I spent much of the last two days working on Julie's material. I've played her stuff in the studio several times but haven't played on her music live very much, and I was excited to have a bit of time this visit to work out some arrangements together. I ended up choosing seven tunes to play on, which was pretty much her entire set save one song. It's fun for me to play guitar as a sideperson, something I rarely get the chance to do.

The venue, Annie's Social Club, used to be called the Covered Wagon Saloon, which was known for its especially raucous shows. While there is still often rock happening at Annie's, they have a much more diverse calendar and have cleaned up the place a lot. When I arrived early for my soundcheck, I was immediately impressed by how nice everyone on the staff was, from the bartender to the doorperson to the soundperson. They put Husker Du on the PA while I was setting up, which made me feel even more at home.

When Julie showed up, we ducked into a back room to go over a few things. I was going to be singing some backup harmonies, which I almost never do, and I was more apprehensive about that part of the show than my own set or the guitar playing I'd be doing on all of her other songs. But the quick rehearsal sounded good and I felt reasonably prepared. I ran a quick soundcheck with the soundperson, who proved to be as capable as she was friendly, and started my set.

During the last tour, I would stand up to sing, and sit down to play instrumentals, as some of my pieces are a lot easier to play sitting down. This time around, I resolved to stand the whole time, as I think it's kind of a drag to see a performer in a club on a stool. It looks...lazy. Plus I like to move around when I play guitar - it feels like dancing, which is about as close as I ever get.

My first tune was an instrumental, and I launched into it, standing. Whether out of excitement or from the more-rocking attitude that standing carries, it came out about double the tempo it should be played at. This does often happen to me with the first song of a set, actually. Maybe I need to start my shows with a dirge just to calm down a bit...this night, I did manage to get through it without being too sloppy despite the breakneck pace, and the second tune came out better.

The set went well, in my opinion, and the two brand-new vocal tunes I pulled out seemed to get a good reaction. It was over before I knew it (always the sign of a good set) and I stayed onstage while Julie plugged in. It was a blast playing with her, our voices seemed to blend well on the harmonies and more than anything it was great to play guitar alongside a favorite voice. Her tunes also zipped by, and I was sad to have it end.

Then Pi came on, with Julie's guitar (she'd flown up, glamorously, with nothing but a shoulder bag) and did a terrific set of her own. I love her Brazilian jazz sense of harmony, and of course her voice which is just delicious. By this point, there were maybe 15 people watching, and though it was an enthusiastic group, I felt bad that I couldn't provide a better audience for Pi, having traveled for this one show. Apparently there was a big Burning Man cooling-off party that night, and being in San Francisco, an awful lot of our acquaintances were participating. They missed out, man.

Driving on a Friday afternoon from one large urban center (San Francisco) to another is no picnic, and the journey took roughly double the time it would have taken with no traffic. I arrived at Luna Cafe a bit worn out, and ready to dump my stuff inside and go find solace in a tony sushi place down the street. But the crowd of largely black-clad male noisesters were so friendly and welcoming that I decided to just stick around and get a cheese sandwich at Luna's, a full meal for the price of two slices of yellowtail.

I sat at a table and soon struck up a chat with someone who, surprisingly, was not one of the 12 acts appearing that night. He didn't look the part at all; probably in his fifties, with a ponytail and a gentle expression. But he told me he always comes out to the Noisefest, and in fact had bought the three-day pass in order to catch everyone. Our conversation was soon interrupted by the first act, which consisted of a fretless bassist and a partner with a pile of electronics. It was a heinous, uninterrupted roar - and it felt great. Setting the tone for the evening, their set didn't even last ten minutes (we were each given a quarter-hour slot) and the next act went on with a tableful of pedals and what seemed to be old radio equipment. Again, there were harsh tones, but a bit more varied dynamically.

As the evening went on, I found myself entranced by the whole spectacle. There was no telling what the next obliquely-named (Cerebral Roil, Vankmen, Joltthrower, Nullwerk) act might produce, but for sure it was going to be a wash of surprising sounds with absolutely no boundaries. There were only three or four groups that produced sheer catastrophic white noise like the first act, but the one thing that everyone had in common was the lust to explore sound for its own sake, whether through a heap of junk percussion or an electric guitar run through 20 pedals. The short sets seemed very appropriate given the sheer intensity of the performances, and they also meant that things never got old. One of the sets lasted only five minutes.

My set came about halfway through the evening, and I was glad to have seen the other sets to establish a point of reference (i.e., that I could do whatever the hell I wanted, as loud as I wanted, and the crowd could take it). Though I usually do short pieces of about 3-5 minutes in my solo improv sets, this time I thought I'd just do one longer piece as the other acts did. I started out quietly, but soon was creating a whole mess of howling oscillation feedback between my tape machines and having a grand old time. People seemed interested, whether by my tapes, my odd-shaped travel guitar or the music itself, and when I finished up after 10 minutes or so I heard a number of nice comments. I felt exhilarated and spent, and completely satisfied with my contribution.

I stuck around til the end of the night, which was capped by Xome, a solo guy who apparently has closed the Friday night Noisefest show for the last five years or so. Like many of the others, he had no instrument other than a table full of pedals, which appeared to be taped down (I later found the entire surface was covered with sticky grip tape). For sheer performance value, he was unmatched. He launched himself bodily into his table, bending it this way and that and lifting it up while pawing at his boxes, coaxing out the most terrifying noises. Everyone stood up to get a better view of his enthusiastic deconstructions, and exploded into applause when he ended by ripping a handful of cables out of his mixer. Awesome.

Everyone crowded around the merch tables afterward, trading CD's and Myspace pages. While some might see this kind of music as an expression of nihilism and pure negativity, I found the entire evening to be a celebratory atmosphere, a joyous party of the extremes of sound. I'll look forward to taking part in this again, and was sad I couldn't stick around for the next two days.

I got the impression that these students didn't play out much, evidenced when they displayed no rush to clear the stage of their ample equipment after their set, instead chatting with their sizable group of friends, despite the fact that we were waiting to go on next. By the time we went on, the crowd had thinned out, possibly due to this wait. But a good group stuck around, and remained for our set.

It's very interesting for me to do improvised guitar loops with a horn player. Horns have a massive command of dynamics, and in a space such as the Luggage Store have no need to amplification whatsoever, whereas I am completely dependent on a PA. They also have options for sustain and legato I can't even touch. On my side, a guitar has polyphony and many of the qualities of a percussion instrument. With the loops, I also have a number of textures available which an acoustic instrument doesn't have. So it's a nice pairing.

I think Alan (on soprano sax and bass clarinet) and I played really well together, doing short pieces as we agreed on beforehand as opposed to a long block of sound. I realized after a few pieces that he would look to me to define the nature of a piece before beginning to play. I didn't intend to arrange things this way, but with the wider range of sounds available from my gear, perhaps it was natural to do so. I found myself adapting to his playing as well; finding that his preference follows the free jazz tradition in generally avoiding diatonic playing, I leaned towards nontonal stuff, and even when setting up a big drone I would include dissonant notes that would blend better with what he was doing.

I love the Luggage Store for being such a nice space and supportive environment, and tonight was another great experience. I hope that more people will start to recognize the interesting music that happens every week there.

I'm very excited about this short tour of CA. There are no "filler" shows this time around (I'll be the first to admit that in my big summer tour, there were a number of gigs that I booked with no idea what I was getting myself into, just to have a stage to show up on), and some of them are a big deal indeed for a small-time dude like myself. Every gig has something about it I'm really looking forward to.

The summer tour was a learning experience for sure, and I think this tour will be better for it. I learned pretty quickly, for instance, that playing by yourself in an unknown venue in a town where you have no contacts is almost certainly a dead end. It's always, always better to hook up with a local, or two. At the very least there will be someone else to share the misery if nobody else comes out to see the music, and generally speaking they'll have some handful of a crowd who will hear your stuff. And of course, you find friends this way, too, and the next time back you'll have somewhere to start from and somebody to hook up with.

The price of gas also puts much more into relief the fact that driving around costs money. I used to just fill up the tank and not really worry about it if a route took me three hours out of the way. But now, I can calculate that those three hours will cost me about twenty-five bucks, and then figure out if it's worth it.

After this tour, I don't have plans to play live again until 2009, probably until at least spring. Though that's disappointing in some ways, I have a ton of projects on the way, with lots and lots of writing and recording to do. It'll be good to have a big chunk of time at home. I've found that when on tour, and in the run-up to tour which starts at least a month beforehand, I don't get much done in the way of composing since I'm focused so much on practicing the stuff I'm going to play, not to mention dealing with booking and travel arrangements. In the two months since I returned from the summer tour, I have written or at least begun large parts of seven or eight vocal tunes, and two instrumentals, which feels good. But doing serious composition in the vein of the wedding stuff really requires single-minded devotion, and it seems that I can't muster that unless I can work on that alone for a long period of time without having to break to run through set material. As time-consuming as it is, writing the "serious" guitar instrumentals (the more classical-style pieces) is something that definitely calls to me, and I want to give that a bit of rein, especially since everything I've written in the past year has been vocal stuff or song-oriented instrumental tunes.

But for now, I'm all about these ten shows. I'm genuinely excited for it, and feel ready to pucker up.

