it.

It feels like it was in another lifetime that me and Peter arrived in Schweinfurt in the wee hours. We shook hands with Vince and said goodbye then stepped into a bush to sleep. Vince seemed a bit perplexed by this. I don't think he ever knew quite what to make of us. He owned a bar in Bamberg up by the U.S. barracks. The Aquarium was its name but we referred to it as the Fish Tank. We used to pop in when we were in town and play for beer. That night at closing time we told him we were hitching to Schweinfurt in the morning. There and then he offered to drive us. So we all piled into his car and off we went.
Apparently Peter had used this bush before and thus with his gift of the gab and lashings of alcohol had elevated this bush in my mind up to Taj Mahal Gold Star Hotel standards.
Anyway we woke up bright and early beside a dead crow. While we examined it, an irate German business man began yelling at us from outside our bush. "Das bush ist privat". Our grasp of the language was rudimentary at best but it didn't sound like an invitation.
We set off busking and it went fine. By evening our pockets were jingling and we were content. We'd met an East German one man band that day called Des. He lived in Norway and was presently on a busking tour. He informed us several times that the price of petrol up there was extortionate. He invited us back to his van to smoke a pipe before he headed off.

His van was huge. Inside it resembled a barn. We sat on some low stools behind the driver seat and he introduced us to an interesting technique of hash smoking which involved a drawing pin, a beer deckle and a small glass. About ten rounds later, I had an unwipeable smile on my face. Des got out his camera and snapped a picture of me and Peter, side by side, grinning like chimps into the camera. Des's van made it easy to forget that we were actually sitting in a car park on a summer's evening. Instead I felt like we were in the belly of a cargo plane. We were certainly flying but we were on the ground.
I remember joking as we all sat there, "Hey, who's driving?" I think I accidentally set Peter's cogs working overtime. He suddenly looked very serious and stood up. "Who WAS driving?". He opened the side door and the last rays of the day came pouring in. The twilight seemed very bright to us. Peter stood framed in the doorway. "Don't jump", I giggled. But Peter was flying on a higher cloud than me and I think he was a little worried. He stepped gingerly outside like he was testing hot water with his toe. Then his face popped up at the back window. "Where's Rik" he shouted? Rik was back in Regensburg. I figured we should leave. We were both incredibly stoned. I can only imagine that Des was just as stoned. Clumsily, we hoisted our packs and asked Des if he'd like to join us for a beer. He declined, stating that he didn't drink and drive. Personally at that moment I was having trouble even walking.
So we left Des and we got ourselves lost on a zebra crossing. We decided it was best to search for somewhere quiet to try come down a bit. Thus we found ourselves in a city park called Motherwell Park. Motherwell is the name of a town in Scotland. It turns out that Motherwell is a twin city of Schweinfurt.
By now it was completely dark. We sat on the see saw for a while unable to figure out how it worked. We switched to a park bench which had more stability and got out our guitars. Slowly we mellowed out and began to drift back towards our rattled senses. That was when I wrote down the first draft of Holy Smoke: sitting on that dark bench in Motherwell Park.
Later we went back to the town centre and sat in a beer garden in the main square. The beer was served from a portable kiosk which seemed to be run by a 12 year old Italian kid and his little brother.
After about 3 beers we were back on the planet and feeling relaxed with just a comfy lingering hash buzz. I guess Des had just caught us off guard.
So we got a couple more bottled beers to take away and went singing down the road back to the bush.
"Oh holy smoke how fine you look. Tips my hat and tells me jokes. My holy smoke."

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

Opening Day at the Market.

As if by magic the sun chose to shine on Bellingham today. The crowds were out and the market was buzzing. We set up to play under a canopy tent that had been erected outside the Boundary Bay Pub. Chuck from Band Zant was playing drums with us again. Since first he sat in with us, this was the first time he was actually allowed to put some volume into his drumming.

Donald had a nasty virus and was sick as a dog but made it through the gig. He had to be told about it later because he'd been so medicated. It had all been a foggy blur.
My recollection was a bit hazy too but that was just due to the shock of getting up early.
The morning was still chilly when we started around 11am. I had trouble holding my plectrum but we warmed up soon enough and breezed easily through an hour and a half set.

A few rows of benches had been set out for people to park themselves on to enjoy the sun and music. The whole market atmosphere was relaxed and easy going. Quite a festive occasion really. There were a few buskers about doing their thing. I don't think we drowned them out. Apologies if we did. They probably earned more than us anyway. I think that because we had amps, people assumed we were getting paid: which was not the case. With this economic crisis going on, many people are having money troubles. Charlie kindly offered to take some of that troublesome money off anyone's hands who felt they had more than they could cope with. Thankfully there were some folks who allowed us to share their burden. We were glad to help.

Buskers always amaze me at the market. Two busker bands will sometimes stand 20 feet apart on parallel aisles yet they seem to believe that because a flap of canvas separates them, their sounds don't merge. I pity the poor vendors with an act behind their stall and one in front: both playing completely different music. It must sound horrific.

Musically, we didn't stretch ourselves or go out of our way to play anything too heavy or new. We've barely practiced at all since about 2 months so we took no chances and stuck to a simple, tried and trusted set. We actually forgot to play a few of our regulars like, Please Don't Go and Annecy. We did play Driving Down Chuckanut at the end and I was quite amazed to see people singing along by the 2nd verse. The Chuckanut Highway is a local landmark. That means that singing along is obligatory. Support your local landmark.

So it was a positive experience. Tips were fair and I even sold some CDs. Roll on summer.

Two St Patrick's Day Gigs with Whiskey Galore.

The Dubliner
Seattle

This establishment has an odd setup. The people were 5 deep at the bar but due to a barrier that separated these people from the dance floor there was very little overspill onto the open space all around the stage. It presented a comical picture as I oversaw it from high upon the afore mentioned stage. All those people crammed elbow to elbow with their drinks clutched against their chest while right there beyond the barrier was the open range. That barrier may as well have been the Great Wall of China. Kind of reminded me of going to mass in Neilston where everyone was afraid to sit up the front. The first ten rows would always be empty while the back would be jammed. It was as if the congregation had a fear of the priest in case he put a hex on them. I don't think the Dubliner crowd had a fear of us. They had a fear of losing their grip on the bar counter.

We had a sound guy doing the mix for us. He done a fine job and thus we were all able to hear each other's racket quite clearly. Considering we had only had about 2 full practices in the past few months, we did remarkably well. Even the jig stuff worked out fairly well.
My problem with the jig stuff is being unable to connect the tune with the proper title. We are generally half way through it before I have isolated the melody. Then just as we are finishing, I finally have it worked out. Nevertheless I am making progress.
As gigs go, this was a lot of fun. Plenty of chaos.

I can't help wondering if this was the same bar I went to with Hil, Paul and Diane back in 1994. Me and Hil were on holiday and we'd all gone to an Irish bar that fitted The Dubliner's description. I remember we were playing pool and talking about the ridiculously cheap price of petrol.
It was getting late and someone yelled, "Drink up". We still had about a quarter of a pitcher of beer left on the table. Well everyone was saturated and we were being pressured to leave so I just picked it up in both hands and started glugging it down as fast as I could. It must be my Scottish heritage: can't waste good beer. Well I was swiftly down to the last drips and was staring across the bar through the blurred bottom of the pitcher when I saw a face fill the frame. I lowered the pitcher and I saw before me, a smiling Chinese man about my age. For a second I stared dumbly back at him then I realized what I'd done. "Oh Jeez" I stammered, "That was yours? I didn't know…I thought it was mine… I'll buy you another… ". But the guy just laughed and said he thought it was hilarious. I'm glad it wasn't Glasgow.

Back in present day Seattle, we finished the 3 hour gig and had to rush off to Mulleady's Irish Bar.

The Mulleady's gig was far more intense than the Dubliner. Probably because it is so much more intimate. The crowd was right there in front of us instead of fenced off like in The Dubliner. We'd played Mulleady's last year too. It is an incredibly dark bar but this time round, it didn't feel quite so dark. Perhaps they'd invested in a lightbulb. (I actually brought a torch with me.) The stage though was definitely just as cramped. I'd say Mulleady's is remeniscent of the Shamrock in Munich except with all the lights turned off.
This gig didn't start till well after 10pm. The crowd was well liquored up by this stage. They were in fine form and there was some fine imaginative dancing. This resulted in an unlucky staff member appearing like a war zone stretcher bearer with rags and mops to wipe up beer puddles whilst dodging the jigging masses who slipped and tumbled all around him.
Both gigs were a lot of fun. I'd say I enjoyed Mulleady's more than The Dubliner gig. It had a rowdier atmosphere which is where Whiskey Galore are really at their best.
Best fun songs of the night for me personally? Jack of Galway right at the end of the Mulleady's gig. I also really enjoyed Muirshin Durkin, which I can play slightly better than I can spell.

James Higgins and the Moonshine Combine.
13 and 14 March.
Paddy's Night Warm Up.

Poppe's gig 1

The Moonshine Combine was really an amalgamation of The Muddy Boots Band meets Whiskey Galore meets The Productionists, meets the 3Ds.

I'd never been in Poppe's before. It is a cocktail lounge attached to the Lakeway Inn. At first glance it seemed a little upscale. I haven't made my mind up yet.
The stage was at the far end of a circular bar counter. The lights were dim but the place looked well taken care of. The stage was inserted into the wall like a rectangular box alcove. We just managed to squeeze in. Tree was pressed into one back corner with his drums. Electric Eric was in the other back corner with his effects board and guitar.
The place was fairly hopping and there was a lively atmosphere though I don't think people were quite tuned into Paddy's Night mania yet.
Interesting to play for a crowd who were probably not going to be driving later on. I imagine a fair portion of the clientele were staying overnight at the Inn. They weren't shy about drinking.
Anyway musically we were on fair form and rattled through our first set like we almost knew what we were doing. The crowd were enthusiastic though a little distant. The second set began with a bunch of jigs. Janice got up and played her flute while Donald switched from bass to mandolin. Eric emerged from his corner and played rhythm. I got the wash tub out. Charlie and Tree took a seat. Unfortunately I forgot my wash tub glove, so I had to stop before I got rope burn.
By the third set the bar had calmed down a little but we still played for 45 minutes and put a lot of energy into it.

Second night.

Slightly busier than the first night. A few more friendly faces and a few different songs but basically a carbon copy gig.
We strayed a little from our St Patrick's night styled set as the bar emptied. There were a few diehard revelers but the night had essentially fizzled out again after the 2nd set.
On the whole I'd say we played quite good over the two nights. Three hour gigs are hard to pace. Looking back I think we should have done a half hour set then some jigs. After that we should have either played straight through or made the 2nd set the real strong gig set followed by a half hour set for the stragglers. The moral of the story? Don't listen to bar owners: listen to your instincts.

