After Outside Lands I jumped on the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) and headed to Berkeley to visit an old friend. While waiting for my train, I recorded Dennis Tolly, an impressive violin player, at the Powell Street Station in downtown San Francisco. You can hear the ambient noise of the underground station including the rotation of the turnstiles and a radio message coming from the hip of a nearby security guard.
Dennis Tolly at the BART Station
Sombre Violin at the Train Station- Dennis Tolly
How Much of This Do You Need?-Dennis Tolly
BART
Once I got off the train in Berkeley I ran into some travelers with an untuned banjo. I tuned their banjo for them and knew I was in a street music hotspot. Here is a recording of Vito Capitan from Oakland playing a unique version of Son House’s “Death Letter Blues.” He was an impressive performer banging on his guitar while wailing into the harmonica strung around his neck.
Vito Capitan on Shattuck Ave. Berkeley CA
Death Letter Blues- Vito Capitan
A little further on up the street I found a pianist named Adam playing out in front of an Irish bar on Shattuck Ave.
The story of the West has filled history books and enamored historians, novelists, filmmakers, musicians and artists alike. Since the discovery of the New World and the Age of Exploration in Europe, the West has represented freedom, fear of the unknown, adventure and opportunity. This amusing anecdote about the fledgling “Bear Flag Republic” tells of a motley crew of mostly barefoot wanderers claiming the state of California as an independent republic in 1846, which endured for 26 days before the U.S. Army arrived. The symbols of the Bear Flag Republic still adorn our flag today.
Bear Flag
From The West by Geoffrey C. Ward:
“It all happened very fast. Early in the morning of June 14, 1846, there had been a loud knock on the door of the home of General Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo at Sonoma. One of his daughters answered the door. “[There stood] a large group of rough-looking men,” she remembered, “wearing on their heads caps made with the skins of coyotes or wolves, some wearing slouch hats full of holes, some wearing straw hats as black as charcoal….Several had no shirts, shoes were only to be seen on the feet of 15 or 20 of the whole lot.”
The strangers were Americans—trappers, settlers, squatters who proudly called themselves “floaters” – and they demanded that Vallejo, as nominal commander of northern California, surrender to them. They flew a crude flag, emblazoned with a grizzly bear sketched in blackberry juice and said they were declaring California a republic—the “Bear Flag Republic.”
Hospitable as always, Vallejo ushered in the leaders and offered them so much brandy and wine they soon could no longer walk. He also signed the surrender happily enough; tired of appealing to Mexico City for arms and aid that never came, He had already enthusiastically endorsed peaceful annexation by his friends, the Americans. But the strangers had something else in mind. They told him he was under arrest. “And they tied me to a chair!” he remembered many years later. “Me! Vallejo!”
Modern Bear Flag Republic: "several had no shirts, shoes were to be seen on the feet of 15-20 of the whole lot."
On the morning of the 10th, I left Samuel P. Taylor. This is about the point where days start merging into one another and I lost track of time completely. I wouldn’t recover my sense of time until I got back to SB. I headed down Sir Francis Drake Blvd., which was full of foreboding potholes. (another consequence of state budget cuts I suppose) My friend Chris lives in the city and I knew that I had a place to stay. All I needed to do was get to San Francisco. After a confusing series of bike paths, streets and residential neighborhoods I finally reached the Golden Gate Bridge and it never looked so good. I was so excited that I recklessly weaved and dodged through throngs of confused tourists with a maniacal grin on my face and a bike that weighed more than a small car. In retrospect, I was probably not nearly as swift and dextrous as I thought at the time.
Golden Gate Bridge, SF
So I made it to San Francisco and I gave Chris a call.
“Hey man, I made it over the bridge, where you at?”
“Wait, you’re here now? I thought you weren’t coming until Thursday?”
*Note: I had called Chris and we agreed that I was going to come into the city on Thursday. I was in the city on Wednesday.
