Laura Fay told me that vodka can cure a lot of ills. So when Casey and I stepped from the pouring rain into the midnight smoke of Imbibe it was a tangy mix of vodka and grapefruit that picked up my senses and finally cleared the head. I had driven half the day from playing on the coast at the Yachats Celtic Festival in the afternoon, on through blistering rains and crowded two lane traffic to Forest Grove by early November dark barely escaping two car accidents both of which would have involved myself. The mission: to play a three hour solo sit-a-thon at the Grand Lodge with absolutely go gas left in the internal tanks. Actually for the first hour I was fine but then the weekend began creeping in. The music which had been effortless over the last two-and-a-half days began to loose its context and my head swirled and bobbed along in dual time. I sat in a long hallway singing songs, and I walked crowded hallways of a festival. Way out west. Ocean spray, blowing coastal rains, fiddle tunes, old friend's faces, guitars in DADGAD tuning, Ullian and Highland pipes careening through sets. Once again the Celtic Festival in Yachats was over the top!
Missing the sun on the coast by a day I drove into a thickening damp. Through the clearcuts that tare through the coast range, north from Florence, and up the Oregon coastline.
Friday morning the rain had let off so I walked along the cliffs to watch the sea before heading over to play my first set at the festival.
Susan McKeown accidently left her set notes behind before she pulled out for Pistol River. I found them Saturday morning. I felt like I had found some lost treasures of sorts. Unearthed art. Parchments that contained the original documents. The real score was Susan's page of pick-up lines for "She's Leaving Home" which was her encore the night before. That and Dana Lynn's special note. Not 3 or 3. 4!
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