Still, both nights were a lot of fun. Understandably there were a few hiccups but nothing catastrophic. Eric had his synth guitar making flute, violin and trumpet sounds. We had a couple of comical duets which, along with some cazumpet and harmonica solos, left the audience scratching their heads in bewilderment.
Funniest moment for me was when Donald turned to Tree who was crammed in the corner behind his drums, and asked if he needed anything. A sad little voice answered, "I need a hug".
My most enjoyable songs over the piece? I'd say," I Will Go" from the 1st gig. The second night I feel we were dragging our feet on it a bit. Ally Bally on the 1st night too was fun. Funnily enough, "Whiskey in the Jar" was quite enjoyable both nights. I never thought it would be possible to wring a further drip of enjoyment out of that song. But there ye go. Another unexpected hit was "Donald Where's Yer Troosers".
Vampire Blues was great with the Batman bass solo. Even though "Tears Tears Tears" is the same tune, both songs get great responses. I always consider "Tears" as a bit of a filler but I guess it should be a regular on the First Team.
So that was Poppe's. Maybe they'll have us back in a few months. The place really reminded me of Dinky Jones's place in Ingolstadt (Le Journal). Except obviously a bit bigger and minus the sexy waitresses. Well ye can't have everything.

Last but not least: well done to all the brave musicians who took to the stage and did such a great job at such short notice.

James Higgins and the Muddy boots

It was just me and Charlie at the Honeymoon for this gig. Donald was sick and the venue wasn't very drummer friendly.
So it was an all acoustic affair and quite easy going. We played from 8 till about 10:30. Nothing spectacular happened apart from getting paid. I guess these days, that's pretty spectacular.
Afterwards we sat up at the bar and had ourselves a cheese platter. I must admit I am a slave to good cheese. Move over Wallace and Gromit, there's competition in town. I should change the lyrics of "Play for Free" to "Play for Cheese".

I recall back in Annecy busking, I'd go shopping at midday before the shops closed for lunch. I'd buy a baguette, a beer, and a camembert cheese. I'd filet the baguette and insert the entire camembert in slices. Then I'd start chomping at one end and devour the whole thing. If I was in the company of any French people, they would shake their heads and say, "Les Ecossaise sont fou" (Scots are mad). To which I had no reply because my mouth was full. But they were probably right. How was I supposed to know that a camembert was supposed to last for a week?

End of the day it was a good little gig. Nice ambience. A loud audience but not obnoxious. It can't be helped that wine does make people naturally chatty.
Towards the end we threw in a few odd songs like Norwegian Wood and Singing in the Rain. No one looked too worried.
There seemed to be a lot of folks taking our photographs throughout the evening. Maybe they thought we were someone else.
Say Cheese.

Not much to say. We played without a PA system even though we had Chuck from Band Zant sitting in on drums. I think we underestimated the crowd volume. I ended up shouting to be heard. I guess we could have plugged a mic in but the owner was there and she seemed really stressed out about everything and anything. We thought it wise not to disturb her precarious equilibrium.
We first noticed her presence when Hil was backing the van a little closer to the back door so we could unload the gear. There was a sudden bang. We thought at first we'd hit something but it turned out to be the owner shrieking and pounding on the van window. Apparently she didn't want Hil to reverse and this had set her into panic mode.

Inside the place she insisted we not leave any stuff in the hallway. She didn't exactly welcome us to her establishment. Chuck sneaked his percussion in one piece at a time. It really was one of those gigs where a band can feel so restricted and barely tolerated. We've played there before and always had good vibes from all the staff but this time there was a streak of explosive tension running round the place. Sadly, bosses often tend to have this detrimental effect on their own establishments. A shame.
After Hil and Jan had eaten we were down 30 dollars. I've never eaten there yet. You'd think they'd just put the wive's meals on a band tab. Just give us an X amount of dollars band tab for food and let us spend it on whoever we want.

So the gig was fine. There were some fun moments as we pulled out some less played songs. Jenny Grey made a rare first team appearance. Tears Tears Tears was a good jam. So was Any Old Time.
I think we are growing weary of adjusting our set for every separate gig. (Though it's a luxury to have that ability.) We just want to turn up and say, "This is who we are. This is what we play. Like it or lump it."
It's not as if we are getting paid huge sums of money. Some of these venues are difficult to prise a tea bag out of. Hard times indeed. Gigs with pay are just drying up, especially for a 4 piece outfit.

I've enjoyed just about every gig we have ever played but this gig was just disheartening. A reality check. The dishwasher left with more profit than us. And he didn't look that happy.
There are some places in town that really shouldn't have live music. Quite a few in fact.
Regensburg was bigger than Bellingham but the live music usually took place in real designated venues. Very few bars had novelty music. Restaurants relied on good food to attract customers. Bars sold good beer and had unique atmospheres. This individuality kept everyone in the proper places. Food was great, beer was delicious and the live music was of a generally high standard.
Out here in Bellingham, just about every bar has some musician, crappy or excellent sitting in a corner playing for next to nothing. Beer is often mediocre, food overpriced and unimaginative and the overall atmosphere, overly neon and lacking at best.

The Chuckanut Brewery beer garden may be fine in summer but who wants a 4 piece band in their face during their dining experience inside a small restaurant.

The second last time I saw of the owner, she was running across the car park and talking frantically to herself. Then she stopped and ran back inside. After a moment she returned. We watched her as, still babbling, she fought her way into her coat and ran off into the darkness without even saying thanks or goodnight. And that was the last I saw of her. Presumably she had more important matters on her mind. I hope it works out well.

A quirky little lunch time gig. This event was a celebration of one of Bellingham's underappreciated attractions: the rain. Me and Donald stood on the Stage at the Fairhaven Green and played some incidental music while people paraded in turn of the (19th) century costumes. There was a "Raining Queen" who sat on a huge throne and oversaw the proceedings. There was a poetry competition, a fashion contest and some strange incidental music. No rain though. Maybe we should have had a rain dance.
It was all very casual. A small semi circle of maybe 50 people had gathered to listen and cheer the participants.
I shook my rain stick. Donald made rumbling bass noises. We probably sounded like acoustic indigestion but we forged ahead as ye do with an ad-lib version of Praying for a Leap Year and an instrumental version of Traveling Bag. It was all over in a half hour.
As the little cloud of people evaporated, we hung around and did some tentative busking. We played La Ville D'Annecy and practiced Singing in the Rain, which is very addictive and hard to stop playing. Doo de doot doo, doo de doot de doot do….

Stuarts café. The 3 Ds seem to be multiplying. The 3 Dennys, the Dale, Chris the Bouron and the Rub a Dub Tub Man. T'was a fun evening. Jigs, reels and bluegrass.
Very family friendly. Lots of coffee. A good time was had by one and all.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

We arrived at the Buffalo a little before nine o clock. Our set was due to start at 9:15 but we didn't actually get on stage till well after ten o clock. I can never figure out how the evening gets so far behind after only 45 minutes.
There was a 3 piece band who went on before us and played about 20 minutes. They were quite good. They then stayed onstage to accompany the Bob Dylan tribute guy. Together they performed 3 epic Beowulf length Dylan songs. Don't misunderstand me, I like Dylan, but when you are in a hurry to get home, it's the equivalent of being stuck behind a tractor in a no passing zone. That's not a criticism of the Dylan Impersonator who was excellent (and Beowulf's not bad either); it's a criticism of Dylan's ramshackle rambling. I think sometimes Dylan just doesn't know how to tie a knot in it. But I cannot really moan about Bob Dylan. After all he kept me alive through all my years of busking.

For a long time the only Dylan song I knew was Knocking On Heavens Door. Back in the Stone Age, someone in my family had actually forked out the clams and bought the 45 RPM single (vinyl). I don't recall ever sitting down to deliberately learn it. Somehow it just became part of the clutter of my brain. I remember there was a song on the B side called Turkey Chase. I didn't learn that one. I didn't know they had turkeys back then.
Heavens Door was probably the first song I ever busked solo with. It was my very first utterence of street music. A squeeky timid sound that emitted from a shop doorway in Lyon, France.
The next Dylan song I remember consciously learning was, Don't Think Twice It's alright. I learned it by candlelight in the attic ruins of a squat in Annecy.
Somehow over the years I learned loads of Dylan stuff, yet I was never a big Dylan fan. Most people always assumed I was. Probably because I had the hat and the guitar and the hair but I was more of a Neil Young sort of guy. Dylan songs seemed to keep finding me.
Once, while I was hitching across Switzerland, I got picked up by a Viking who was driving to Spain. He said he'd take me where I needed to go for a small mileage fee in any currency. I agreed and jumped into his big green van. There was another hitcher on board. He was German and heading all the way to Spain. At one point in the journey I had my guitar out and he showed me a Dylan song called, The Mighty Quinn. I liked it and wanted to learn it. Isn't it funny how Dylan songs always sound better when it's not Dylan singing them. The guy wrote out the 3 verses (short by Dylan standards) and I was happily playing it on the street the next day.

…………………….

Handing out hotel flyers to Eurorailers at Salzburg train station is boring work.
But after I'd memorized the train schedule, I realized that there were often 20 minute gaps between international arrivals. These gaps allowed me time to cross the street and browse the record store. Every day I looked at the sleeve notes on Dylan's Desire album. I tried to learn a half verse of Isis every shift. After my shift I'd go busking and every day my version of Isis grew a little longer. By the end of the summer I'd learned Isis and another song called Sara. I never really did like singing Sara. It felt too much like I was singing about someone else's girlfriend. Isis, on the other hand, was fun to play.

Back at the Wild Buffalo, the delay gave us a chance to hang out at the bar and discuss interesting topics such as, could Dylan have made it as a pole vaulter. Or what would happen if I walked around all day with a tip jar; not necessarily asking for money but just sitting it down every time I took a break. Would I make any money? Could I make a living? If I sat at a park bench to picnic, I'd set the table. Bread, cheese, cool drink, paper towels, tip jar, bread knife... Or if I was reading a newspaper in a café. Set out the tip jar. Gone swimming? "just stick it in there ladies". Robbing a bank? A quick pass of the hat. Or just absent mindedly walking down the street. You never know how much spare change you might pick up.

When finally the Dylan epic set was over, a mystery person stood on stage and read a poem from a lap top computer. Then we were on and off stage in the time Mr. Dylan took to tune his guitar.
We kept it simple. Any Old Time, Play For Free and Holy Smoke. Sound check was solid. We were on good form. I think we felt good about it. Then me and Charlie left our drink tickets in Donald's capable hands and we went our respective ways.

This was one of those evenings similar to the Co-op gig where we don't really need to stick to any kind of set list. We were really back ground music. The crowd consisted mainly of laptop computer folks, newspaper perusers, and young adults with toddlers. It was interesting how the sight of our kids playing board games drew the other toddler families towards the stage. I guess they decided we were friendly and this added a little youthful boisterousness to the proceedings.