But when I saw the opportunity to take part in a benefit concert for a good cause, at a fairly well-known club in downtown Oaxaca, I felt like I couldn't say no. I accepted the show, though my nails were in terrible shape. Just before the last show of the tour, as my fake nails were just about to grow beyond a reasonable point, I bent back my index nail while lifting my suitcase and it split just below where the fake nail ended. I know this is kinda horrible to describe - believe me, it was no fun to experience - but my nail split sideways, about halfway up. So my primary "pick" was turned into a swollen marshmallow. Then a very similar thing happened to my thumbnail, although at least it didn't separate completely. And though I'd by now removed all the fake nails and was enjoying playing with my real, though stubby ones again, just two days ago my middle finger nail broke off.

I decided to get very short fake nails just on the middle, ring and pinky and to wing it for this show. It was a good exercise, in a way, figuring out how to play all my tunes without using the index whatsoever. I learned that there are a few tunes that I can't possibly pull off this way, but most of the songs I've been playing in my live sets can be adjusted without too much trouble. The biggest change was one of my newest (and most favorite) tunes, called "Berimbau del Bosque", which normally involves a quick pinky-to-index roll on the body just after a thump with the thumb. I had to scrap that riff entirely and make up for it with a loud downbeat on the bass string with the thumb, which was kind of a nice substitution.

The place was called La Candela, and normally plays host to big salsa dance parties. There was a good-sized stage, a well-powered though well-used PA with massive subs, and a big dance area in front of the stage. When I arrived, I found an exasperated-looking woman plugging a guitar directly into the aged board. Though the sound was coming through well enough, she looked fit to be tied, and when I introduced myself as a fellow performer, she spit out a tirade about the club staff, who apparently weren't being any help because this was an unpaid gig for them (I gather the club donated the night to the cause). Indeed, after she unsuccessfully tried to get her drum machine working, an authoritative-seeming fellow came over, pointed out to me a couple of free channels that we were "allowed to use", then disappeared again. She yanked her cord out of the board, declared loudly "I'm not gonna play", and stomped out.

I plugged in my own acoustic, got a basic sound going, then found the organizer. Though obviously under a lot of stress, she was appreciative of the fact that I was there AND planning to play, and thanked me again and again (as throughout the evening) for being understanding of the disorganized atmosphere. It really wasn't a big deal to me, as by this point I'm quite accustomed to dealing with absent staff, weird sound systems, and unforeseen changes in how a gig is intended to go.

Thankfully, there were people streaming in, and finally just about every table in the place was full. Some friends showed up and I chatted with them for a while, every once in a while checking in with the organizer about the schedule; though I originally was slated to play second, after two singers and a band, the one singer I'd met had left in a huff, the other hadn't arrived yet and the band had broken up (!), so it looked like I was going to be the only performer. The next update was that there was another band who was now going to play, and possibly at least one other singer, but nobody was quite sure about the order of things (I thought it'd be up to her...). Finally, she said I should go first, but that I should continue to wait to see if more people arrived. At this point, nearly two hours had gone by since the doors had opened, everyone had well partaken of the buffet and the cheap beer, and there was a palpable sense of annoyance mixed with boredom that indicated very strongly that we should get this particular show on the road.

I pushed a little bit to let me get started, and after ten more minutes, she gave me the green light to go. However, first there was going to be a speech by a representative from the beneficiary of the evening, a local non-profit clinic. After her warm welcome and short speech, there was an American couple who had their own story to tell, in very bad Spanish, regarding the clinic. Finally the stage was clear, and I practically ran up there to start my set.

I introduced my first tune in both English and Spanish, as the crowd was pretty evenly split between ex-pats and locals, and I think it gave me a bit of advantage even before I started playing to be able to address both halves - I could see entire tables snap to attention when I switched from one language to another. Though during the quieter tunes, I was competing a bit with conversation from the back tables, I felt like people were paying attention, and a couple of kids were making good use of the dance floor to do some interpretive movement to my music which is always fun (and seems to happen a lot with my stuff in family-friendly places..I take it as a high compliment). I stuck with a fair amount of covers - Beatles, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" - which I'm starting to enjoy more and more, as I'm approaching these tunes much more in a jazz sorta fashion, fooling around with the arrangements and inserting some melodic improvisation here and there.

Probably as much due to the hours spent in the wooden chairs as anything complimentary to me, most of the crowd left just after I finished. I guess it was nice of them to stick around til the end of my set. At first I felt bad for the band who played after me, stuck with a greatly reduced audience, but they quickly displayed a lack of intonation and a preponderance for endless soloing, so I left myself after half an hour of caterwauling sax and violin. Still, I call it a good show for my first in my adopted home.

I'm in Philadelphia, at the home of a friend who has gone off to work, and it feels a little strange to be on my own for the day. A tour is an extremely social experience. At each gig there is venue staff, other musicians, and audience members, and interacting with each of them is necessary to make the show happen. And when touring as I do - I build my trips around places where I know people - my time after and before the show is spent catching up with my peeps. I spoke yesterday with my girlfriend, who I haven't seen since the end of the California leg of the tour a month ago, and we both talked about how it can be an overwhelming experience to travel and catch up with many different people on the same trip. The successes, tragedies, joys and frustrations that are shared with a traveler become part of one's own experience, and it can start to feel like a flood of different emotions that never lets up. The drives in between towns are a welcome time to process all this stuff; out on the interstates by myself, if I'm not thinking about music, I'm thinking about people.

One important thing that I've realized on this trip is that I'm capable of playing day after day and still enjoying it. It was great to have booked a mix of improvised and composed music shows, which kept things fresh, and I think the very different sorts of music helped feed each other, too. Often when driving to an improv gig, I'd be listening to singer-songwriter music in the car, and the next day on the way to a quiet restaurant show I'd find myself just wanting to hear really out electronic noise. I don't think musical worlds have to be as alien as some people think...

I just really can't believe it's over. It's been a blur, particularly the past week with all the moving around up and down New England, from Vermont to NYC to Philadelphia to Boston, then back through NYC to Philadelphia again. Shows that I did a few weeks ago now seem like ancient history; there have been so many places and so many people to remember since then.

And so it ends, with some amazement at how full of experiences the last two months have been. In spite of flat tires (I had luck with me at the end, and Alamo didn't notice the one mismatched tire - whew!), often-small crowds and a whole lot of hours alone behind the wheel, I'm already looking forward to October when I hit the road again, albeit more modestly.

There have been several shows set up by or featuring artists I've met through a listgroup dedicated to looping (Looper's Delight). Dennis Moser, who I met through the list, helped to coordinate this show and fleshed out the bill, which featured himself, Jim and I (Chinapainting), Tim Nelson from Maine, and Rob Byrd, another Boston local. The venue was The Nave, which is a very active gallery space inside a Somerville church. When Jim and I showed up (utterly soaked after a quick visit to Faneuil Hall where we were encountered a sudden, torrential rainshower) we expected to set up in the gallery, which is one of many good-sized rooms inside the sizable church. However, the other players were already setting up inside the main sanctuary, it having been decided that with our numbers (and our gear, which resembled a postmodern Mission Control in some cases) we needed the main space. No complaints there, churches are fun to play in and this was a particularly lovely building with a high-arching ceiling.

Since our plan involved an eventual all-members jam, and we wanted to minimize the between-set turnaround time, we all set up our gear, with two of us on the stage and the others on the floor. I didn't altogether like the way this suggested some sort of hierarchy, as our positions reflected our set order, but it did make a nice visual and it was terrific having enough space for us all to be ready to go at the start.

Jim and I led off a bit after 7 p.m., sweating from the heat and humidity of the early Saturday evening (only slightly assuaged by a couple of fans working hard inside the huge sanctuary). I didn't feel altogether composed at the start; though we had a good amount of time for setup, the combination of five players all working out their individual equipment issues at once had created a somewhat stressful atmosphere. Also, I was smarting a bit at the small crowd, the other players and their spouses literally made up more than half the audience. But Jim and I started out with a few quiet notes, and the venue was so lovely and spacious and the guitars sounded so good in that big room that I started to settle down. It ended up being one of our better sets ever, leaning more towards our more pastoral side. On the third piece, I backed the treble way down on my guitar, which had been sounding a little harsh through my mini PA, and was rewarded with a really nice, round tone. I started messing with something much more bold and melodic-based than usual, which ended up building into a great little piece, I thought. We did a Frisellian kind of thing in G, then Tim Nelson joined us for a cool trio piece before he continued on with his solo set.

I enjoyed everyone's music very much (particularly Rob Byrd, who improvised some beautifully modulating pieces on heavily treated and reverbed guitar), and the transition between sets was extremely smooth with everyone's gear already set up. The shared handoff tune at the end of each set was a really nice transition, too. However, I started to regret our decision to have each set be 45 minutes. Simple addition will tell you that with four acts, even if everything goes as planned it's three hours of music, which is an awful lot for most people at one sitting, especially if that sitting is in wooden pews. We started a little late, and some people went a bit longer, so before our concluding group piece it was already 10:30 and everyone had left except people directly related to the musicians. Oh well. The group piece was very nice, and then as we were packing up, the organizer handed us each a set of CD's with a well-done recording of the whole evening. Sweet!

Jim and I found our way to our crash pad for the night, at a friend's house not far away, loaded in our gear then headed out close to midnight in search of sustenance. Boston isn't known for late night food, as we were told by everyone we talked to - nobody could even point the way to a diner or (shudder) Denny's - but we managed to find a Stop n' Shop supermarket and created a vegetarian feast of hummus, bread, Dubliner cheese, chips, salsa, and taboule, which we downed gratefully in our friend's kitchen, whispering about our shows together while trying to stifle the crunch of the chips.