Whoops. Like I said, I never again figured out what day it was until I got back, but Chris met up with me. He is an experienced touring cyclist himself. He lives in a collective housing situation with eight other people near upper Haight and the Panhandle. Everyone at the Bus Stop House was kind and welcoming. I was amazed at how organized the house was. Everything was dialed in, from the chore list to the shopping. (which was done using a huge bicycle trailer, to haul food exclusively from Farmers Markets or Cooperatives.) I was impressed because I have been around many different collective houses in Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz and Berkeley, but the Bus Stop House had a good thing going.
Chris
Speaking of Farmer’s Markets, I went to the Wednesday market on upper Haight and recorded Big Dog, a local musician who plays classic rock tunes. The Upper Haight Farmer’s Market began on April 28th of this year. It is relatively new but attracts a good crowd on Wednesdays from 4-8.
Take it to the Limit-Big Dog
Don’t You Love Her Madly- Big Dog
When the weekend came around I realized that Outside Lands Music Festival was happening. I thought, “well, this is supposed to be a musical odyssey. I better check it out.” Don’t ask me how I got in (that information is on a need-to-know basis) but I spent Friday and Saturday soaking up the music and dancing like a fool to the music of The Meters, Phish, Muse, The Black Keys, The Warren Haynes Band, Orgone and others…
(note: I have no recordings of music from Outside Lands. I was traveling light because I didn’t know how how I was going to get in to the festival with no ticket. Also, I have no rights to distribute any of that music. I did regret that decision for a moment during Phish’s epic four hour set…but then I kept dancing.)
Outside Lands Madness
Outside Lands Interactive Art
I had a great time in San Francisco, but I wasn’t playing as much banjo as I thought I would be. I sat down to play on Haight/Ashbury but I was stopped by SF police almost immediately. I wasn’t surprised on a street that has been so brutally commercialized in contrast to the original philosophy of the area. The Haight was the birthplace of the hippie movement and home to numerous free-thinking individuals, artists, musicians and writers. It was a great experiment in alternative living, drugs and religion. Unfortunately, these days it is a tourist monument. Haight street is marked by a McDonalds where local drug dealers unabashedly peddle their products for high prices to an ogling tourist demographic. Lining the sidewalk are expensive boutique clothing stores selling chic bohemian-wear for the chic bohemian. There are also boutique glassware stores selling ridiculous glasswork, bongs, pipes and other smoking paraphernalia. Although the wider Haight community still retains its charms, Haight Street itself has commodified the hippie lifestyle, creating a strange mutant Disneyland. Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters said it best:
I rode into Samuel P. Taylor on August 8 after a long beautiful ride around the three bays, the Estro Americano, Tomales Bay, and San Francisco bay, which cut deep into the coastline. Consequently Highway 1 shoots inland and temperatures can soar quickly. My route took me off of hazardous Highway 1 which was too crazy (shoulderless, steep, and busy) just north of SF. Instead I crossed over to Sir Francis Drake Blvd and headed into Samuel P. Taylor State Park under a canopy of ancient redwoods. The reason I mention this park is because Sam P. Taylor was one of the first parks in the United States where outdoor camping was promoted as a recreational activity. Due to budget cuts, Samuel P. Taylor State Park will be closed due to budget cuts on September 10th at 5:00 pm sharp. As I watched the kids running, biking and laughing I couldn’t help but grimace at the thought of future generations never being able to see this majestic landscape. If Samuel P. Taylor closes, what’s next? Is the entire State Park system going under? The parks are a sanctuary from the highly concentrated urban environment in which most of us live. They allow us to be a part of the natural world, and realize the relative insignificance of our petty selfish desires in the face of so much rugged beauty, untamed wilderness, vast expanses and ancient trees. In my opinion, the parks are a source of psychological wellbeing and nature has a powerful therapuetic value, which is being ignored in the face of a mounting budget crisis in this state.
So I didn’t stay as faithful to my blog as I originally intended. But I will unravel my adventures and recordings over a series of posts to come. I’m back and I’m safe. Thanks to everyone who made this possible, especially Kolby. Also, special thanks to the musicians I met and who allowed me to record them.