So we rattled through a 2 hour set and quite enjoyed ourselves. We did some practicing and had some jams. There were actually quite a lot of people there but Stuarts is kind of an odd long space and people manage to spread themselves out a good distance.
We put a sign on the tips jar that read, "Obama says please tip the band". If nothing else, it did get people talking. One guy said, "I am going to tip you but not because of Obama. I voted for Sarah Palin". I'd been unaware she'd been running for president. He tipped us a dollar, which though not much, was actually a dollar more than we made at the Chuckanut Brewery. Hooray for Obama.

We'd been pondering for a while about what to write on the tip jar. Anything different from the usual, "please give generously" or "support your local musicians" would suffice. But we weren't feeling too inspired so we just wrote "Tips for band". It probably doesn't matter what's written on it. The results won't vary much. I guess it's all about location, location, location. What we need is a brightly painted boot or as some would say, "A brightly painted boot up your derriere".
Anyway here we were again at the Chuckanut Brewery, playing for drinks and tips. The place was just about deserted except for our family members and a table or two of diners. By the time we'd played 3 songs we were down to just family members. To be honest we hadn't expected anyone to be there anyway. It was a frosty foggy night in January. I think a lot of people had been out on the town yesterday celebrating President Obama's inauguration. Obama has given a lot of people a lot of hope. He seems to inspire the good qualities in people. Time will tell.

So we sat in the corner and had a very relaxed evening. We rattled through song after song for a couple of hours and still had plenty left over.

There is a subtle difference between performing in a restaurant and performing in a bar. The thing about playing in restaurants is that I tend to sit. When I play bars, I always stand. But standing in restaurants, I think it intimidates the diners. They sit down to eat and chat, then suddenly there's some guy in their face. And he's yelling and wanting paid. Probably trying to flog you his crappy CD too. Not very romantic. A little too tense.
I know when I go out to eat; I don't need a band hovering over me. I want to have the choice of tuning it in or ignoring it.

Even though we sat in an unobtrusive alcove, I feel that we gave a really good wee show. We were all on good form and took advantage of the friendly (somewhat distant) crowd to practice some obscurer material like, Neil Young's, Pocahontas and Comes a Time. We allowed some songs to evolve a little and had a few jams. For all the lack of clientele, we had a very positive night. I must admit I am itching to play somewhere with a real crowd again. This collapsed economy business is really keeping people at home. It's a well known fact that musicians need crowds in order to harvest their energy and convert it into live music which is reconverted into an electrical currency by huge wind turbines and controlled tremblings in the earth's tectonic plates. This in turn is melted down by geo thermal slipstreams into sums of hard cash which can be exchanged for a cigar or perhaps a half gallon of petrol. It's symbiotic but time consuming.

At the end of the night we looked in the tip Jar. Empty. I don't even mean a sprinkling of worthless coins. I mean empty. Capital M, capital Tee. A vacant space. Like between my ears. We never expect much anyway. But the familiar story of "Play for free" does get a bit old and tiresome.
Looking at the label on the jar, "Tips for Band", Made me think it should read, "Hints for band... Get a job". That's a bit extreme but I do think a good logo on the jar might read, "Obama Says… Tip The Band.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.

Just like the last time we played there, the place was deserted when I showed up. We hadn't really expected a big turn out anyway. Donald was out back smoking a cigar. Charlie was inside quietly picking away on his guitar. I hadn't even brought my plug in guitar with me. Just the normal acoustic.
The Boss man had said he was just going to close up but decided to wait while we had coffee and beer. So we waited around.

People began to straggle in. A friend of Hil's showed up out of the past with her boyfriend. They bore tidings that some others were on the way. Then some Boundary Bay regulars popped in too and Shana and her friend Jill arrived and some folks I didn't know. All of a sudden it was party time. Out came the guitars and we ended up sitting round a table and playing till about 10 PM.
I think that the staff were surprised that we played and that we weren't complete musical mercenaries. The cooks were happy to have a distraction. In general I get a good vibe from them. It was a very relaxing night. We even got to test drive a couple of new songs. Automatic Pilot, Play for Free, and Verdun.

Afterwards we had a bit of a talk about the demo we've been working on. I don't sense much enthusiasm about it within the band and the project seems to have lost momentum. I think somewhere deep within the mix there lurks some distortion and crackling that is very distracting and too embedded to remove. It would appear we have been flogging a dead horse. The quality isn't so much bad, it's just not great. I'm not getting the warm fuzzy feeling. At this stage I'm thinking we should salvage the recordings as best we can but move on. Let's put it down to a learning experience. But you never know. Hope springs eternal.

Around 10:30 we went to pick up Ronan at Donald and Janice's place. Ronan wasn't too happy to leave. He and William had been watching Star Wars. We strapped him in his seat and then the car refused to start. Donald tried to get it moving but in the end he kindly drove us home and we had to leave the van in his yard overnight.
These last few weeks have been loaded with bad luck. Ronan was in the hospital, then the rats were in the cupboards and then there was the flood. Things are getting a bit too biblical. Maybe it's an omen that a miracle is on the way. Yea right.

Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper. Well breakfast actually.
This was by no means a gig. It was more of an opportunist outing where we used our music as a currency.

I find it hard to believe I managed to crawl out of bed and be in town ready to sing by 9am. Was it all a bad dream?

There seems to be an understanding at the Old Town Cafe, that musicians can come in and perform half hour sets in exchange for a free breakfast. Not a bad deal if you wake up singing with the birds and need an urgent outlet.

So me, Donald, Hil, Ronan, and William all sat down for a tasty breakfast of pancakes and stuff. There was a lively atmosphere in the place considering it was so early. From the other side of the cafe I could hear someone already doing a set. Last time I'd been in a cafe that early, I hadn't been to bed yet from the previous night.

One notable feature of the early morning light is that all the shadows are reversed. They point west instead of east. It's very strange and disorienting. I hope I don't start sdrawkcab gniklaw.

After breakfast, Hil took Ronan and William down to the park to throw a frisbee about while me and Donald played our set. Fun was had by one and all until Ronan accidently skelped Hil on the face with a stick.
This left her somewhat traumatised and with a black eye.

Was this a case of The Road Not Taken or was it a case of, "I should have stayed in bed?" Poor Hil. But on the bright side, we got home and hadn't been burgled.

This was our last live performance of the year so it was nice to wind it up with a good night.

A feel good fifteen minutes. We played Spoonful, Vampire Blues, Henhouse and Annecy. I hadn't really thought on it before but each one of those songs has a unique musical moment. Charlie's Spoonful solo, Donald's Batman solo, a cazumpet solo and singing in French. Our short set kept the audience, if not exactly enthralled, at least propped up and facing the right way. I guess it's what you'd call an "Elevator Pitch"

Beforehand, I was chatting with some musicians outside the Buffalo. One guy turns to me and says, "Hey I know you. You're the guy with the washtub".
It's a sad state of affairs when I'm better known for my wash tub playing than my guitar playing.

We hadn't really been looking forward to this gig much but in the end there was a lot of positive vibes from the punters and staff. As usual though there was no time to hang about to enjoy the rest of the great music. In fact we went on around 9:15 and I was back home by 10:30.

The Wild Buffalo is the only bar I know that serves coffee in a tea bag format. I can safely say that it's reasonably disgusting. Dishwater (spulwasser) flavour. The waitresses are very apologetic when they serve it and I too was very sorry when I drank it.

Happy new year when it comes.

……….

The Green Frog is, in a word, "Basic". If you've ever drank in the darkness of the Schwabinger Seoben in Munchen, then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. Though, in actual fact the Green Frog has some added attractions: A peanut shell carpet, picnic tables, and a pack of dogs. It's a long room with a spittoon on the stage. (Or was that the women's toilets?) Guitars and banjo shaped implements hung from hooks along one wall and are at the disposal to anyone brave enough to tune them.
I'd played in there a few times before. Once with my brother Joe and once with Derek Duffy's band, Finnegan's Wake on Paddy's Night. This was the first time though that the Muddy Boots and myself were on the spittoon stage together.

I'd rewritten our set list several times earlier in the day. I just wasn't sure how to approach this gig. Then when Tree cancelled, I had to write it again. In the end it was a makeshift set of songs.
I also had a bit of a cold. My nose was so blocked that after the gig someone asked me if we were called, "The Buddy Boots?" I guess that was how I'd introduced the band. "James Higgins and Da Buddy Boots."

Perhaps it was just me, but I sensed that a nervousness had crept on stage with us. It felt that we weren't really tuned into one another. The focus and concentration weren't there. Possibly the cramped stage was partially to blame. Eye contact wasn't easy because Donald had to stand behind me in a black alcove. It could have been that we felt we were auditioning for a regular gig. Why ever it was, it took us a long time to relax.

Even though Hil came up at the end and told us it sounded great, we really knew that we hadn't impressed ourselves. Having said that though, this was probably a far better gig than we were capable of a mere 6 months ago.

So I guess there was a positive side to the evening. It was nice to see Ronan's teachers, Steve and Kathy in the assembly. They were kind enough to buy some CDs.
Also we got to play, Driving Down Chuckanut, for the first time live.

Looking back on the gig, I'd say most of our mistakes were in the intros and endings. Forgivable details, but it does highlight the fact that we haven't been practicing enough lately and are losing a little of our sharpness.
In the end, it was still a heap of fun. Mistakes and all. We shouldn't lose sight of that.

As for pay?......... Peanuts.

Riveting stuff.

Rivet. Rivet.

Christmas Fairs Gigs

As I write, Christmas is now over and so are the gigs at the Bellingham art fairs. Looking back, I'd say they were a lot of fun and great practice opportunities to run some unfamiliar songs by some unsuspecting ears. I enjoyed playing with the 3Ds and with The Donalds and their upstairs neighbour.
Of all the years I've played at the Allied Arts Fair, it's never been particularly exciting but I'd say that this year was the most subdued. Almost hushed. Whispery. People rarely sat down to listen. Tips which were never great anyway, were almost zero. Perhaps it's a sign of these troubled economic times or it may have been the snow that blew in from the Arctic in mid December and gave us an icy white Christmas. Maybe we were all just crap.

Sunday the 30th of November. Allied Arts.

I brought the tub down and joined in with the 3Ds. There were actually 5 of us. Dale, Donald, Janice, me, and a bouron player named Chris. (I think).
We played about an hour and I just joined in when I felt comfy. The music was sort of bluegrassy, Irishy folk music. Very pleasant to the ear. Not many vocals, mainly instrumental.

………………………

Saturday the 6th of December.

Played the Allied arts festival with Donald. (Charlie had the plague) The place was a little busier than last time. We played a very folksy and laid back hour. Good Practice.

After our set, Dale showed up with his mandolin and banjo. Janice had her flute. Her daughter, Janice Junior had her violin. I joined in with the wash tub bass and did the best I could. Mainly it was bluegrass and Irish instrumentals. One song in particular that I enjoyed was called, "The Red Haired Boy". Very catchy. My Mother always said that I used to have red hair as a kid till I started washing it on my own. Now I have dark hair.