When my tour itinerary looked to include a stop in Boston, I remembered Jonathan and looked him up online. It was great to catch up a bit, and we discussed doing a show together. The thing I love about improv music is being able to make music with people with no preparation; you just set a date to meet up, and go for it. We booked a date with Todd Brunel, a bass clarinet player with a regular improv series called Vortex. The series takes place at at venue called Outpost, formerly known as Zeitgeist which apparently was around for quite some time.

I'd spent the night before in Philadelphia, an great evening going out with a couple of my friends to a fantastic restaurant called Pumpkin. I left for Boston around noon, but got seriously turned around getting out of town (at one point, crossing the Ben Franklin bridge thinking I was leaving, but in fact, was re-entering from another angle, so I had to turn around and cross the bridge again) so I didn't really get on the road until close to 1. It was at that point that I started to regret not having left that morning; it was a Friday afternoon during the summer, and I'd be passing through NYC. Oy. My fears were realized when, an hour outside of Philly, traffic ground to a halt. It picked up again for a little while, but once I entered New York, I spent two hours traveling 14 miles. Even after that, up through Connecticut, every time I reached the outskirts of a sizable town (and there are many in CT), progress slowed to a crawl.

I finally hit open water in Massachusetts, at which point I had 45 miles to travel, and 45 minutes to make the gig which was schedule to start at 9 p.m. I called Jonathan and told him I'd do the best I could, then pointed the Yaris toward Boston and floored it, finally careening through the narrow streets of Cambridge. At 5 minutes to 9, I pulled up to the Outpost, sweating profusely as I made my introductions, greeted Jonathan warmly and dragged my gear inside.

The Outpost is a nice room with a bay window and a good acoustic sound, perfect for this kind of thing. There were people there waiting for music, and though everyone was understanding, I wanted to get music happening as soon as possible. I found a flat surface to put my tape decks on, a kind of monolithic pedestal (I really need to get a portable table..), figured out power cords, and was ready to go in about ten minutes. Still hyperventilating from the ridiculous journey, I suggested to Todd that we start with a trio piece so I could settle in. He agreed, and the three of us picked up our respective axes.

Both Todd and Jonathan are fantastic musicians - Todd is a monster on the bass clarinet, while Jonathan is equally adept on bass, violin and the electrified Mr. Potato Head (no, really) - and I soon forgot about the traffic. It was heady stuff, very interactive (as opposed to the blowout at ABC No Rio, which was more about creating a massive sonic movement) between us and all kinds of sounds happening. For the rest of the evening, we all traded off on solos, duos, and another trio piece or two. I loved it all, especially the opportunity to rediscover a musical relationship with Jonathan. He expressed surprised at what I was doing - after all, the last time he heard me playing, I was in a loud prog-rock band while studying straight-ahead jazz - and I returned to him many compliments about all that he's accomplished.

People seemed to really enjoy the music that was happening, and I experienced some of the most positive reactions yet for my contribution. Afterward, Jonathan and I tracked down some late-night falafel, then retreated to his place by the shore to spin vinyl and sip tequila until five in the morning.

It was pretty dead at 8, and I started with a batch of the lesser-exciting tunes in my repertoire, but then a few friends showed up and I started digging in a bit more. I was having a great time in the comfortable space - very much set up for music listening - but it still was nearly empty. The people who were there seemed to be enjoying themselves, but as the hour grew later I allowed myself to get just a bit frustrated. Still, I've been mindful on this tour to always keep focused on the guitar more than the environment, so I managed to mellow out and played better for it (and seemed to be rewarded with more appreciation). I finished up a few minutes before 10 o'clock, and not fifteen minutes later, people began streaming in. By 10:15, the place was completely packed, with every stool and table taken and folks standing in all the other space. I just don't get it..!

I loved the players that came after me - a local duo called The Hippynuts, then Adam Levy with his trio - and I heard some kind words about my music, which allowed me to forget about the fact that the huge crowd completely missed my contribution. This, I suppose, is just how it goes sometimes.

I do admire that intent, but the execution was lacking. Being summer in New York, the room was rather hot, and though we asked for the fans to be turned off during the music, one was left whirling, creating a loud hum that made normal-voiced conversation difficult, and acoustic music challenging. I made the quick decision to play my loudest solo pieces, which seemed to go well, and Jim's steel-string cut through decently too. During our improvised duo pieces, though, I felt pretty limited and unable to provide much nuance. Some members of the audience crowded closer to be able to hear us better, which was kinda flattering but frustrating, knowing that we weren't being heard.

We finished up our sixth piece, a duet, and I was tuning up (had terrible intonation problems all night, probably due to humidity and the air motion) in preparation for another solo piece when the booker told us we had only time for one more. Huh? She had started us 15 minutes late, and since we had been told we had an hour to play, we'd assumed we'd be going til 9:15. But it was only 8:50, and we were getting cut off. I wanted to do a solo piece to end strongly, but after a brief discussion we decided to finish up with another duo piece. I was pretty pissed off at the early curtain, so it was hard for me to settle into anything, and I think that tune turned out to be the weakest of the night.

There was nice applause and comments following the set, though frustratingly, at that point more people started drifting in. The performer after us was a singer-songwriter with a bongo player, and obviously had a bit of a following as all the tables were soon taken. I couldn't stand him, though, and soon regretted my decision to stick around; I thought his songs were lame and his singing weak. Oh well.

We were there as part of a weekly improvised event called COMA, which always involves two acts, followed by a open session. We met the other artist, John Gilbert, as we were setting up. He'd driven up from Florida just for this show with his one-of-a-kind microtonal guitar. It was fascinating to look at; he has some seriously deep theories which resulted in what he calls an "ocular-tuned" instrument. While every fretted guitar I've ever seen, even the 15 or 20 microtonal axes at the Sonic Arts Gallery in San Diego, uses straight frets, the neck of Mr. Gilbert's guitar was covered with circles and loops (made from picture-hanging wire, he told me). Thus, there is not only a microtonal relationship between notes on an individual string, but also across the strings. Awesome!

A nice little crowd had shown up by the time Jim and I started. At Stain the previous night, the tiny audience and cafe atmosphere made us (unconsciously) gear our material just a bit toward the more pastoral, at least until Will joined us. But at this venue, we knew that the audience was up for anything, and in fact was probably expecting us to stretch things pretty far. I found myself using the dictaphone a lot, then on the third or fourth tune, really let loose with some oscillating no-input mixer feedback that evolved into something almost metal, with some hammering distorted chords screeching out. Definitely the noisiest thing we'd done together so far this tour, and it felt great.

It felt like the crowd was right with us for the whole set, and I think it probably was one of our strongest ever. Then Gilbert went up, and launched into some seriously crazy music. He described himself as "Schoenberg meets Cecil Taylor", which wasn't a bad description, though I'd probably add "meets Kerry King". He had unbelievably fast technique, right out of the speed metal school, but was applying it to his microtonal axe which was further fitted with a synth pickup, giving him access to a limitless palette of tones. He was knocking everyone out with his ferocious attack, wedded to otherworldly harmonies and sounds ranging from pipe organ to bird chirps.

After his set - which included a meandering ten-minute dissertation on his philosophy of tuning, which was equal parts political scree, science lesson, and stoner metaphysics - we took a short break, then began the open session. Jim, John and I began together, then we were joined by a violinist, then four or five horns. It slowly grew to an Ascension-like blastout, where I felt I could contribute very little except deeply detuned bass notes, so I mainly stuck to tape manipulation. Blaise Siwula, the organizer, had joined in powerfully on alto, and at one point he pointed to a seated fellow with a bow and a saw. The rest of us got the hint and began to quiet down, then drop out. The sawist (?) took a brief solo, then other people joined in one by one, and once again we reached a frenetic crescendo before knocking off for the evening. It was exhilarating, kinda terrifying, and not a bit deafening. Jim and I have never played together in an ensemble this size, and it's been many years since I played in Moe Staino's large group improvisations, so it was a wonderful and unusual thing to take a part in.

I experienced an afternoon of slowly ascendant culture shock, driving from my brother's place on a gravel road in rural Vermont directly into NYC and its attendant toll bridges, construction detours and jaywalkers. I've always had a love for NYC (I was born in the Bronx, though only lived there for four years before my family moved to small-town Pennsylvania) but have never really spent much time there as an adult. On my tour last year I was recording up in Woodstock so didn't get to hang out much in the city, so am looking forward to doing some of that this time around, in between three CP shows and a solo gig (my last one of the tour).

The Stain is a spacious, comfortable beer n' wine art cafe located in one of the less-hip corners of Williamsburg. It doesn't seem to get a lot of business, which is too bad because it's very charming, with a large garden in back decorated by a massive facsimile of a demented nickel. There were three or four patrons there when we arrived, being entertained by the bartender who'd taken up a place on the stage and was peeling off some chiming, spiky chords in a sort of Jeff Buckley free stream. He stopped when we started setting up, explaining he'd just been filling space as the songwriter scheduled to appear before us hadn't bothered to show up.

