Out of the infirmary gates, running

with love to Patria Jacobs for use of the photos.

The girl that you were in the back of a car

there was nobody left there to tend to your scars
all the aspirin in the world couldn't make you less that girl
do yourself a mischief if you could

Steven Schayer sang those words Easter Eve, and I think there were a few of us old gals in the audience who could identify. Heh. It *was* a week, and I'm glad that I came out the other side, alive, smiling, and still humming from the gathering we had.

Bibi flew out from Atlanta on Tuesday. It was stormy as hell, and her flight to Mammoth was canceled. We figured out how to get her on a bus to Lancaster, and I tore out of the house and picked her up 3 hours later. It was an interesting drive, with at least 3 semis knocked down from the west winds picking up speed out of the Sierras. The Owens Dry Lake looked like a 20 mile long witch's cauldron. We celebrated our safe return to Bishop with a few single malts. This was Bibi's fourth visit to Bishop, and she hit the ground running and made good use of the workout and caffeine resources we have while I did a bit of work and started to makes lists for the weekend.

Sue, AKA "the new girl from Wis-CON-sin," flew out Wednesday. She got to use Mammoth Airport, and it was smiles all around. She was a trouper and fell in to the flow of drinking what we were pouring (tea, wine, belgian beer) and thoughtfully chiming in about all things New Zealand music and everything else. Her New Zealand music "thing" started in earnest in the early 1980s and predates Flying Nun. Meeting Sue was like meeting a long lost sister- one who'd been to all the best shows and had all the best memorabilia.

Friday found the first wave of musicians Patria, Volita and Moss - a sister and brother from Auckland who are in the States to play and to record- rolling in from Los Angeles. I'd met Patria briefly in LA at Steven's last solo set in October, and we kept in touch over the months. I hoped that culturally and politically, she'd find Bishop full of kindred spirits. She is wry and cheeky and nurturing- my kind of woman.

Karen, my rock of Gilbraltar, regaled us all with love (in the form of her famous crack and mac mac and cheese, West Coast brews, and promises of freshly caught trout), tales of playing pool with Jeff Buckley, and her enthusiasm. Uncle Sniffy Mark came from the Bay Area and brought the gorgeous and kind Renee, who'd been raised in Mexico City, but conceived in Russia! It was lovely to sit in the semi-dark around the fire and the stage, telling tales, hearing snippets of live songs (including one from Volita called "From Russia, with Love"), and having a good laugh.

The second wave of musicians, Steven, Marc Horton (whom I met from the Mutton Birds' list back in '03 or so), and Chantelle, arrived early Saturday morning. Sue and I were bathing in the glow of Facebook on two laptops when they arrived. We promptly whipped out the meat products (tri-tip and carnitas), shots of single malt whisky, and silly hats. Steven treated us to cartwheels in the backyard and tales of an intensive New Zealand tour with the Black Watch.

Five shots of whisky (Old Pulteney, Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban, Springbank Sauternes finish, Bowmore, Jameson) later, we bade each other a good night and went to bed. Incredibly, nobody was hungover the next day. I credit ginormous pots of Irish Breakky tea.

Owen, the Kiwi who flew out from Chicago, arrived with with his friend Amy Saturday morning. They had a hell of a long day coming from Phoenix, getting stuck on Hoover Dam, overheating in Owen's '66 Mustang, and calling it a night in Beatty, Nevada. They still had what I refer to as "the alien abduction highway*" to contend with, so I'm glad they tackled it with fresh eyes and some sleep.

Matty took some folks to see Sky Rock, our local petroglyph. The soundchecks went well. Davey Cello Man Huebner turned up after a ski and met Steven minutes before their set.

The wind picked up. There was to be no potlucking outside. I forgot to cut the rum punch with seltzer. Folks arrived. I was strict with the kids about where they could and couldn't play - I hope I wasn't too mean. Patria picked up Derik, my sound man, for country lead guitar and Chantelle for pick up drums.

Wee babies - Eloise, Amaya, Soren, and their mommies and daddies turned up. Cousin Deanna and Nellydog (both whom we hadn't seen in ages) turned up.