Anyway from the the Allied Arts place, Donald and I headed off for a quick set at the Pacific Arts Festival just down the road. It was almost closing time but we managed to get in a half hour practice then it was time to call it a day. We'd started playing at 3pm and finished at 6pm. We thought about going to the Uisce Irish pub to see if Dave and Molly might let us play a few songs, but I was too brain dead.

……………………

Friday 12th December.

I turned up at the Allied Arts Fair with my wash tub. Donald and his upstairs neighbour were playing bluegrass and Irish tunes. Dale had been scheduled to play but had gone away somewhere.
We played for an hour or so, and then me and Donald went down to Stuarts Café to cheer on Charlie at his wee gig.

………………………

Saturday 13th December.

Donald on the bass and me on guitar. We sat in the corner and doodled some tunes and chatted with Beth while practicing a bunch of obscurities. I played a song called "Crooked Man", that I wrote way back on the Isle of Skye over 20 years ago. It just popped into my mind.

……………………

Sat 20th

A Day in the Life of a Band

Quite a day. It was freezing. And I don't just mean chilly for June. It was icy stinging cold with a wind that made me groan and set children to tears.

The actual gig at the Allied Arts was uneventful. Donald played bass and I sang and played my guitar. Leslie and Robin from Mocking Bird were browsing around and we had an impromptu sing song. The overall gig was a very casual performance. In fact I even played, Epouventaill and a piece of September in our Hands. That's 2 songs I don't think I've ever played before. In fact we also threw in a version of Jack Johnson's song "Friends" and Little Drummer Boy. The gig at the Pacific Arts was rather anticlimactic even by our subdued scale. They tucked us away in the basement where we sang by a rather sad and economically depressed Christmas tree. The vendors and the little kids seemed to enjoy our little distraction though and one sympathetic guy even bought a CD.
We finished that gig off singing Santa is a Hippy to the tune of Coming Round the Mountain. It was that exciting. But what else would we be doing on a winter afternoon.

But the events of the day outwith the gigs were the real comedy.
I was chopping wood and clearing snow from the path within a few minutes of waking up. Then Hil, Ronan and I set off for the gig. On the way we planned to shop while the van got new tires. Well the shops were insane and the tyre place had a five hour waiting list. Poor wee Ronan was frozen and started to cry. We decided to skip the shopping and return to the tyre place later. Hil was reluctant to drive the car any further in the snow but finally we had no choice but to do so. That took a lot of tricky stunt driving but Hil managed to drop me on State Street and I walked over to Cornwall Ave while she and Ronan rightly headed home to the stove.
Meanwhile Charlie was back out at Gooseberry Point drowning as he attempted to repair a neighbour's shower. A flood ensued and plumbers were called. It had all started so innocently with the simple unscrewing of a shower piece which suddenly resulted in Charlie taking a high pressure hose down. Needless to say Charlie wasn't at the gig. For all I know he may still be out there, swimming against the current. Folks out there may be experiencing an extra high tide at the ferry crossing for the next few days
.
So after the gig at the pacific Arts which was fairly anonymous and completely void of tips or pay, (We have a lot more sound checks than pay checks) we packed up the dollar van but it refused to start. Jumper cables produced no heart beat. It was dead. It may have been frostbite but there was no time for an autopsy. Janice and William bravely shuffled off to fetch her car from home. When she returned, we transferred everything to her car and they kindly drove me home just as the snow started again.
I got back just as Hil had to leave for her tyre appointment. I took over Ronan duty. She was back after five minutes because the VW bus had gotten stuck in the driveway.
Not a very positive day but I know we'll laugh about it soon enough.

There was one highlight in the day.
Just as we were packing our stuff up at the Pacific Arts, Jason (ex drummer with the Boots and still occasional jam alonger) came down the stairs. He had his 3 week old little baby Eva snuggled up cozy inside his jacket. Unfortunately we were all carrying too many flu germs to get too close a peek at his little Darling but she seemed a content little baby with a very proud beaming father. Congratulations.

And so ended my Allied and Pacific Arts adventure for this year.
Merry Christmas.

With close to a foot of snow blanketing Bellingham and with our van buried in the yard, we took the local bus into town for this gig. Hil and Ronan then went shopping while I met the lads to set up our gear.

There was plenty that could go wrong with this gig. Firstly the volume issue. Last time we were repeatedly told to turn it down. Secondly, I was fighting a nasty cough and wasn't sure if I would be able to make it through the evening. Lastly, a new drummer (Named Chuck) was sitting in for Tree. He'd never played with us before, so neither he nor we had any idea what to expect. Due to the noise restriction, he only brought along a bare percussive skeleton drum kit, supplemented with a cowbell, a symbol, and a washboard. He proved to be an excellent drummer and certainly had the lightest touch of any drummer I've ever played with. But still it was too loud for the tender ears of the powers that be. In the end we were so "unplugged" that my microphone was really only for show. I actually had to strain to hear the drums at times. It's not often that we have to do that. I think I sing too loud. It must be all those years spent busking where the rule of thumb is, "If you can't be good, be loud". Old habits die hard.

If some mythical amps can have a volume setting of 11 instead of the standard 10, then for the Swan Cafe gig we needed an amp that could go down to minus one.

Musically, I managed to keep the vocals together (Well, as much as ever anyway). Charlie and Donald were as solid as ever, and Chuck just blended in nicely. In the end, time flew by and we had a great evening. We even got paid… and we each got a food voucher. We're living the dream.

Best of all though was Chana's food gift to the band families. She'd cooked up a couple of spaghetti sauces and had put them in jars in a basket along with all the trimmings including a fresh baguette. Wow! That's dinner sorted out for the next week.

This was actually Charlie's gig but he'd been ill all week and was still fighting it. So after he'd played a half an hour he sent out a croaky distress call to the audience. Me and Donald went to the rescue. We'd been playing over at the Allied Arts Festival and had our implements with us. Between us we brought a guitar, a mandolin and the washtub bass. I'm not sure if we improved on what Charlie had been doing on his own but it helped him make it through the evening. To be honest I couldn't really tell that he was suffering up there. He sounded in good voice to me as he sang his way through a fine collection of 60's folk songs.

This was the second time in a matter of months that Charlie had emerged from solo show hibernation. For the previous thirty years he'd taken a vow of silence concerning such gigs. Now with two gigs in quick succession, he was practically on tour. You can't keep a good man down.

The whole show lasted about two hours. It started with Charlie on his own, then we joined him with washtub bass and mandolin, and ended with us all playing unplugged, with two guitars and mandolin. It was a pleasant evening. Low key and mellow, and as ever, a lot of fun.

And just like three wise men rolled into one, Charlie came bearing gifts. He'd brought along copies of the latest demo mix, some chocolate chip cookies from Chana, and some Obama bumper stickers. As if that wasn't enough, he chivalrously shared his gig money with us and for a dazzling encore, he gave me a lift home. Well done Charlie. Now I just hope he hasn't shared his influenza as generously.

The Swan Café.

This café is actually inside the Co-op supermarket. I'd never gigged inside a supermarket before. I've busked outside a million of them but never officially got a gig inside one.
As it happens, it was a very pleasant experience, though the managers were right on top of us, telling us to turn it down each time we got over excited. I guess they're just doing their jobs. Personally I have no overpowering urge to be loud. I am content in the corner jamming with some friends. But somehow people often associate music with noise. When a supermarket manager is doing your sound check then all is not well. Lucky for all concerned, we didn't bring along the drum kit. Everything was resolved amicably and the show went on.
We played for about two hours from about 4pm till 6pm. It was a mellow affair with shoppers drifting in and out for coffees and snacks. There was no sense of people's mentalities changing like they do in bars as the night wears on. People were friendly and relaxed. There was no need to play the songs in any particular order. This was probably the folksiest gig we'd ever played.
I guess the indigenous tribes of the co-op are semi hippy, peace loving clans. They're an all age alternative, hemp clad, vegan, pagan, liberal anarchist movement of fashionably homeless, drop out students and snowboarders.
Did I miss anything?
An interesting crowd to play for. In fact most likely they are the perfect listeners for our kind of music.

At the moment we try to play 50% my music and 50% other stuff. The "Other Stuff", is made up of a bunch of old blues, some JJ Cale, Dylan, Neil Young, and odds and ends.
I find it very strange how few Neil young songs I perform live these days. As a busker I had hours worth of his material on call. I learned his stuff by the album almost without trying. There was something about his music and lyrics that just stuck in my head. I've no idea why.
I think I gave up on singing Neil Young songs because as my voice morphed over the years, it became harder and harder to reach the squeaky notes. So for now I only play a couple and those on rare public occasions. I do still enjoy playing his stuff at home. I am naturally drawn to songs in D minor style open tunings. They are very addictive. Perhaps D is the key of the world.
Anyway the Co-op gig was fine. I hope the next one's as enjoyable.
I must say it's the first time that I spent 2 hours in a supermarket and didn't buy anything.

Wild Buffalo
The Ghost of Robert Plant.

Before I came to the States, I quite enjoyed Led Zeppelin. I liked a lot of their stuff. Remember, "In the Evening", with its classic solo that sounded like Jimmy Page had tripped over a cable and fallen off stage. Then of course there was the legendary Led Zep 4 album which was a work of rock art. They made a lot of fine music. It's hard to imagine a rock fan could tire of such an opus.
But after a year in the states listening to the classic rock radio stations, I began to suspect that Led Zeppelin owned the airwaves. Robert Plant's voice seemed to broadcast continually. Perhaps I was imagining it, but there were moments when I'd turn on the morning radio and Robert Plant was already up and halfway through Whole Lotta Love. If he wasn't there, you could bet your Bronyar Stomp he soon would be. I once timed the longest period of hours that were Plant free. Forty five minutes was the limit. There was also a request show where listeners could call up and ask for any rock song under the sun. The DJ would announce, "We have Andy Arbuckle on the line from Arkansas. Hi Andy. What song would you like to hear?"
"Could you play The Battle of Evermore by Zeppelin?"
"Great choice Andy. Have a nice day".
And so gradually Led Zep began to annoy me so much that I'd jump at the radio and turn it off if zeppelin were even mentioned. The same treatment went to the television too, where he also popped up all the time. I'm not much of a TV person. Late at night I'll sometimes watch for an hour before bed. Sure enough there I was catching the tail end of Craig Ferguson and it's, "Ladies and gentleman now a real rock star….. Mr. Robert Pla…". I was moving across that room like a goalkeeper from an ejector seat, diving full length and saving a certain goal. My finger hit the off button and the "n,t," in Plant was diverted round the post as the ref blew full time on TV land.
This really was a shame for my zeppelin relationship to end that way. To this day I am still scarred and I ask myself, if there exists a Robert Plant vocal recording that doesn't descend into a screaming, "Baby, baby, yeah yeah ooh ooh, aaaaaaaaaaaaaah, .aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah" grande finale.
Well at least he's out there doing it.

But I digress.