Tonight was special for CP not just because we hadn't played together live in nine months, but because we were playing for the first time as a three-piece, joined by Will Romano on percussion. Jim and Will have a lot of history together, and we'd done an exploratory Ninjam online session a few months ago, but Will and I hadn't met in person before and CP has never been more than a duo. The Stain is a low-volume place, so we asked Will to leave his snare and bass drum at home. He brought along a hi-hat, some bamboo sticks and mallets, a slit drum and a bullroarer made from a vacuum cleaner hose. Before starting, he upended an empty beer bottle on top of the hat. Even before we started, I was excited by his creative approach.

Jim and I did a set on our own before inviting Will to the stage. The first set was a little slow to get going, I think just getting used to each other always takes time and there are always technical issues to work out with our various instruments. Halfway through we had a couple of really nice pieces, though, and started settling in.

Between sets, a fellow came up and introduced himself to Jim, saying he'd heard Jim and Will play before and that he'd kept up on Jim's doings since then, though he hadn't made it to another show. (As it turns out, Jim told me later, the show he'd seen had taken place almost five years ago...!). He then explained that he does projections, and had his projector and transparencies along in the car, would we mind if he did some live projections while we played? Naturally we agreed - our kind of music can always benefit from visual interest since we kinda just stand there working our buttons and frets, and many people get bored without a vocalist to focus on.

While our visitor set up his equipment, Jim, Will and I started making some music. We seemed to click instantly, Will fit in effortlessly and I loved the addition of percussion. During our next piece, Will stood up and started whirling his bullroarer, which generated a ghostly whine that somehow was perfectly in key (and looked very cool as well), stepping up the harmonic series depending on how fast he whipped it around. By this point, our projectionist had started flashing images above us, switching out found transparencies by hand. Though I couldn't see much of what was being shown, our crowd was displaying signs of interest, which is all I hoped for. It was a great set, I wish more people could have seen it.

The show started on the late side, and most people were finishing their dinner when I set up to play. The very helpful staff directed me outside, which was a little disappointing since there was no speaker for the people inside (not that it would have taken much to run a cable under the door), who made up the bulk of the remaining patrons. Plus, as I discovered midway through the first tune, mosquitoes are heavy this time of year - I had a bloodsucker draw a big welt on the back of my left hand, while I played. Insulting!

I've learned that the first song will foretell much about how the rest of a show is going to go. At nearly every venue, there will be applause after the first number, though interest will probably fade thereafter if it's pretty minimal in comparison to the number of audience members. This evening, there was absolutely zero feedback after I finished that first tune, and I knew I was already relegated to background dinner music status. I quickly re-geared my set to focus on light material, and didn't bother to do any singing (it's crushing to see one's original words fly into the nothingness of an inattentive crowd; I'd prefer playing, say, Beatles covers).

I took a break after 45 minutes or so, and when I returned, there was some turnover at the tables outside. I quickly realized that people were doing more drinking than eating, and more listening too. There was some actual clapping after my first tune of the second set, and I felt reinvigorated. Though it wasn't exactly a groundswell of attention, there was enough interest that I really started to enjoy myself, and I was a bit sad to have to end when the restaurant began to close.

The venue was a place called Le Cagibi, a good-sized cafe with a regular Tuesday night new music/improv series called Mardi Spaghetti. I walked in, mentally rehearsing my French introductory phrases, when a dark-hair fellow turned toward me and asked, in perfect English, "Hi, are you Daryl?" It was Pierre-Yves (he's French Canadian - no, really), one of the bookers and a very talented player as well. I soon found that everyone spoke at least a fair amount of English, though several times I'd hear a whole bunch of rapid stuff that just passed me by before the speaker noticed my glazed-over expression and switched over to Anglo. Pierre-Yves and the two other people he was playing with that night were setting up a mass of electronic gear and trying to figure out the PA, which was set up in an odd fashion. I made a small contribution to getting it working, then set up my tape decks on the small stage.

I like cafes like this that have the bar and espresso machines in a room separate from the music, one doesn't have to deal with the blending, grinding and milk-foaming noises and the people in the coffeeshop portion often get interested and pop over to hear what's going on. Though I found the flat tire occasionally coming to mind, I think I played well and tried a lot of different things, including the wood koto bridges my father had made for me. My last tune was especially nice, I thought, and there was a lot of very kind responses afterward, particularly from my fellow musicians. While Pierre-Yves and the others plugged in, I ran out to the car to get a start on changing the tire later. I found the spare tire in the trunk - a donut, to my great disappointment - and half of a jack, but I couldn't find the rest of it, even when I emptied the whole trunk onto the darkened sidewalk and scoured every corner. Not wanting to miss any of the next set, I grabbed the owner's manual, threw my crap back into the car and ran over to the cafe.

Pierre-Yves was playing a viola de gamba, a Renaissance-era instrument resembling a small cello, but with six or seven frets and seven strings. The two other players onstage with him were both sampling and his input, and adding to it with a shortwave radio and some other unidentifiable devices. They sounded great, especially as Pierre-Yves really knew what he was doing on his vintage axe, working a lovely vibrato and a great harmonic sense even when preparing the instrument with felt clips and other foreign objects.

Too soon for my taste, it was over and I had to deal with my tire. As everyone packed up their gear, traded CD's and wished me well, I scoured the car's manual, trying to find out where the rest of the jack was. The information wasn't in an obvious place, and neither was the rest of the jack - hidden under a screwed-on cover, beneath the driver's seat. Weird. After midnight now, I jacked up the Toyota on the darkened street and switched out the tire, cursing my luck. I could see a deep gash in the sidewall, and remembered now that earlier I had tried to fit into a tight parking spot next to a pallet with construction gear on it. It turned out to be too small for me, but as I backed in I hit the pallet pretty hard, and apparently I hit the corner which tore a hole in my tire. Blast.

I wheeled slowly back to McGill, where I've now spent a long time flipping through dozens of Net connections, all of which are protected. McGill has its own wireless network, and even an ethernet connection in the rooms, but they don't allow us humble travelers any access. I guess $49 only buys so many comforts.

It took place at a venue called Bread and Circus, in the Kensington Market area of Toronto. It's an interesting area full of cheese shops, chocolate, vintage clothing stores and a whole lot of people walking around. When we pulled up, there was a seriously heavy band doing Sabbath covers - w/baritone sax. Now THAT is heavy. They sounded great, though I stayed outside to save my eardrums for later use.

I set up for soundcheck with Ted Harms, a bassist from Kitchener. The soundman was harried and, I think, alarmed by our whole setup, particularly when I told him that I needed to send the headphone output from the four-track through the PA, and further when he heard Ted's double bass sent two octaves down (!) through a pitch-shifter. Still, he put it all together and we got a decent sound, though I was pissed off there were no monitors. (When a site advertises a "full PA", that implies speakers for the band to hear itself, people!).

The first half of the night was the "typical" cabaret, meaning a real variety of stuff. There was a comedian, a singer-songwriter, two dancers and a duo (www.mimomusic.com) who created a sound piece entirely from using an espresso machine and its associated equipment - glasses, water pouring, a coffee grinder - sent into a laptop. I found them to be brilliant.

The second half was a bit more focused, all involving myself and my tape loops. I started out with two solo pieces, which both turned out rather moody and tonal (I think I was feeling eager to please this diverse crowd who weren't necessarily there for improv music). Then Ted joined me, and as we'd agreed beforehand, our first piece together was the loudest and nuttiest, very fun with great sounds from Ted. During our second piece, during which I attached my new set of koto bridges my father made for me, I heard some crazy vocal stuff going on; Lisa had grabbed a mic and was re-interpreting bits of conversation heard around her. Great stuff. Then she and another dancer joined for two more pieces. I loved what they were doing - far beyond the contact dancing I've mostly had experience with - and found myself interacting directly with them. The last piece was a bit more reined in, but also more locked in, and we ended beautifully together. Though I'd wanted to invite Mimo up for a final piece, the PA was limited in direct boxes and, moreover, it was such a nice piece that it seemed perfect to end there.

A very special night. I need to get involved more with dancers (and bassists), it was a great thing to play with other instruments.

The second day was altogether different. It was a live taping for a show called Take Five, which is a daily news program that has interstitial music and interviews (a la NPR). I was met in the parking lot by the host, who asked if I was Daryl Shawn (nice to be asked for) and then told to park across the street as only students and faculty can park in the lot without getting a ticket (boo). I was then led into an underground cave of a recording studio, with stone walls, outdated equipment and a general damp. Still, the host and the engineer were more than professional and got me set up quickly. The format was three separate short interviews, followed by three tunes. I stuck with instrumental pieces - I wasn't sure if I trusted myself singing in the A.M. - and had a lot of fun answering questions, which focused a lot on my new record composed of pieces written for weddings, and my current tour. I talked about vocal and instrumental stuff, but left out any mention of my improv tape loop work - no need to complicate matters. They burned a CD of the session for me (no small feat, requiring four reboots of their ancient Power Mac) and, after signing a disclaimer, I was out the door. Very fun, and nice to know that my music would be mixed in with the newscast in the morning.

I'm a member of a listgroup dedicated to looping (loosely defined as the technique of using technological means to effect repetition, usually of a live sound source - see Kid Beyond, Imogen Heap, Robert Fripp, et al). The folks on this list have always impressed me by being of a singularly intelligent, open-minded, creative and generous sort, and it's been great to meet several of them in the flesh on this tour. Tonight's was set up by Michael Klobuchar, a multi-instrumentalist who I knew through the list. He had access to a venue, and I had a free night, so we thought we'd put something together and try to get other people involved.