The next day I was pedaling down the highway and I saw the Timber Cove Inn and thought of Larry White from the day before. I can’t pass up this opportunity, I gotta find the guy. So I stopped in to the Timber Cove Inn and asked about a tall skinny banjo player. No one knew who I was talking about.I kept going down the road about a half mile and saw a really steep road with signs like “18% grade,” “RVs and trailers not recommended.” I thought “this must be the road.” So I stashed my bike behind some trees on the highway, grabbed my banjo and started marching up the hill. It felt like climbing a hundred thousand stairs to see the guru.
I had no idea where Larry lived, I only knew that he was driving a minivan and he might live on this road. So I asked some neighbors but no one knew. Finally, one guy gave me some vague directions and I kept walking past tucked away mountain houses and “NO TRESPASSING” signs. Then a white truck pulls up.
“Where are you headed?”
“To Larry White’s house”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No…well maybe. I met him yesterday.”
“Alrite get in, you don’t want to walk that far.”
He moved a guitar out of the front seat to let me in. I couldn’t believe my luck. Scott was a swing jazz guitarist who regularly performed at the Timber Cove Inn. He knew Larry White but he didn’t know where he lived. We followed my vague directions, got lost, asked the neighbors who didn’t know. We even called Larry’s phone but there was no response. Scott thought that maybe at Fort Ross School someone from the community would know where Larry lived. We drive another mile up the hill to the school and there is Larry with his wife Jennifer. I burst out of the car so excited that I finally found this guy.
“Hey Larry, hey man! I’m here, I made it.”
“Hey Ben,” he said, calmly smiling as if he knew that I would be coming to see him.
Then Jennifer said, “Are you the banjo player? Larry said he might see you up here.”
Strange coincidences. So we go back to their house and they give me a beer. Larry is a luthier and banjo teacher. He had a massive collection of beautiful, rare and historic instruments.
Larry and some of his instruments
Homemade Six-String Banjo
Wedding Dress
Jennifer and Larry also do duets so they sang me a version of “The Cuckoo Bird” and a Russian folk song, which was appropriate because I was right next to Fort Ross, a Russian settlement on the Pacific Coast dating back to the early 19th century.
The Cuckoo Bird
Moscow Night
Thanks for the hospitality and the music Jennifer and Larry.
Kolby and I camped out on Caspar State beach after the show and drove back to Manchester to get my bike. I loaded it up and said goodbye to Kolby and Dewey. (*Kolby let me borrow his set of waterproof pannier bags, and his nice down jacket because he saw that I didn’t have warm enough clothes. Thanks Kolby, you made this trip happen. I get by with a little help from my friends…) I left Manchester and headed down highway 1 fully loaded.
Fully Loaded
It was a beautiful ride down the rugged north coast. The perspective is totally changed on the bicycle and everything looked new to me. It is an interesting form of meditation, at times I would zone out on the bike, pedal, pedal, pedal… and WHOOOSH a massive RV would come sweeping by. Ok, keep it together now.
Views From Highway 1
An interesting New Age non-denominational chapel open to the public along the highway
Now here is where the story gets interesting. Near the end of the day a dirty minivan pulls over on the road in front of me. A tall, gangly man with wild gray hair steps out of the car and waves me down.
“You’re a banjo picker huh?”
“um, yeah”
“I’m an old-time banjo player. My name is Larry White. I was just teaching at a banjo camp called Lark Camp in Mendo. Here’s my card.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. This was exactly what I was looking for. He told me that he lived on a really steep hill across from the Timber Cove Inn. This will be important for the next post.
I ended up twisting my chain into the frame of the bike north of Salt Point. I frantically unloaded the whole bike so I could access the derailers and chain. I broke the chain, unstuck it and put it back together. I made it to the hiker-biker camp at Woodland Campground in Salt Point state park as the sun was going down.
banjotraveler