I believe I've mentioned before that the acts that perform at the monthly BIMA showcase are getting bigger each time.
On this November evening, a 14 year old singer/guitarist named Ely got up on stage and blew the house down. His band comprised of a bassist who may have been his father and a drummer who may have been very good. Ely had a powerful, angelically reverbed set of A.O.R. lungs. The band thundered through their short set, culminating in a note perfect rendition of….. Led Zeppelin's, Stairway to Heaven. The crowd stood and clapped and cheered. There was screaming and fainting and wetting of underpants. Even I couldn't help smiling despite my aversion to Zeppelin. I have to say that the band was indeed excellent and most certainly a tough act to follow.

When the crowd calmed back down, the host called out for the next act. But the expected musician on the roster had fled the premises in fright. The host surveyed the crowd, then shrugged and looked at his list. "….Next up…..James Higgins and The Muddy Boots…."
Now I felt like fleeing the building. Oh for a buffer act between us and The Ely band. Even a humble ventriloquist act to absorb the punches and ease the audience down from their Ely euphoria would have sufficed. But it was not to be. The last musician had sensibly defected and was probably still running. And so, as we climbed up onto the stage, I was reminded of another Led Zeppelin song, "Gallows Pole".

Anyway, we did a 30 second sound check and played Enjara, Annecy, Girl in a Redwood, and by popular demand or else another musician had just slit his wrists, we played one more (Bootlegger Blues).

As we came off, I saw Charlie and Donald (No Justin with drums tonight) gesturing in bewilderment with one another. Apparently they'd been all over the place and hadn't been able to hear where they were in each song. They'd just fumbled along as best they could. Dazed and Confused as it were. I had been aware of a murkiness in the mix but didn't realize how chronic the sound check had been. I should have guessed it when I saw Beth turn off her video camera half way through our set. In my misguided delusion I'd thought we'd played alright. Alas no chance.

Then I saw Hil stepping purposefully through the crowd in our direction. She stopped beside us, gazed at the floor, and shook her head. "That was awful", she pronounced.
Yikes. Or as Clark Kent would say, "Golly". Or as Robert Plant would have said, "Aaaaaagh baby baby. Ooooooh."
Anyway it seems we'd played crap, though Hil relented a little when the beer wore off, but not much. Still, I'd rather have a critic than a groupie for a wife.
She was probably right. Maybe we shouldn't have chosen that night to practice a new batch of material but I really was getting bored singing the Hens in the Henhouse every month.
I think mostly, Hil was disappointed. Apparently somewhere along the way, we'd accidentally set a high standard. This night though, I think we simply paled in the wake of a brighter star.
"Rock n Roll."

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band.
Election Eve.

Rode my bike into town tonight. Got to the boundary bay, stepped off and stood on a dog shit. "Well", I thought, "Things can only get better from here".

For me, this was probably the best gig we ever played at the Boundary Bay. Beforehand I wrote out a set list and really put some thought into it. Then just to be different, we actually followed it song for song. We played an hour and 15 minutes before taking a break. Between songs, we hardly paused for chit chat. We just cruised on through. I had been curious as to just how long we could play before we had used up the best stuff with no fillers. I think we did respectably well.
Lots of friendly faces filled the bar. Pat was there from the Rustix. Long time no see. He came in with the La Fiama Pizza crowd. Jordan from Brookstock dropped in and gave me 2 CDs worth of our set at the Brookstock Festival. He'd kindly mixed it down for us. Ralph, Beate and Sebastian made up the German Stammtisch, Hil's bike friends were there, our immediate families, and a few other regulars. It all created a cozy intimate atmosphere.

Our second set was only a half hour or so of left over material. All good stuff right enough. You could call it a self appointed encore. We gor rockier as the room emptied but the gig had essentially been over at the break. By then we'd said what we had to say.

Funniest moment of the night must have been when, me, a Scotsman, who can barely be understood in English by Americans, suddenly started singing French with a Glasgow accent. Quite a sight. After that extravaganza, I turned to Charlie and said, "I think we need a universal translator". He looked at me and said "What"?

Most fun songs of the evening? I'd say, "Factory Girl", "Annecy", and "Spoonful".

Well it looks like that will be the last gig at the Boundary Bay for a while. Maybe if Obama gets elected as President, he'll get the economy back on track. Forget Joe the plumber and his agent, what about James the musician and the Muddy Boots?

James and the Boots

Wake

A friend of Gus had a fatal motorcycle crash last week out on the Mount Baker Highway.
The service was held at the River of Life Church but the wake was held at the Little Roadside Tavern. We were the band. Yes, the band, and we really had some reservations on how to tackle such a responsibility. It didn't help that I had no idea who the dead person was. I can only hope we did his memory justice.

The place was fairly busy but the atmosphere was a little subdued. I suspect people were putting a brave face on what was naturally not the happiest day on the calendar. Folks played pool and hung out, drinking beer, and eating sloppy Joe burgers. Voices were low and murmuring, rather than the normal boisterousness that I associate with the Tavern. I must admit that I felt a little out of context. I constantly reminded myself that this was not a Funeral. This was a Wake. Funerals are sad. Wakes are celebrations of the life of the deceased. But still, I wasn't sure how jolly I was allowed to be. I couldn't look too sad but I couldn't look too blissful. I had to respect the dead, entertain the living and not be too cheesy. In the end, we just did our usual set and between songs, I just kept my mouth shut.
In all honesty this was understandably a thinly disguised evening of mourning.

Looking back on the night from a strictly musical point of view, I guess that we actually played quite well without really investing too much energy. Maybe we're getting the hang of this biz. Still, you're only as good as your last gig.

Hopefully, the next time we are out at Nugent's Corner, the occasion will be less tragic. My sympathy goes out to the family of the deceased.

Wild Buffalo
Songsalive BIMA Showcase.

As always, a great evening down at the Wild buffalo Showcase. I believe there were 16 acts. That's a lot of music for free. I can't remember everybody's name. There was a Bob Dylan impersonator. He sang some really slow versions of very long Dylan songs. Half way through his rendition of Tangled up in Blue, I went for a walk up Holly Street. I stopped by the Three Trees Café then I meandered around the down town area and back to the Buffalo. The Dylan guy, who was actually quite good, was still singing the same song.
Next up came a couple of fine acoustic players, and then I helped out the Three D's with my wash tub bass. They were mourning the recent loss of Diana. A lot of her friends had turned up. In a way it was kind of like another wake. The second this week. I was only fortunate to have met her once. Everyone said she was the most selfless person they ever met. She lived to give.

Later around 9PM, me, Donald and Charlie got on stage and played, Enjara, Broadway, and of course, The Hens in the Henhouse.

Stone Soup got up after us. They seem to have changed their name to something bizarre and not easily remembered. But the music was still a nice blend of folksy swing.
I can't recall who else went up after that. It's always such a sociable night. I just hung out at the bar and spoke to anyone who stopped by for a chat. I guess I'm still a bar fly at heart.
There was a guy on stage just as I was leaving who had a guitar and an intricate looking set of home made foot drums. He was playing slide blues and playing a beat at the same time. He was quite good. I was packing up my washtub bass to leave when I twanged a note. I was surprised how much it resonated in the room. The guy looked down from the stage and gave me a nod to keep going. So I just kept twanging that washing line string till the end of the song. I guess it was some kind of spontaneous organic blues thing. Sure was fun. Then it was time to go.

An ordinary gig. What can I say? We enjoyed it. So far these Monday nights have followed a pattern. Busy for the first hour then quiet for the second.
There were a lot of good moments during the gig but for some reason I didn't feel too chatty. The gig didn't quite "flow". Still, Spoonful was good, Enjara was lively, Little Red Rooster was fun, and Annecy is becoming the new Hens in the Henhouse.
The last half hour really gave us a chance to test drive some new material and revisit older stuff. "Factory Girl" was given a good stomp right at the end. Charlie's backing vocals really add life to it. Donald was solid as ever, and Tree, despite rarely actually practicing with us, is definitely developing a raport with the songs.
We'll all do fine as long as we avoid wearing sunglasses.

Little Roadside Tavern
Oct 25

Never a dull moment out at the Little Roadside tavern.
Not much of a crowd present but they are always friendly and generous.
We usually have a good time out there and always feel welcome.

I am though, becoming convinced that there is a Nugent's Corner dialect. Sometimes people are talking to me and I find that I generally understand the words but not the meaning. What exactly is a "Skinny midget?" What is, "Scrubbing bones?" I dread to think about it too much. Are they related?
Imagine, me, a Scotsman with a thick guttural Glasgow accent, complaining about American dialects. What is the world coming to? People here, claim to only understand me when I sing.
Maybe we should all sing!

I promised myself that I wouldn't write about every Boundary Bay gig as I think it would get tedious and repetitive, but I thought that this one deserved a mention.
Mainly because it was just a great little evening: a very relaxed atmosphere with an appreciative audience.
Loads of friends came by and most stayed the whole night. Hil and Janice were there. Hil's bike friends were there too. Kim and Ben from Brookstock showed up. Liz Film-maker and her Montana husband were there. A lady from Charlie's work was there with her boyfriend. Ashley, a long time friend of the Boots was there briefly. Kyle was at the bar enjoying his after work beer. Definitely a home crowd. So many familiar and friendly faces put us in high spirits and we really reaped a stack of positive energy from them.
This was probably our most fun evening at the Bay since we began our regular Mondays. The one thing that audiences seem to consistently pick up on, is that the band is really having fun. (Which we usually are). I'm glad that comes across. I guess that's what it's all about. It can be too easy to forget sometimes.

I felt that this was a good solid gig. At the end, thanks to our patient and understanding crowd, we treated ourselves to the luxury of some live practicing. We ran through, Factory Girl, You Ain't Going Nowhere, and Tears Tears Tears (A song I'd worked out off the radio a few hours earlier). There's nowhere like on stage for learning quickly.
So I guess this is really a big thank you to all those folks who dropped in and gave us their moral support.
And happy birthday Donald.

A Wee Bit of Busking.


T'was a mild and sunny October afternoon.
I took the washtub down the market again and tubbed away on some old bluegrass tunes with the 3 Ds (Donald, Dale and Diane). Janice was there too, playing the flute and singing. I had no idea she was so musical. But I should have guessed it. Is there anyone in Donald's clan that doesn't play an instrument?
It's a pleasant change for me to be busking but not be singing. I was there about an hour and had a great wee time.
All profits of course go to local charity, the Bellingham Food Bank.

It was such a beautiful day to be out. Full of golden autumn colours and just enough heat in the sun to call it mild. It reminded me of Rik back in Regensburg living upstairs from the Irish Harp pub with about a half dozen other penniless buskers in a 2 room apartment. He woke up on a fine autumn day and looked out his window. He declared aloud that it was such an exceptional morning that he didn't know whether to get his camera out and go take photos or go busking. At which point a Cork accent from the other room says. "Oh sure boy, that's a great idea. And why don't you photograph a hundred deutschmark note while you're at it and give it to Paul (Landlord) for the rent. Jaizus we might even get change". Rik shuffled off to busk.