All seemed to be well in place, but then first one, then the other person who had expressed interest in being part of the evening canceled their involvement. They both had good reasons, but it was still a big disappointment. Still, one of the beauties of improvised music is that any arrangement of persons can create together, so Michael and I simply carried on the show alone.

The International Children's Art Gallery is on Penn St. - perhaps twenty blocks from the charming, renowned Strip which has great Italian markets and other food stores (I'd stocked up on some seriously snooty cheese before leaving town on Wednesday) - but in a rather downscale area, where galleries of this sort tend to be located. I brought all my luggage and gear in from the car - I'd noticed the car behind me had a smashed back windows - and found myself in a high-ceilinged, brick-walled space with some terrific art on the walls and Michael's gear already set up, including PA. Sweet.

After a warm welcome from Michael, I plugged in my tape machines and we did a few pieces together to check the audio. He has an unconventional setup to run his keyboard and guitar through, with three or four of the same Alesis bit-reduction boxes, and he creates an amazing array of sounds. The soundcheck went fine, though I didn't have success getting Ninjam to work, which was disappointing as I'd hoped to dial in my Chinapainting partner Jim remotely.

A few people showed up to listen, and though for some reason they all soon went to hang out in other parts of the gallery (could we have been too loud? I don't think so..), one woman was utterly fascinated by our sound and approach. For one piece, she stood between us, checking out first what I was doing, then Michael. It was great; it felt like she was taking part even without playing an instrument. It struck me that I wouldn't mind playing in the middle of an audience so that people could easily see what I do and could perhaps feel more a part of the event.

We wrapped up with a few solo pieces, packed up the equipment, then headed back to Michael's for some chow, many beers and conversation on his charming back deck. Great stuff. This was dubbed the first PILL - Pittsburgh International Live Looping festival - and I hope to be part of the next.

Plus, two of the four musicians I was going to be playing with in Pittsburgh at my first looping event in two weeks canceled. They both had perfectly valid reasons, and don't hold it against them, but it's still disappointing.

One nice thing this morning was noticing the release (which may have been some time ago) of a live session I did as part of Moe Staiano's Moe!kestra, almost five years ago. It was great fun and I'm looking forward to hearing the recording. I'll be putting up a discography soon of my stuff just to keep track.

The last two shows have been alright. Connections Cafe in Pittsburgh is an interesting venue, with a massive sound system in a living-room-feeling kind of place. The soundperson was pretty helpless - anytime he did anything at the board, peals of feedback erupted - but once things were dialed in it sounded ok, and it was fun having two powerful monitors. Sadly, there was almost nobody there to see us. My co-player for the night, Keith Hershberger was playing three other times in the same area that week, so his crowd probably was taking advantage of the weekend opportunities. But his girlfriend was there, and she and the very sweet venue owners (who didn't blame us a bit for the weak turnout) sat on the easy chairs and couches as we traded sets. I stuck with vocal material, to better match with Keith's generally quiet acoustic indie folk, except one time when he played a particularly gorgeous tune to end his set and I felt like I needed to underscore that a bit with something matching, which I thought would best be an instrumental. Musically speaking, it was a decent night. Afterwards, I devoured a Pittsburgh burrito (no, really) with rooster chili sauce and Yuenglings.

I have some very dear friends in Cleveland, with a lovely house just down the street from Lake Erie. We spent the afternoon hanging out with their young son, then eating grilled swordfish with some other old pals who live in the area. I hadn't seen either of these couples in ten years, and it was a wonderful thing to reconnect. I was rather impressed by what I saw of Cleveland, too; lovely old Arts & Crafts buildings, a diverse ethnic makeup and the ever-present lake.

I left early for the Barking Spider (supposedly named not for an arachnid, but something unspeakable), where I was booked with Hillbilly Idol, a straight-up Western swing band. I followed my Google directions and was confused when I found myself on a campus, with the address denoting an alumni building. Hmm. I parked and wandered around a bit, thoroughly confused. Then I finally saw a sign for the pub in a parking lot behind the red brick structure, which led me past a chain-link fence to an open garden with a path which continued into the establishment. Whew.

The Spider is an old carriage house and low stable, with massive doors that completely open up the sides. It's a good thing, too, as the playing area is in the stables which are insufferably hot. Though my friends were brave enough to sit inside, everyone else was at outside tables, out of sight to the right and left. I did my "regular" mixed instrumental and vocal set, which I'm not sure was entirely appropriate for the venue (the calendar is mainly stocked with country and folk stuff), but there were some nice words afterwards, in lieu of substantial applause or attention except from my own crowd. The place sends out the bartenders to collect tips after each set, which had a surprisingly high success rate and which I accepted as at least a bit of appreciation.

Arefa's Espresso is a great place to play, with regular traffic coming in and an atmosphere where people are interested in listening. Both of us got a very nice reaction, and though we're doing very different stuff (especially tonight, as I was doing mainly instrumentals), I think there were enough common threads that we fit together. We sold some music at the end, and one lady bought a cd from both of us, which was a great feeling. In her rush to get cd's, she forgot a half a cake in a takeout tray, which I and my friend Keith Hershberger (who I play with tomorrow) demolished later for dinner. Sweet.

I played well, mainly for my own ears, but there was some listening going on. One very nice fellow who stuck around the whole time bought a few cd's, which was much appreciated. You could say this was a modest night, but a few nice words from one individual can make it all worthwhile.

Tomorrow I drive to Pittsburgh. I'm ready for it, I'm getting itchy staying in one place (my home base is Lancaster, PA) for four days. The daily gigs (and some good time with my family) have made it bearable but it still feels like stasis. The road calls.

With the same setup as the last two shows - two hours for me to fill in front of a minimal, not necessarily interested crowd - it felt very routine. But I remembered from last night to just keep my head down and focus on playing well, and I did a pretty good couple of sets. A lot of people were talking throughout, and one fellow loudly answered then carried on a cell phone conversation (to which I responded by playing my loudest faux-flamenco tune, sending him out to the patio), but I generally ignored all that and just did my thing. There were smatterings of applause, and afterwards there were some good tips. More surprisingly, I sold a CD to a fellow who was there the whole night - but had appeared to be glued to his laptop with his earbuds on the whole time. Oh well; it was appreciated anyway.

My co-player for the evening, Kurt Houff (who kindly set up the show after only knowing me from online communications) showed up soon after I did. He set me at ease a bit, with his extremely friendly manner and genuine skill in getting the sound set up. We decided to split sets, trading back and forth, and I offered to go first.

I opened with a number of instrumentals, as typical. Kurt was an enthusiastic listener, which was nice, especially as few others were paying attention. But the monitor was crapping out, and soon the smell of freshly fried chicken wings wafted through the joint, and as some noisy patrons settled at the bar, loudly ordering shots, I got seriously distracted and my playing went downhill. This added to my stress, my playing got worse, and I ended my set as soon as was polite.

Kurt got up, and completely OWNED. He's simply a monster player, with a well-thought out sound and a nice, deep voice that complimented his mix of originals and classic covers (lots of Neil Young). The people in the bar were watching and listening, he was getting applause, and as much as I enjoyed watching him, the dread inside me began to grow to ferocious levels; I really didn't want to do my second set. He finished up and called me back to the stage; sigh.

I ducked into the bathroom to try to clear my head, and resolved to come out swinging. I opened up with two of my boldest acoustic singing tunes, hoping to hit a new groove. They went fairly well, but with that material gone I had to settle back on my more sensitive numbers, which simply weren't right for this place. I felt the crowd slip away, my mental anguish grew, and again my playing got sloppier. I wished that every tune could be my last, but when I tried to stop after eight tunes or so, Kurt motioned that I should do at least a couple more (and to be fair, I really owed that). I managed to squeeze out a handful more, forgetting all the words after the first verse for one tune, then slunk offstage. Kurt again same on and did his thing, masterfully.

He was sweet as pie afterward, disavowing my negative viewpoint on my own performance, and introduced me to a younger guy who had enjoyed my set and said some nice words. That was very nice, and much appreciated, but couldn't overcome the pit of frustration that had welled up in me. I practically ran out of there after we exchanged our pleasantries, not even bothering to thank the very generous club owner.

I have got to be able to focus on guitar when I'm playing, and just forget about my environment. I really destroyed myself tonight.

I don't think we ever expected to get together in any form again. But then Douglas Witmer (our singer, brother of Denison Witmer) and Blake Lehmann (the bass player, now leader of Happy Accident) ran into each other in Philadelphia at a Mark Eitzel show and realized they'd been living in the same city for years. Last year I visited them both while doing some East Coast shows, and we started talking how much fun it'd be to play again. When I told them of my tour plans for this year, it seemed incumbent on us to get together and do a show.

Due to our various schedules (they both have kids and summer vacation plans, and I had my tour plans already in motion) we only could fit in two rehearsals. Somehow, that didn't bother us. We practiced on our own, sent some new songs to each other electronically, and when we met up it felt completely natural.

The Fire in Philly is a small club, with a bar on one side and a listening room on the other. It had the classic soundguy - cynical, crusty, and absolutely the self-determined master of his own domain. We had the briefest of arguments with him because the show was scheduled for 8:00, but we'd gotten an email today that I was to start my opening set at 9:30. This was going to make things difficult for a lot of our friends, who had gotten babysitters and such. So we made an agreement with the booker that I could start at 9:00 sharp. When I told this to the sound dude, he kinda reared back and declared that the start times were completely up to him, and he said 9:30. I kept pressing, and finally we agreed on 9:15. Okay.