Deserted. That's the only word I can use to describe this venue. It was so empty that after we played one set, they put the chairs up and hung out the "closed" sign.
Still, the kitchen staff seemed to enjoy it. That's always a good sign. (And we got paid).
The acoustics were good too. Tree kept his drums under control and thanks to Donalds tiny wee PA system, we were loud but not overpowering. I had pre-gig fears that we'd blow the place apart, but in fact we were quite mellow.
I believe hope remains for this gig. Had it been busy, I think we'd have gone over well. Outside, I saw they had a beer garden. In summer this might be a serious alternative to the Boundary Bay.

Regular Gig 2 at Boundary Bay.
Monday 13th Oct.
This gig was almost a carbon copy of the last gig we played there except that pianist Paul Klein sat in for the first song and then helped out with the sound check. Which was very neighbourly of him. He tweaked the sound in a quietly clinical systematic fashion which reminded me of someone casually culling a herd of Red Deer. He trimmed off the excess noise and thinned it into a manageable racket. It's a dirty job but someone has to do it. "Down with the drums", he said firmly but apologetically. So out went the drumsticks. Down went the volume on the acoustic guitar. "Hug the mic. Turn up the bass etc".
Somehow it all took shape and everyone agreed it sounded fine. Thanks Paul.

As I said, the gig itself followed a similar path as last time: fairly busy but emptying out early. Happily, a lot of friendly faces stuck around till the end. Paddy and Emmelance were still in town visiting. They came down to lend some moral support. That was nice.
A strange thing though, was that we played while the big sliding garage doors were wide open to the street. We'd never done that before. I guess it makes for a faster getaway if the crowd get nasty. Across the car park there was a large crowd of people who were doing a full scale choreographed dance routine. It looked like, Michael Jackson's "Thriller". I guess they were rehearsing for Halloween.

All in all, I think we played a solid gig again. A few scattered misdemeanors reared their heads but on the whole, we were still tight. I find it hard to believe sometimes that we only got together a few months back.

Best song of the night for me personally?…. I must confess, I actually kind of enjoyed "Traveling Bag". Best Audience song?...... I think it was "Annecy".There was a couple swinging along to it outside on the sidewalk. I guess it's catchy and it's got that singalong bit even though I fumbled up the words as usual. Once I learn it better, I'll no doubt enjoy it more.

Charlie mentioned that he'd done five of the lead tracks on our CD project. We might almost have a demo on our hands though I'm sure I need to redo my vocals.

Oct 11th 2008
Busking down at the Farmer's Market.

I got the old wash tub bass out and headed down the Farmer's Market on Saturday morning. Donald busks down there a lot with a friend called Dale. Donald played his guitar while Dale played his mandolin. I helped out with the wash tub bass and twanged away.
I only played about fifteen minutes but The 2 D's must have played a lot longer.
All profits went to local charity, the Bellingham Food Bank.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots
Boundary Bay October 6th 2008

It was nice to see a lot of friendly faces in the Boundary Bay for this gig. Sadly though, being a Monday evening, so many had to leave early. Band member families were present. Chris and Bob also showed up. I hadn't seen them in ages. Two of Ronan's teachers showed up too. Kyle appeared near the end of the night. He'd been working downstairs in the prep kitchen and having finished his shift came up to prop up the bar and lend an ear.
During the first set, the bar was busy and there was a nice buzz in the place. Seems the Red Sox won something tonight and this jovialised the folks around the TV set at the bar.
Tree did a great sound check which is always inspiring. Charlie and Donald were on fine form. I think we played a solid energized first hour but when we took a break, people began to filter out. By the start of the second set, there were only a few scattered survivors left. Our energy level dropped proportionally with every person who left the room. By the end we were playing a tired version of Orgon Accumulator more for time wasting than for fun. Which isn't really our style. But then as if to redeem ourselves, we played, what felt to me, like a nice version of Can't Keep Me. Thus we gave it all a happy ending. I can see that future gigs in the Bay are going to require a plan B exit strategy, depending on the house mood.

I think we actually played very well this night. Mistakes seemed few and small scale. We didn't have any long lingering gaps between songs. Truth be told, I quite enjoyed the whole evening. There were a lot of highlights. "Please Don't Go" was great. "Wang Dang Doodle" still makes me laugh. "Broadway" felt the most comfortable we ever played it. I enjoyed "Any Old Time" and "Spoonful". "Blowing Down the River" worked too. Sometimes that song can die a death for no real reason at all. But tonight was a tight and lively version. I don't think we even played the whole set list. The Annecy song, Who'll Rock That Cradle, and the Thylacine song were completely forgotten. A few others too. Tonight would have been a perfect evening to air them out and give them a test drive.

Bottom line….. Good gig, no crowd.
Solution?..... Make Tuesdays a holiday.

Muddy Boots at Jim and Sally's Wedding Celebration.

At The Honeymoon

Congratulations Jim and Sally. A great day, great people, great food. Sally, you were the Belle of the Ball. Jim, you were a perfect host. Thanks for the privilege of playing at your wedding. Your parents were amazing. More than 60 years together and still dancing.
Well any gig that starts off with a cazumpet solo of Here Come the Clowns and ends with the words, "Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub", has got to have been interesting in between. And indeed it was.
This was just such an enjoyable night. Everyone was all dressed up and in a festive mood. Even I wore a shirt. (Gasp). There were a lot of sharp dressed musicians walking about apologetically saying, "Honest, I don't normally look like this." There goes our street credibility.

The Honeymoon is a quaint one room wine bar with a high ceiling that makes for great musical acoustics. I'd never been in there before but my first impression was that it had a warm welcoming atmosphere. Perhaps that was due to the staff or maybe it was the friendly familiar faces of the clientele.

We'd left the drums behind and we were more or less unplugged which is my favourite kind of sound check. Donald had his bass plugged into his wee amp while me and Charlie had our acoustic guitars. First we played an easy going half hour set, then, after a pause for a delicious dinner, Charlie had to leave. I guess it really had been a hard day and we were just happy he showed up at all. Thus, The Muddy Boots, depleted and wounded as they were, carried on. Luckily there were plenty of musicians ready to volunteer at short notice. Mark sat in with his harmonicas and we played some real fun stuff including La Ville D'Annecy and some apparently danceable blues. Beate got her guitar out later and she played a lovely version of What a Wonderful World and then we all played everyone's favourite jam along song, Knocking on Heavens Door. Jim took time out from hosting and got his classical guitar out while John (of Burning Ballerina fame) sat in too with his electric guitar and it was all a big happy family till suddenly it was "Rub a dub dub" and time to go home.

It was a long day gigging for the muddy Boots Band but a great party in the end.
I guess I've never critiqued a wedding before! Thanks to everyone for tipping in the jar.
Congratulations again Jim and Sally.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots

Mount Baker Hill Climb Event in Glacier.

Well I can't speak for Charlie, Donald, and Tree but this was my first ever gig on an active volcano. Active? Well, not really. More of a casual smoker.

The little hamlet of Glacier is the last community on the Mount Baker highway. There's a grocery store, some restaurants and maybe some other little businesses scattered about.
Fate had granted us a perfect September morning for the event and we were all up super early to get out to the mountain. Hil was taking part in the 48-mile round trip bike climb up Mt. Baker. She had organized this gig for us. The idea, I assumed, was to entertain all those hundreds of enthusiastic cyclists on their triumphant return from the summit.
We set up our gear around ten o clock in a picnic area behind the grocery store. The stage backdrop was an old railway caboose. The backdrop to that were the spectacular Cascade Mountains. Unfortunately the place was deserted when we were ready to play. Most of the riders were still on the mountain. There were only a few people milling around idly or setting up some stalls with refreshments for the returning riders. Not even the event planner was around. We had to ask folks in the grocery store if there was an electricity outlet anywhere. When we'd set up we didn't even know for sure if this was the right place. We played anyway. Finally around 1.p.m. a few cyclists had trickled in. Most of them went straight to the stall that was giving out their free goodie bags. Very soon a huge queue had formed there. It curved all the way around the perimeter of the area. No one had the slightest interest in music. They certainly weren't going to get down and boogie after a fifty mile road trip up and down Mt. Baker. I don't blame them. Still it felt very odd to be finishing off our gig just as the crowd of about 700 people rolled in. I guess it must have been tougher for the guy who was hired to play steel drums at 7 in the morning. He had to watch his entire audience disappear up the mountain and leave him all alone.
By two o clock I was red as a tomato from the midday sun and ready to call it a day. Musically we played fine but with no real enthusiasm. Some shade may have helped. The sun had sapped us dry for 3 merciless hours.
When Hil came down the mountain, she hardly looked tired at all. I guess all her training paid off. In fact she looked fresher than me. She caught the end of our gig and complimented Tree's sound check. When we finally finished up, we had a huge crowd all sitting looking expectantly at the stage. We felt guilty packing up. Perhaps though, they were just waiting for the presentation ceremony and the giving out of awards and prizes.

For us, this was yet another unadvertised and badly timed show. We must be the most anonymous band in town, yet it feels that we're out there playing all the time. There were seven hundred people out in Glacier who just missed our performance. That would have been a lot of much needed free publicity. As a busker, I should have known better: "never busk at lunch time".

On the way home, I rode with Charlie and we took a nostalgic detour onto an old property near Mosquito Lake Road that he and Chana had once owned. It had become completely overgrown but some of the buildings still remained. There was a small green cabin about the size of a caravan. Further up the hill, drowning in foliage, was a sort of yurt, artfully constructed of bottles and firewood cemented together. There was also an unfinished three sided house built of car tyres. It was roofless and frontless. The front would have been a greenhouse, all glass to allow maximum sunlight. It was built into the hillside in the classic style of a Tolkien hobbit dwelling. (Or maybe a Womble). It would have made a fine home. I got quite a tour down Charlie's memory lane. We took some pictures and drove back to the highway.

Incidentally Hil's time up to Artist Point was 2 hours and 40 minutes. Which I imagine was quite respectable. She finished in mid pack. The fastest woman clocked in at 1 hour 26 minutes. The fastest men's time was 1 hour 16 mins.

James and the Muddy Boots at the Brookstock Festival.

To get straight to the point, this was a great evening. A great crowd of people, great food, great location and a great big bathtub full of beer.

This was a cosy little festival that took place at Ben and Kim's place near Ferndale. They have a couple of acres out in the sticks. There's chickens and sheep and a big Pyrenean Mountain Dog named Marley. Lot's of people had set up camp in a field at the back and there were plenty of folks jamming all afternoon. The "official" music took place in the horseshoe shaped courtyard of their cottage.

There were about a half dozen musical acts split evenly between afternoon entertainment and evening entertainment. I just caught the very tail end of the afternoon sessions, but what I heard, sounded pleasant and relaxing.

Me and the Boots kicked off the evening's music around 7:30 and it didn't take long till everyone was up boogying on down. There was plenty of positive energy coming off the crowd to inspire us to greater things and possibly power a small car. Obviously they'd been fueling up all afternoon. We played for about an hour and a half and quit while we were winning. Charlie was on fine guitar solo form which was just as well, as we tossed plenty of solos at him. We cruised through our set with a minimum of chit-chat or gaps between songs and kept everyone happily dancing as the sun went down.