With Landscape being the first band after my solo set, we got a much-desired soundcheck. The monitors were barely audible, so we kept pressing for more. I literally put my ear on top of the wedges and could just hear a bit of the singing. Mr. Sound threw his hands up and said it was all up to us, we'd have to turn down (we already were pretty judicious with the noise, I didn't even think of needing earplugs). We turned down to what seemed like barely living room stereo volume, and finally got what seemed to be a decent mix onstage. To my annoyance, he'd let the crowd gather during soundcheck; we were playing our opening tune, and having the crowd hear a businesslike rendition kinda blew that magical moment I'd been looking forward to of hearing us fresh after all that time. Oh well.

My abbreviated solo set went well - fun to play on a real stage, and especially in front of friends I hadn't seen in forever - then the band came on. I strapped on the DiPinto and Alec (our drummer) counted off. Man. The release of energy was palpable, it was just such an anticipated moment for us. I really blew the solo on the first tune, I think from excitement, but after that we were all on fire and I must modestly say that we kicked some ass. I was getting great feedback, Doug was in fine voice and I felt locked in with everybody. It was over before we knew it.

After us was Blake's band Happy Accident - whom I love (I call their stuff "workingman's haiku"), then Faux Slang, another Philly band with a great tight noise-rock thing going on. After the exhilaration of our set, it was great to decompress with a few beers and more top-notch loud underground rock.

I still can't believe we pulled off our reunion, as a better band than we ever were before. Who knows what the future holds, but this one is in the bank and I couldn't have asked for a better night.

I love staying at my old friend/singer's place. He's a wonderful painter, and I stay in his studio, kept company by a wall full of his current work. It's evocative, deep, thoughtful stuff, and provides an inspiring sort of mental bed to live around. Plus, he's got a nice Strat. I'm borrowing a sweet DiPinto Galaxie from our bassist for the show (he's been the guitar player/singer for his own band for something like 13 years now, so is having to work on his bass callouses), but I've been readjusting to electric playing on the Fender. It's such a different beast than the nylon-string which has become my main instrument, and I can't deny the terrific fun potential in a loud amp. I'm loving my Effector 13 Aenima too, though it tends to obliterate the rest of the band when I kick it on. Pure chaos volume. And something about the Galaxie caused me to assume an A-frame stance (a wide stance, some would say...) I've never sported before. Funny.

Man, Philadelphia is humid. It's like walking around inside of a rain cloud.

So this time, in a sort of penance, I decided I wouldn't sing at all in SF. Thursday I had a great night at Luggage Store Gallery with my tape loops, and then tonight, an event I've been looking forward to almost more than any other this tour. I've never done an all-instrumental show with my guitaring as the main focus (as opposed to, like, a restaurant background music gig), and I thought I'd do it properly and treat it in a formal fashion as a recital. So I booked the Meridian Gallery, a beautiful place I played at last year with Chinapainting, and even took the step of printing out programs. I stopped short of the ridiculous tradition of entering and leaving the stage before/after each piece, but I did kinda get dressed up.

The Gallery is a three-story Victorian (the last undivided Victorian mansion in downtown SF, they say), and normally the performances take place in a room on the third floor, far above the street noise. This time, though, that room was filled with massive (and very interesting) bronze sculptures. They'd told me about this beforehand, and had given me the option to set up wherever I wanted, even around these artworks if I wished. It would have been kinda fun, but many of them were mounted very high on four skinny vertical legs, and I feared for the stability of the works in case there was a particularly enthusiastic crowd response to my music (or more likely, my bumbling around). So I picked the first floor, which has a wooden floor and high ceilings like the top story does.

There are streetcar tracks just outside the front door, and I was a a little concerned that the noise might be a distraction. I was really excited about the idea of playing without amplification, though, so I sat and played for a while to get a sense of what it would be like. I love playing without amping up, and the acoustics are wonderful in the building, so I had a great little time there by myself hearing my chords echo around. I had my PA as a backup in case, but decided to stay unplugged.

At the time I was supposed to go on, only two people had showed up (sigh...), so I pushed it back. Fifteen minutes later, another person had come in, which felt like critical mass, so I started. It felt so good to be completely in control of my sound, and I played with dynamics more than I usually do, especially taking advantage of the times when the street noise died down at the same time as a quiet section. By intermission (yep) a few more people had showed up, and then a few more as I started the second set, so it felt like a nice crowd in the end. I played pretty well, I thought, and when I finished people asked for an encore, which I hadn't planned on. Someone suggested repeating one of the tunes I'd played earlier on (Danza del Campo), which I was more than happy to accommodate.

I need to do one of these again; I loved the format.

After my set came John Hanes (well-known as a drummer) and Jonathan Segel (violinist with Camper Van Beethoven, who played a huge reunion show in SF last night), doing a joint improvised set. Mr. Hanes had a fascinatingly tiny setup of the little red Kaoss Pad and a Nintendo DS loaded with some custom sound software. With nearly imperceptible movements of a stylus, he dropped atonal squiggles, boops and bleeps, plus some serious bass bombs. I found it fascinating to watch the microscopic process, as compared to Segel who alternated brief violin phrases with long periods of mouse-clicking on his laptop, which I found much harder to relate immediately to the music. About halfway through their unbroken set they started to gel together and some really beautiful stuff emerged; they could have played double the amount of time they did and I'd have enjoyed it all.

The Gallery is, of course, on what is the most notorious corner of San Francisco at the intersection of 6th Street and Market, so you need to be prepared for the local atmosphere. I felt a wee bit nervous, waiting for my ride after the show with all my equipment out on the sidewalk, as a panoply of the most chaotic side of urban humanity staggered by. Up in the cloistered gallery, two stories above, one can easily forget this if not for the occasional drunken yell or police siren.

Ever since last year's debacle, I've had a bit of a superstition about playing in Fresno. It really was one of the worst gigs I've played, ever. Compounding that was the fact that the local paper promoted the date with a nice color photo and event description..except with the entirely wrong date. So a large group of friends showed up on the Monday after the Friday when I actually played, only to find a locked door and my having long slunk out of town.

It was hard finding a venue this time, and nearly all of the ones I contacted never bothered to respond (even gallery spaces which normally are very on top of communications) but Javawava seemed ideal. It's a good-sized coffeeshop with good reviews and a popular open mic. The owner was friendly and more than willing to book me. However, he did mention during our first conversation that he'd been having some thoughts about selling the venue. A warning bell went off in my head, but I accepted the date as it seemed my only real option.

It was only after advising my friends there about the show, two weeks before the date, that I saw a notice go up on the cafe website - they were actively looking to sell. Oh no. I called the owner and he said that, while he couldn't promise anything, in case the joint was suddenly sold he was going to do everything in his power to urge the new owners to honor existing bookings. But...he couldn't promise anything.

Even as I solidified plans with my friends there for dinner before the event, and booked a hotel, I continued to check the venue site every day, terrified that I'd see a dreaded "under new management - closed for remodeling" notice. Thankfully, the date arrived without a single change on the website, so everything seemed to be good. However, then I noticed their special summer hours - 9 to 5, every day. My gig was booked for 7:30 - oh no. I called the place in a panic, at noon that day, hoping against hope that my show hadn't been overlooked.

The owner sounded a bit surprised to hear me, and I suspected that he'd forgotten about the show. But he reassured me that it was still on, they were going to stay open late for me. Whew.

Thank goodness for my friends, they were the only warm bodies in the place other than the barista - one could assume that the posted daytime closing hours might have affected attendance. Playing went well, with decent attention being paid, plus two kids who came up close to peer curiously at my fingers, then danced with utter abandon during my more rocking tunes. There was even some air guitar.

The spell is broken!

Tonight was not a great coffeeshop show. Viento y Agua in Long Beach is a nice venue, physically, with an actual stage, PA, a large airy space and comfortable chairs scattered around. But things got off to a bad start when the barista behind the counter continually insisted that he be the one to set up the PA and remove the chairs from the stage. I had no problem with that, but it simply wasn't happening, he continued to pour drinks and chat with his co-workers. The hour got later and later, as I offered again and again, and he kept refusing my assistance. At ten minutes after the time I was supposed to be playing, I finally just did it all myself, grumbling and sweating. I didn't have the opportunity to warm up or go for a quick walk before playing, which is my ritual, and the stress manifested itself in my forgetting the chords to my very first tune, which I've been playing at nearly every show for the past three weeks. I stumbled around a bit, trying to make myself remember, then halted the carnage abruptly and pretended to fiddle with the PA, blaming "tech issues" before starting a different tune which thankfully presented itself complete.

I wasn't playing too well, and other than my handful of friends and a scattered handful of others, I didn't feel like any attention was being paid to me. Worse, a couple of women in the back talked continuously and loudly through the whole set. Ironically, afterwards they were the only ones outside of my friends to pay me any compliments. They said they "loved it". What? I accepted it with a smile, but it sure felt like a meaningless compliment.

The talented Gayle Skidmore played after me. I liked her music, especially when she played banjo and mountain dulcimer, but her manager (!) grabbed ahold of my ear and simply wouldn't shut up about this and that webpoll or download or video or radio list that Ms. Skidmore was, apparently, creating a massive buzz with. Dude. I'm at the show, listening to her. Your job is done..! Just shut up and start working on getting your Artist booked at an actual venue..!

It unfortunately colored by experience of her music, as did her unwillingness to trade her $10 6-song EP with my $8 18-song album afterward (everyone trades CD's on the road). I know times are tight, but...whatever. She is worth seeing, but beware her entourage.

Without a website calendar to check, I got a little nervous and called again in May to confirm the date. Everything was fine, and the booker seemed a bit surprised that I was calling; of course everything's still set. I confirmed it with Twas Writ, and let my friends know about the show. Cool.

Monday night, though, I received an email from the booker telling me to call him, that there was a scheduling conflict. Uh oh. I gave him a ring and he said that an Irish jam session had been on the schedule before me and that our appearance was off. I was dumbfounded. As often happens, I knuckled under, said it was ok with a heavy sigh, and hung up, before gathering my bearings and my guts and calling back to insist that he give me the name of the jam organizer, perhaps we could go on before that. He apologized for the error but refused to try to work anything out; we were, simply, not gonna play that night.

I was fairly fit to be tied, as they say. Nothing against Ireland or the jam sessions featuring its music, but it didn't seem right that an open stage event would get absolute priority. It'd be different if it were, say, San Francisco, where there are plenty of venues to play. I felt like I'd invested a lot into this, what seemed to be my only opportunity, and now I felt like even future dates would be out of the question - I can't book somewhere that doesn't have the ability to stay on top of its schedule, knowing that I could be screwed again with little notice. I let my work friends know, and with even deeper regrets Twas Writ. I was really looking forward to hearing her play, and also felt rather lame for needing to cancel for such a stupid reason.

In a funk, I arrived at the office I needed to work at that day and began cracking. Soon I noticed that some of the people were laying out food on a table near where I was working, nice stuff. I assumed it was some sort of community function, but thought it was weird they'd be setting up in this particular back office as opposed to some sort of common room. Finally I asked what it was all about, and they replied, "You". Me?

Of their own accord, after hearing of my show cancellation, they'd planned a noontime concert in its place. Chairs were set up, people served themselves a pile of food and they all sat down to listen. It was by far the most intimate and focused setting I've played at in forever, and it was incredibly rewarding to know that I was being heard, free of distractions. I played for 40 minutes or so, then they bought every CD I'd brought with me. My originally scheduled show couldn't possibly have been more successful.

I was planning to just wing it all-acoustic, but the barista in the back said he couldn't hear me over the espresso machine and since he represented one full third of my audience at the outset, I accommodated his needs and plugged in. I started with a few of my second-tier instrumentals, warming up, then did some Beatles and other covers, waiting for people to show up. "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" got a huge response; being an expressly gay-friendly place, I wasn't altogether surprised. Hee hee.

As people started to show up, I eased more into my regular set, avoiding a few of the rockingest tunes as they just didn't seem appropriate at 4 p.m. on a lazy Sunday. Other than one dude who was there the entire time and never looked up from his laptop, I felt like people were really listening. One of the blessings of playing a really tiny place is that ten audience members can feel like a massive crowd, and I was energized by the attention. Though modest in just about every respect, this turned out to be a really nice show, in fact the best so far for a coffeehouse.

Dry River is an anarchist collective that hosts a lot of classes and meetings in addition to shows. It's one of the most unlikely-looking venues I've ever played at, from the outside, a rough one-story structure of crumbling adobe walls and raw concrete. Inside, it's full of life, with a very well-stocked periodical library representing leftist causes and plenty of artwork, music gear, and rotating fans jutting from floor, wall and ceiling (remember, it's Arizona, and AC is doubtless beyond their budget).

There were five acts scheduled to play including myself, and as befits an anarchist joint, the order hadn't been determined beforehand (so as not to suggest a hierarchy..?). First went Michael Huerta, a hushed-voice songwriter accompanying himself with some very ingenious acoustic guitar. His Elliott Smith shadings got a great response, and I was pretty taken with his stuff too.

I was up next, so plugged in my gear, and started suffering frustrations immediately. My dictaphone microcassette was seizing up after the first 10 seconds of play, no doubt finally giving in the excessive wear on that part of the tape (that's the only part I ever use). I had a spare, but it was in my luggage at my friend's house. Argh. Also, there was no monitor and I could just barely hear my loops. It's one thing to mime a composed piece, playing through the motions and hoping it's in tune, but for improvised music one really needs to hear what's going on. I myself prefer to be completely bathed in sound for this kind of thing, as subtle details can suggest other things. On top of this, it seemed as if some of the tracks on the tape were recording at a very low level (which sometimes happens with my homemade tapes) so I was never quite sure if what I was playing was going into the mix or not.

Though a nice little circle of listeners had seated on the floor in front and appeared to be in deep concentration, things never quite jelled for me. I found myself relying on one-chord crescendant drones, which are fine but hardly groundbreaking. I cut things short and left the stage. A few people showed appreciation - the booker/organizer gave me a big hug - and I ended up selling or trading a few cd's, all of which improved my rather dour mood a bit.

Next up was Great Job, a local trio. They played acoustic, on the floor in front of the stage without amplification, which was charming and perfectly fitting to their clever, often hilarious, lo-fi and ironic folk-freak-pop. Bird Names also set up on the floor, though with plenty of amps scattered around. They were simply amazing, with a sort of African feel in their exuberance, interlocking rhythms and massive vocal sound (often all five members would be singing at once, in addition to whipping out some really demented chords and rhythms). I was grinning like an idiot by halfway through their set.

Paul Barbireau finished out the night with his nervous energy, nimble guitar and terrific songs, all pounded out without amplification. Lots of people seemed to know his stuff and were singing along. It was heartening, really, to see this sort of troubadour aesthetic carried on. He's a real charmer.

This was a damn fun evening, I enjoyed every set and loved the lack of pretense. Everyone just seemed to be absolutely committed to doing their own freaky thing, and though beforehand I wasn't entirely sure how my sound collages were going to fit in, I think my set was as accepted as anyone else's.

I put a lot of work into this show, finding the venue, booking it, finding a local opener, inviting friends to come, promoting it online and to local papers. And it's just gone now. I'll never book a show there again - how could I, based on what happened here? Big bummer.

Also disappointing is the cancellation of a looping show I was really looking forward to in Sacramento next monday. Not the booker's fault, the venue (True Love Coffee House) had some kind of management shakeup and sudden renovations need to happen, with less than two week's notice to the bands on the schedule. Suck.

To add insult, I had tickets to see Bill Frisell tonight - the only show by another artist I can catch on my travels - and it was cancelled, also last minute.

All of this is a real downer. Still, I did manage to catch another set by Bird Names, who I fell I love with in Tucson. They're brilliant.

Fiddler's Dream is an all-acoustic establishment, meaning not just acoustic instruments, but no PA whatsoever. The first act of the night, the Mass Wasters (that has to be some kind of Dylan reference) clearly didn't need sound reinforcement as they filled up the place with sound, though of course they were four fellas, sometimes utilizing three guitars plus mandolin. They did all classic folk/rock stuff; Neil Young, lots of Dylan, a bit of Dead, other big hits. They had a crowd there who were loving this music, and I started to feel a bit of dread; how was I going to please this kind of (40-plus, folkie, hippie-leaning) audience? I also was was little miffed that they stretched their 40-minute slot into 50 minutes, after which much of the crowd left (it was getting a bit late for that demographic).

The second artist, Mike Lopez, played solo doing original stuff, mostly on nylon-string, but otherwise was completely different from me. He was a top-notch entertainer for the folk crowd; engaging, full of stories, with a deep, rich baritone and a passel of charming, accessible tunes about his family and his heritage, ideal topics for this kind of venue. My heart sank a bit further; he represented something perfect for this crowd, and I did not.

I was reminded, alarmingly, of my show last year in Fresno, which was a disaster. The venue had heavily promoted my appearance to the local Latino crowd as if I was a traditional Mexican artist; the opening act sang in Spanish, and even introduced me as a "Oaxacan singer" (!) though they'd met me beforehand and knew my story. I took the stage in front of fifty people who were clearly disappointed even before I played a single note; I am clearly NOT Oaxacan, and there was a palpable hostility as I began, which I can't blame the audience for - they'd ponied up the cover charge thinking I was something I was, in fact, not. Though I spoke mostly in Spanish and did my best to entertain, the audience began to ebb away immediately with not a small bit of hostility. I rank it among the worst gigs of my life, and it seemed as if I was doomed to repeat that dreaded situation of being not what is expected.

Mike finished up, and after briefly considering grabbing my guitar and bolting for the exit, I took the stage in front of the now-diminished audience with much trepidation, wondering what I'd got myself into. I began with an instrumental, which I've been doing on all the shows, and followed immediately with my most Western tune, which I hadn't even planned on playing this tour (but if ever a situation called for it, this was the time). It got a very nice reaction, and I relaxed a little bit. A few more people straggled in over the next couple of songs, adding a bit more life, and soon I was genuinely enjoying myself. I realized how nice it was to not have to worry about the monitor mix, the balance of guitar to voice in the mains, or even finding the microphone when I close my eyes to sing. It felt liberating, really, and at the same time created a much more immediate, intimate relationship with the listeners. I was very attuned to their reactions, and felt as if they could hear the words more than at any other show (I even got laughs at a few lines I always intended to be amusing, though they never seemed to work that way before).