There was a half hour attack of mosquitoes at dusk, but a kind lady came on stage and sprayed us all with bug repellant. This did seem to help. There was also a bat that flew out from the eaves but he didn't help much. He just flew off.

We'd reshuffled our set around a bit for this gig, inserting some of our late night material into the mix a little earlier and alternated in and out between our spookier grooves and our cheekier beats.
Again, my personal favourite song of the night was Orgone Accumulator. I just love that riff. We must have played it for 15 minutes and I didn't feel guilty about it at all. I could have played it for another fifteen. We actually met a man who had an Orgone Accumulator. Nick was his name. He was a Yorkshire man who explained that it was a healing device that used natural inner magnetics to cure aching muscles. It involved 3 empty tin cans, one inside the other and each wraped in cotton. I think you were supposed to put your hand in it and this soothed the pain away. Apparantly when people started building giant industrial sized ones in their back yards, they were declared illegal for obscure medical reasons. I think the audience may have been puffing from a few converted orgone accumulators because they were certainly very energized.

Mud seemed to have been the theme of the music this year. Mark "The Mudman" Flanders and his band played after us. Local artist Michael Costello was their frontman and they put on a great show, playing a bunch of Mark's original material. I think they called themselves, The Special Guests. Evidently politics and art can mix.
Rounding off the night came Savage Henry. They played some form of wild progressive rock with minimum vocal interference. It switched from rhythm to rhythm, riff to riff, pace to pace, melody to melody. Each piece seemed to be in small sections that constantly evolved. It was hard to tell if they were jamming or if there was a pattern. Fusion or confusion? But the crowd loved them and that's all that matters. They were out there doing it. They had youthful enthusiasm on their side and had no need of any orgone accumulators.

This festival certainly had a rejeuvenating effect on us as a band. I think The Roadside tavern gig threw us into a bit of an unexpected funk, but Brookstock quickly and effortlessly restored our faith in ourselves and flower powered hippydom. I guess it's true that a band is only as good as their last gig.

Last and certainly not least, I have to say a great big thank you to Ben and Kim for inviting us to be a part of the Brookstock Festival. It must have been quite a feat, organising and setting up the whole affair.

We had a great time whether playing or just hanging out. I can't stress enough, how much fun we had.
Thanks again.

James and the Boots at the Little Roadside Tavern.

This was a take it or leave it gig on a meaningless August weekend... We took it.
The place was fairly deserted, just a few folks playing cards and a few elbows hanging off the bar. We set up in the corner by the front door and used the occasion as an excuse to practice. We threw in a bunch of songs we rarely played and some new ones like Kitty Jasmine, Play for Free, and Orgone Accumulator. I reckon we must have played about three hours. I think I speak for all of us when I say that at times we were a bit uninspired and were really just going through the motions.

The song of the night for me was Orgone accumulator. It has an infectious blues riff pounding through it which just made me laugh out loud. We must have played it for about ten minutes at least. Me and Donald had practiced it a little on Wednesday but neither Charlie nor Tree had even heard of it, so it was quite an adventure.

One of the TV sets was right in my line of vision. I couldn't help but get sucked in by it, even though there was nothing of real interest to watch. First it showed a Rodeo bull riding event, then wrestling came on. Meanwhile on the other TV there were anonymous boxers knocking lumps out of each other. Sport seems to be following us at the moment. My mind really wasn't focused entirely on our music.

I think the evening left us all a bit deflated. It wasn't that we played bad or anything, In fact I think we played quite well over all. My little PA system even worked too. I guess we just had a sense of anticlimax after so many mad nights out there recently. Or were we having a collective déjà vu of been there, done it? I guess it's up to us to pack the place. Winter gigs there may prove busier.

At the end of the day there were positives. We got to practice, we played well, the PA passed the test, we got one more gig under our belt, Tree got to familiarise himself a bit more with the material, a few people even got up to dance, and we got paid a little in tips. It could have been worse. As Charlie said, at least it wasn't raining.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots
At the Boundary Bay.

A small moment in time.

T'was a dark and drizzly night in the sparsely populated Boundary Bay beer garden. James Higgins and the Muddy Boots Band were on stage.
Not much to dwell on here. At first glance, the scene appears rather depressing but I think in the end we had more fun out in the empty beer garden than we'd have had inside at the packed bar, where, apparantly everyone was watching the Olympics.

It's not quite fair to describe the beer garden as empty. There was a small appreciative audience in attendance who were just visible through binoculars. These brave notables were composed of family and friends, bar staff, some dogs, and a few stragglers who had probably been looking for the Olympic TV Show. Somehow, despite the blustery sea breeze and the damp night air, we contrived to have an entertaining evening. I should mention that the stage and much of the beer garden were covered by tents with the sides rolled up. So we weren't actually getting wet, just blown about a bit.

Yet it seemed only fair that if a band is booked to play in the garden and the weather turns cold, windy and rainy, then it might be smart to move them inside. This has been the humane thing to do in the past. But not tonight. The bar was full and the herd was settled. No one wanted to disrupt their ambience. So we were told to take our musical implements outside where we could do what we wanted.
Plain and simple though, the clientele wanted to watch the Olympics. That's fair enough. I'd have said the same if it was the World Cup.
We got paid. All is forgiven.

I think the Reefnetter gig the other day sharpened us up for the Boundary Bay gig. Those few witnesses in attendance were treated to a fine show. The real losers were the viewers in the bar watching the Olympics.
Coverage of all the shattered Olympic records and broken dreams will be recycled black and blue through every media outlet world wide forever. In today's internet world of immediacy there's no need to be there and then in history. Simply replay it from any perspective, any time you want. Nowadays the proud boast of, "I was there, in the stadium", gets significantly watered down. It has been replaced and almost usurped by, "Yes I saw it…in a bar…on TV."

As the Triathalon event was unfolding in some Chinese stadium, I stood, 10,000 kilometres from home, below some restless grey northern sky with The Muddy Boots Band. We got on stage and played our wee socks off in a blaze of anonymity. A small moment in time. Unrecorded. Insignificant. No one can replay it. It exists now only in the minds of the few who were there. I doubt we'll make the Bellingham Herald but it sure was a good laugh.

So, in short. The sound man Todd set up the PA.(Gold Medal for Todd). We played for a world record fastest ever 2 hours. Todd repacked his gear in record time. The judges on the panel awarded us ten gold stars all round and declared us the best band they'd seen all night. …..And suddenly we were all standing alone in the beer garden like nothing had happened.

Gold medals for everyone.

James Higgins and the Muddy Boots at thr Reefnet Festival on Lummi Island.

Reefnetting, as I understand it, goes like this. Two boats anchor out in the bay along a regularly traveled route of the salmon. They string a large rectangular net between them and simply wait for the salmon to swim over it. Then they haul it up and sort out the fish in a live holding pen. The wild salmon are released and the hatchery raised stock are kept. Though this method is environmentally friendly, it seems to be little used nowadays.
Reefnetting is an ancient fishing method developed by the coastal tribes. The festival was a celebration of this fact.

And so we found our selves taking the 6 minute ferry trip out to Lummi Island. We then drove around till we came to the festival grounds at Legoe Bay.
I was just getting out the car when Janice ran up all excited. "Whales in the bay, whales in the bay. Orcas!" Well I'd never seen orcas in my whole time out here in the North West, so I ran over to the beach. Unfortunately the orcas had swam off around the point. Just my luck.
A little later as I was browsing the artisan stalls, Hil ran up. "Whales in the bay. Whales in the bay. Orcas". I ran across to the beach but once again the orcas had already swam off. They may well have been paniced by the sight of my sun deprived knobbly legs. I'd forsaken jeans for shorts this day. A once a year event which ensures rain within 24 hours.
Two Orca sightings in one day and I'm right there and I missed them both times.
Third time lucky?

Anyway to the festival……

On stage as we arrived was a guitarist singer called Plum Tucker from Texas. His sound and style reminded me of an open tuning accoustic Van Morrison. I wonder if he's ever heard of Luka Bloom. As a performer, he came across as quite intense. Unlike us. We're more past-tense.
Hay bales were arranged around the stage as seating arrangements. Or maybe they were expecting a party of hungry cows to show up. Unfortunately a lot of the bales were empty. The festival organiser said only half as many people as last year had showed up. He shrugged and muttered something about the economy and the price of oil.

We went on stage around 6pm and played a one hour warm up set then took a break and then returned with our main set.
Donalds clan, now known as the H Street Singers seem to creep closer every day.
This time round, they had gotten themselves on stage with us and were dancing and singing to Spoonful and the Hens in the Henhouse song. The stage was bouncing so much that I could hardly sing into the wobbling microphone. Charlie's spare guitar got bounced right off the stage but it seemed to survive the impact.
Everyone to be believed, spoke highly of the gig. This was good news, I guess. It's hard to tell on stage what it sounds like out in the crowd. I think my guitar battery died right at the start. I never heard a note during the whole gig. Later on, Tree told me that he never hears anybody at all, ever!

Tree did appear to be having fun though, as did Charlie and Donald (and myself). I'd say the crowd enjoyed themselves too, even though no one really got excited till the very last song. I think the weather was too hot for any dance moves more strenuous than toe tapping.

All in all it was a beautiful day in a beautiful place. Too bad that most of the beach front is privately owned. Lummi Island does seem to have a different pace of life and I think the Reefnet Festival reflected this. Orcas were swimming about offshore, kids were leaping about, beer was flowing, folks were mingling, there was a big salmom bbq, folks were taking boat trips into the bay, and apparantly the music was excellent. It was a laid back kind of day. Serene and almost traffic free. We were the only noise in town. It's so easy to forget that silence is the natural sound of the world.

I had asked Mr. Plum if he'd wanted to have a jam with us (Plum jam), but the festival shut down promptly about 8:30 before it got dark. So apologies for not jamming. Maybe next time. Actually, even before we'd finished playing, folks were breaking camp and leaving. The last shuttle to the ferry had already left.

At the ferry we were first ones on. We were right up the front and so low in the water that it looked like we were driving across the sea by car. The moon was full. The night was clear and the ocean was still as a mirror. On the far shore someone was having a full scale fireworks display. It was all quite surreal and trippy.
An unusual finale to a unique day.
But right now, it's raining.

James and the Muddy Boots at Stuarts Coffee Shop

This was very much a family affair with familiar faces lazing around on sofas and comfy chairs.
We set up on the wee stage in the corner where I was amused to find that the PA system was still the same old lump of a thing I'd used years ago at Stuarts on Bay Street. Still, it didn't sound as bad as I remembered it from before. Age may have mellowed it. (Or me).
Anyway the gig was very relaxed and laid back. Almost too easy. We cruised through two forty five minute sets which zipped passed. Donald's clan was in extra fine vocal form and helped us out on several choruses.
I'd say this was a fairly solid gig. We had no drums, so we were able to be a bit looser, but still tight (ish). There was a somewhat odd, dodgy moment in the middle of Traveling Bag and there was something not quite right about the song, "Mystery Train". But hey, two little mis-communications in a whole gig isn't bad. (Lucky we weren't all wearing our sunglasses.).
As individuals and musicians, I think we've all been several times round several blocks, so we kind of forget to get over upset about minor mistakes on stage. Gigs are more about fun and less about ego. We are more inclined to laugh in the moment but fix it later.
Our core set has evolved a lot since the Roadhouse gig. For the better I hope. It must be like watching your kids grow up. You never notice them change because you are so close to them every day. Suddenly you realise they are almost adults. Musically, I guess our set has matured a lot and taken a shape and direction. Personally I like the way it's ripening. I'd say we are definitely well beyond the diaper stage, but not fully grown up yet.

But who wants to grow up anyway?

Busking at Fairhaven Farmer's Market.
August 6th

Around one o clock we (me and Donald) set up just to the left of the vacant stage at the top of the stairs. Donald plugged his bass into a wee battery powered amp and I got my guitar and blues harp out. We didn't exactly light up the market but we had ourselves a good little practice and made a few dollars. I think we should put together a busking set and work on some old time happy standards. Busking is not a time to be obscure and technical unless you've got all day to waste.
I guess in the end, it doesn't matter much what you play. It's really all about attitude and energy. Strangely enough, I've discovered over the years that the less you look like you need money, the more you'll make. I guess we must have looked desperate.

Seriously though, in the end, we had a good time and got paid to practice in the late summer sun. If only the bars were so generous. Perhaps we should practice more and gig less.

I think I speak for the whole band when I say this was a highly enjoyable evening out under the stars. Despite playing at the tail end of the night, there was still a decent little crowd who slowly two by two began to tap their feet till everyone was suddenly up dancing.
We rattled through our set list and almost followed it exactly. Very unusual for us.

Because Tree was unavailable to play, we'd practiced a few hours before going on stage with a stand in drummer named Stephanie. She picked up everything really quick and tuned right in to the energy of the band. She breathed some fresh life into songs like Tramper Ticket and Can't Keep Me.
Big thanks Stephanie. Hope we can do it again. (No offence, Tree).

The headline act were called, "The Ian McFeron Band". They were a 4 piece group up from Seattle and their music was remeniscent of Dylan or The Band. They were quite intertaining and friendly too.
There were posters around town to advertize their imminent arrival, but the page set up made the Muddy Boots look like the headline act. The Ian McFeron band looked like an afterthought at the bottom of the page. Good for us I guess. Not so good for them. But we need all the help we can get.

Biggest pity though was that there wasn't more people in the garden. I guess it had been busier earlier but had quietened down by the time we went on.
Anyway, this was a good solid gig. I think we played for about an hour and a half. At the end, our little crowd wanted to hear more. They were shouting, "Encore" and "One more", then a voice amongst them stood out and yelled, "Don't think about it, just play the god damn Chicken Song". And so, being not proud, we played the chicken song all over again. then I got on my bike and rode back to my roost.

We all had a great day out. Our families were there and the sun was shining. After the alternative universe gig at the Little Roadside Tavern last night, it was nice to be playing for a reasonably sane audience. Though we did finish before the moon arose. So who's to say what might have happened.
This was an outdoor, all ages event just a short way from the ferry port.
I guess it could be described as a sort of slightly larger scale garage sale where the locals parted with their unwanted clutter to the highest or nearest bidder. There were some artisan stalls too. It all felt quite casual and relaxed.
I spoke with a lady selling harps, whistles, ukeleles and a big, Indian droney thing that looked like an enormous wooden ladle. She gave me an interesting talk on the anatomy of the harp. It was quite intriguing. There were also people selling Rustic furniture and jewelry and there was tons of food.
There was a guy carving with a chainsaw. He slashed away for about twenty minutes on a chunk of wood. I didn't see what he carved but it was announced over the PA system that the bidding would start at 300 dollars. Not bad for twenty minutes work. I couldn't see what he carved. Maybe it was a solid gold bar.

We set up to play on a large deck where we were really able to spread out or gear a bit. Again though we suffered distortion problems with the mic. I guess that my wee PA just can't take the stress. It seems to cope with the guitars okay but I think I sing too loud for it's liking.
In general the sound was tolerable and I thought we played quite tightly. A few people got up to dance while Donald's family cheered us on.
The biggest pity was that the beer garden crowd were so far away. By the time the sound reached their ears, it had disintegrated drastically. Luckily, their brain cells were probably frying nicely too which kind of evened things out.

Time flew by and by 6pm we were all done. The whole place seemed genuinely confused and disappointed when we announced we were finished. We'd understood that we'd been scheduled to play one hour of music. Thus, we were packing up before people realized we weren't joking. Individuals began to drift hopefully towards the stage to try coax some more songs out of us. Alas too little too late. We were already half packed up before we were fully aware just how many listeners had expected the music to continue till 8pm.
Sorry about that folks.

But I think our little clans all had a great day out. We quit while we were winning. Hil and Ronan had a cycle trip round the island. Me, Charlie, Donald, and Tree played some music and I think the ladies ended up in the beer garden. The kids ran around and rummaged at random till they tired themselves out. Then they sat in the front (and only) row and cheered on their local musicians.

The organisers and artisans, cooks and volunteers were friendly and enthusiastic and gave us all the cake and coffee we could eat and drink.
Thank you for that. Maybe we'll be invited back next year. That might be nice.

James and The Muddy Boots at the Little Roadside Tavern.

Just an ordinary night out there. Well as ordinary as it gets.
We played out in the garden as it was a beautiful evening. It sure was tricky doing a sound check while some guy was buzzing round the field next door with his mini tractor/lawn mower.
But we persevered. We turned the volume of the tractor channel down and turned up the tweet knob for the birds. That did the job nicely.
Most of the first two hours fell on deaf ears till everybody suddenly clicked into lunacy mode just as the full moon rose over the mountains.
At this point we repeated the first set and the crowd's reaction, the second time round was startling. It was like a different audience. There was chicken dancing, hooping, clapping, and big goofy grins all round. (And that was just the band). Quite a baudy hootnanny round the blazing bonfire. I guess the alcohol and meds had finally kicked in but we'll blame it on the full moon. Everyone tuned in and for the last hour it was quite an "interactive" little beer garden. Totally reminds me of Brookdorf.

Technically speaking though, We really were messing around on stage and never quite hit our stride until right towards the end. It actually felt a bit like hard work, but we did play for 4 hours. We were all guilty of some fine clangers but it's better to make the mistakes out there where the audience is so forgiving and generous.

I guess we really have to start playing a bit later out there. Around 8:30pm maybe.
Still it was a good laugh despite the chaos. Hopefully, we'll do it again.

James and The Muddy Boots.

Boulevard Park is located just North of Fairhaven. It's wedged between the railway tracks and the ocean. On a map, it's a long narrow pickle (gurkin)shaped park. It offers a great view of the Islands and also stunning close ups of the railroad tracks.
A stage had been erected at the North end of the park. There was a shady spot set up for the instruments but no shade on stage for the entertainment. I bet there were a lot of sunburnt musicians afterwards.
The Co-op bash was a real family event. The park was fairly packed and there was a relaxed festival atmosphere.
We played at 3:30 for an hour during which time we saw a three legged race, a sack race and a tug of war for peace. (Pull For Peace). All this took place right in front of the stage which gave us ringside, bird's eye views of the whole shebang.
I don't think anybody knows who won the sack race or the 3 legged race but the Pull For Peace was won by Donald's family with just a little help from about 30 other people. Janice was very proud. And rightly so. There will now be peace.
We were playing Enjara as they pulled for peace. It seemed an appropriate song though I'm sure it's significance got blown right out to sea.
Our hour flew past and I feel we played quite tight. The wind blew the sound around a bit but we survived. It was nice of Jason to show up with some percussion. He just slotted right in.
I think we only played about 10 songs in all. Short and sweet.
My favourites of the day personally, were "Blowing down the River", which I felt clicked today.
"Spoonful" went well too. That is such a great blues to play. I think we all have our own little spooky nook in that song.
"Enjara", bounced along nicely. The "Hens in the Henhouse", was as bizarre as ever.
I enjoyed this gig.
After us, I saw Yan's band, The Monday Night Project setting up. I heard a few songs but poor wee Ronan was exhausted so we skimmed some stones and headed off home.

Did I mention that the weather was a bit soapy bubbly? An unusual form of precipitation but much better than acid rain.

Thankfully Donald has a large clan. If it wasn't for their enthusiastic presence we would have been practically alone in the cafe.
Later on Hil and Ronan showed up too. The waitresses seemed to enjoy our distraction as they hadn't much else to do but sit around and listen.
As it was such a small venue, we didn't play with a drummer. So it was just me, Charlie and Donald with our guitars.
Despite the lack of audience, we had a pleasant night. We were able to practice a bunch of songs and Charlie kindly bought one of my CDs.
I had an odd flashback when we played "Spoonful", by Willie Dixon. It brought me way back to when I was about 10 years old. There was a very old man in our village called Willie Dickson who went shopping every morning as I was going to school. He was tall and skinny as a pole. He wore a long grey tweedy coat, a flat cap on his head and carried a brown weather beaten leather bag in hand. He'd walk in slow motion past my front gate on his way up to the shops as I was leaving the house. In the late afternoon he'd be heading back home as I bolted out of the school classroom. Willie would be shuffling along with tiny wee steps. He'd have covered a distance of about a kilometer in about 7 hours. Still...He was out there doing it.
Willie's wife was called Daisy Dickson. She was always leaning out her window or pruning a big bush in their small front garden. There were those in the village who had their doubts about Daisy's sanity. But if they taunted her, she would quickly yell out from behind her bush, "You all think I'm nuts, but I'm not. I've got a certificate to prove it." Poor auld Daisy Dickson.

Oddly enough, blues man Willie Dixon's mother was also called Daisy.

A beautiful summer evening for an outdoor concert. Elizabeth Park isn't far North of Downtown Bellingham. It's a pleasant square patch of greenery in a quiet neighbourhood. It has some lovely old shade trees, notably some beech trees which always remind me of my village of Neilston.

We set up in the bandstand which surely must be the biggest stage we ever played on. There was actually space to swing a bass guitar. A large crowd of about 700 people had assembled. Lots of families with kids, older generations, and courting couples. The complete spectrum of life.
Our first set went well with plenty of energy and drive, but it felt that we lost our momentum in the 2nd half.
The crowd appeared to be enjoying it though and most stayed till the end and indulged in periodic bouts of jigging around the bandstand.
The big moral of the story is that Whiskey Galore need another half dozen songs to attain a solid two hours of music.
This gig would seem to be Electric Erik's last gig that he and I shall share stage together unless I miraculously can make it to the Highland Games gig. Erik is off on a new musical direction. So all the best Erik.