Most unexpectedly, it turned into the best show so far. A great night.

Today was to be a day off from playing, and I finished my work early, so I dropped by an amazing place called the Sonic Arts Gallery. It's basically a museum/studio dedicated to microtonal music; absolutely amazing. I got to play all kinds of instruments, from a 19-fret-per-octave mbira to a sort of table-mounted Stick, and about eight microtonal guitars. Super cool.

I then decided to drop in on an open mic at a place called Rebecca's Coffee House. For being an acoustic solo player, somehow I've avoided ever taking part in a true open mic, and this seemed to be a great place to start. It's a roomy joint with a true stage that seems to be the focus of the room, and the owner is a true sweetheart (she was fascinated by the fact that I was from Oaxaca, so I brought her some chocolate, and she thanked me in an extremely generous way. Thank you, Rebecca).

I signed my name to the list - I was thirteenth, oy - and settled into an overstuffed chair to listen to the other players. Without fail, the most professional, polished performers were the ones doing cover songs, while those doing original music were rather, well, rough. I much preferred the latter, embarrassing though it sometimes was; the covers were really just karaoke without the beats, and who needs more of that?

My turn finally arrived, two and a half hours after signing in, and I played the two tunes that seem to get across best. I'd hoped to play at least three, but a couple of the pro imitators on before me had overfilled their slot, playing four tunes sometimes, so in the interest of time those of us at the end had to chop our sets. I played well, but in a way disturbingly similar to last night, I felt almost no feedback (except for that coming from my low A and E strings, which resonated continuously whenever I struck them - c'mon soundguy, it's called a graphic EQ) from those assembled. Earlier in the week, I was developing a complex about my vocal stuff being weaker than my instrumentals, but now I'm getting a complex about everything I'm doing. I know my tunes make sense, are generally well-played and aren't the run-of-the-mill cafe fare - how am I failing to connect?

Afterward, I intended to drown my disappointment in some good Vietnamese food - there was a place I'd discovered for lunch that had great chow, and extremely pleasant service. Something had happened, though; it took 15 minute for someone to come to take my order, then they forgot the drink I requested, and didn't bother returning to the table again until I'd finished my plate, which was decent but not as nice as lunchtime. It was even the same staff, now turned lazy and forgetful.

Also today, I learned that a show I was particularly looking forward to has been canceled, because the venue is remodeling. That's probably the worst thing that happened today. Big bummer.

Things got off to a strange start when I met the booker, who was obviously marinating in THC. He met me pleasantly enough, then said, so, you want to talk about Saturday, right? Uh, no, I actually want to talk about the guitar I'm carrying and it impending use on your stage. When I pointed out that we had talked just two weeks ago about this date, he registered complete surprise. "Really? Tonight? Uh...okay!" He then asked if I had a PA. Luckily, I decided to bring my new portable Yamaha PA, mainly for monitoring. This place has music all the time, so I figure it had to have a PA. It did have mic stands, a mic, and an acoustic guitar amp, but the mic cord was fried so I had to run buy one, as I'd left my own cord back at the hotel. There went $25 to the one music store in town...aargh.

I got arranged on the very nice stage in one corner, against windows on the street which is my favorite playing situation, and started out with a passel of instrumentals, happy that there were quite a few people there, buried in laptops, laughing with friends, reading. It seemed quite promising. Halfway through the first tune, a lip-ringed hipster deposited, with a huge flourish, one shiny dollar bill in the large urn labeled "Tip". Yes, just "Tip".

Now, one thing I've noticed is that the first tune of the evening always, without fail, gets applause. After that it's a crapshoot, but whether it's an audience of one or one hundred, you'll get some claps after that first song. Tonight, I finished up my first piece, an old standby which came out very cleanly, to...silence. There were a good twenty people in the room, but nobody bothered. I gulped a bit, a little flummoxed, but moved on to the next piece on my list, a louder, strummier tune with a few showy touches. There was some scattered claps after that one, though nobody made eye contact or seemed especially interested.

I soldiered on through eight or nine instrumentals, then switched to a few vocal tunes. Everything was coming out great, I was limber and relaxed, the sound was good, and the place was lively. My music was just, literally, falling on deaf ears.

I took a break, more to refocus than to give my fingers any kind of rest - they were doing fine, it was me that was having the problem. I just didn't understand it; in every crowd, there is at least one person who gets turned on when I'm playing well. Not tonight. I may as well have been washing windows for all the love I was getting.

I returned from my break and had a brief conversation with someone who was complimentary, though he seemed more impressed than moved, if that makes sense. Plus, he was leaving. I launched into a few of my very favorite pieces, good loud ones that always get a reaction, with a bit of venom from my frustration. I was working it, and it felt great, like I was really breaking through. But once again, I finished to a faint patter of almost-embarrassed applause.

With my favorite vocal tune, I came closest to a reaction. I saw two faces in the crowd actually upturn and seem to listen, and it inspired to dig deep into the heart of the song. At the end, I looked up...and saw each person back in conversation or in their laptop. I played one more and left the stage, smarting.

I asked the dude at the counter where the booker was. "He has peaced out", was the solemn reply. Though I've many times heard it as a parting statement, I wasn't aware it was a state of being that one could achieve, simply by, seemingly, going home. Not unkindly, he added "Thanks for playing," though with about as much enthusiasm as that reserved for customers who bus their own table.

Packing up, I visited the offering urn, and saw, there, the solitary dollar left there at the start of the evening. Apparently the label wasn't kidding; at the E Street, one must rein in all expectations, not be demanding of attention from the crowd, and be content with one's Tip.

The worst thing, though, was getting cut off early. My understanding was that I had a 45-minute set, based on the fact that I had an email from the booker telling me that my set started at 8:00 and ended at 8:45. But after six songs, the sound-person whispered to me that I had one song left. What? I most unprofessionally had a few polite though confused words with her onstage (should have just adjusted immediately without question), but jumped to my last song and finished up. When I talked to the booker afterwards, she claimed that she had sent an email telling us of 30-minute sets. Looking back, that was actually true - I'd forgotten it in the subsequent flood of emails about the show being canceled, then not, then moved to anther booker, etc - but much more recently after that email was the one giving me 45 minutes.

Up to that point I'd been playing fairly well - though my first vocal tune still seemed to be getting away from me in tempo, I think my songs were getting across better than Friday - but was just getting started on my instrumental set when I got shut down. It was incredibly frustrating. I don't like 30-minute sets, and if I'd known from the beginning that I'd be playing a half an hour in a cattle-call evening of five artists, I probably wouldn't have accepted the show.

I also had an annoying time with the soundperson, who did fine for my set but was baffled in trying to accommodate poor Toddy's simple request to send a vocal feed out to the pedal and back into the PA. I'm afraid I came across as an ass, but the truth is that it's not complicated. I'd started off with a good rapport with the woman working the board but I believe I ruined it. Though Toddy had to make do without her loops, I did play one tune with her which was fun and I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of her short set; I love her stuff.

After us was a true 60's songwriter, then a crazy-loud duo who had zero relation with the music preceding. I took my leave, with a cold goodbye from the booker (probably just pissed I didn't bring more people and/or had the words with her about the short set). Oh well. I don't plan to play here again.

I wasn't sure quite what to expect from Fantastic Ego and Warm Climate, the two other bands. The music I'd heard online from them was, in both cases, extremely diverse, with a lot of instruments going on and often very song-oriented. I had a bit of a fear that both would show up with a team of players, doing straight-ahead tunes, with me in the middle doing my improv on my own and trying to fit in. But Fantastic Ego showed up as one fella, who set up a massive modular synth and a couple of looping pedals and began creating huge, sprawling loops that whirled deeper and deeper into chaos, and I knew that I was going to fit in just fine. I thoroughly enjoyed his set and was disappointed that he cut it short at less than half an hour; his sounds were amazing.

Art spaces like this are great to play in, because they're made for modest crowds - there were probably a dozen people there tonight, at most, but it seemed to fill the place with humanity - so they never have the depressingly cavernous feel that a full-on rock venue with a dozen people in it does. Plus, the walls are always covered with interesting work of all kinds, seeming to beg for more creativity.

My set started out a bit roughly; with no monitors, I couldn't hear my loops too well, and I'd mistakenly loaded the four-track with one of my backup loops which I hadn't tested too well. One of the tracks had a very loud bump at the splice point, and every once in a while the third and fourth tracks wouldn't record at all, and I started getting frustrated and tensing up. But by partway through the second piece, I finally settled in and began to listen and respond more to the loop sounds, rather than trying to drive everything from the guitar. It seemed like the people there, seated on thoughtfully provided pillows on the floor, were really listening, and sounds began to emerge from mysterious places, the fortunate occasional product of leaving things up to chance and chaos. I was having a blast; it was over too soon.

Warm Climate - appearing as one dude, as with Fantastic Ego - closed out the night with a great and noisy set involving clarinet, keys, guitar, a slew of pedals and a little sampler. Towards the end, the monstrous sonic soup gave way to a few (fairly twisted) voice and guitar songs, which I thought was a terrific progression, really putting the songs in an interesting context.

Afterwards, many CD's and compliments were swapped. I'm still amazed at how supportive these small arts venues are; it's unbelievable how different it is from a rock venue or coffeeshop, just in terms of openness to new music and generosity with time, effort and the little bit of money that comes in. In a lot of ways it's absolutely the best playing experience one could ask for.