Songs from both sets sent shivers down my spine. Patria sang with an effortless grace about grown women and little boys. Dave and Steven played beautifully together - like they'd been playing together for years. Bless Dave for putting in the time to learn Steven's songs. Bless Steven, the boy with the voice the size of a house, who, for the sake of decorum, changed the phrase "God damn" to "Gosh damn" on Easter Eve. Steven made Karen cry with his line that goes something like:

I'm going down to the Mission

and

going to light a candle for my mother

everybody says this won't hurt a bit

that's a lie that people tell each other

Post show, the group staying at the house and a few others sat around for singalongs. We Humphreys and Keen fans murdered the tune "The Liquor Talking" but did an alright Able Tasmans' "What Was That Thing?" with Owen on drums. Steven scatted a fine "Blister in the Sun." Marc and Chantelle led lovely Verlaines (Joed Out?) and Big Star tunes. Chantelle is this gorgeous auburn haired, dark blue eyed slip of a woman who plays drums. I am in love.

Volita and Moss played an impromptu set, rocking out and letting Karen and me to shake a leg.

Davey Huebner is a genius and slayed folks with his cello playing and singing. His "House of the Rising Sun" made me come running out of the TV room (I was hanging out with Babbo and Orin, who were watching Sponge Bob) because folks were stamping and hooting. Steven kept saying, "Please make him stop. It's depressing me!"

Steven tried out a very punk stream of consciousness "Walk Like an Egyptian" on Davey's cello.

We ended the evening with drinks, cups of tea, leftovers, and more drinks, with most of the crew going to check out the local honky tonk, Rusty's. Karen was the tourguide for the expedition and Matty, the chaperone. A few of us more sedate girls stayed home and got our jammies on. I had to send Humphreys and Keen's Peter Keen a note about the evening. I'd been calling the weekend a convention in H&K's honor and Marc, without knowing that, turned up with the chords to "The Liquor Talking" learned and the lyrics printed. All our geeky threads are long and intertwined.

The drinking party returned like waves of loud geese - so loud that Patria and I got out of bed to see what we'd missed. I came downstairs to find Karen madly making scrambled eggs for everyone. She had to get up at dawn to get AT from LA. Folks stood around the kitchen proclaiming how much they all loved each other and how talented they thought everyone was. Steven was plied with eggs and meat products and put to bed.

Babbo was in his element that week. Aunties and uncles played with him, read to him, sang to him. He got to play boy host. "Steven, my mommy made you this yummy (as he's chomping away) Carnitas!" He wouldn't dance to Steven's set, but did play a little light sabre air guitar.

Most of us went to Macey's Easter Sunday potluck in Keeler. My dad was there and it was nice to introduce him to folks. Sundays at Macey's are mellow affairs, and it was a good place for us to say our goodbyes to the LA-folks and to Owen and Amy.

Perhaps one of the loveliest memories for me from the entire week was being in the car with Bibi and Sue on the drive down to LA on Monday. We sat for long stretches without talking, but we did sing along to hours of the Able Tasmans on the car stereo - all this, without apology.

The weekend had been a Jameson and pots of coffee/tea-fueled affair. That, coupled with the late nights and adrenaline made it a wee bit hard to come down. Over a week later, some of us are still floating.

* alien abduction highway = HWY 168 desolate, mountainous, full of free range cattle and sheep, dark as all get out, and you're going to get abducted and probed.

the Itchy and Scratchy Show

I cleared tomato plants from the garden yesterday, 40someodd of them. Gave some perennials a quick haircut for winter and broke out in a quick itchy rash that went away when I finally had a shower.

It was a crap tomato year for everyone. It started very late and was not superproductive. I do believe that heirloom/open pollinated yields are not as high as superkillerhybrid yields, but I am not fond of most hybrids.

Lynne's Black Cherry was a tasty wonder, even if the plants fought early blight. They had the flavor of a Black Brandywine without the wait. Zapotec did not like my yard and the fruit leathered on the vine.

Green tomatillos have taken over a few of my beds. Be careful of where you compost leftover green salsa. T.T. has found good use for the tomatillos, thankfully, and we have some nice relish to go with our carnitas tacos today.

Dad and his lovely friend Natalie took Wyatt fishing Saturday. Natalie has two grandsons with diabetes and was the guardian of one for 8 years. She was great. She asked all the right questions and asked for the right diabetes gear. Hopefully my Dad learned a bit. Wyatt had a great time landing "RAINBOW TROUT!" and we had a great time going out to lunch with Matt's old high school best friend and going out to Auntie Genevieve/Auntie Shauna's Baby-Q potluck. It was a great break from active parenting.

In other news, I have been pitching to and wooing Kiwi bands, labels, and handlers. Bless good ol' Ben Howe at Arch Hill. He is an old Flying Nun artist (Superette) and hosts the marvelous Don McGlashan and Luke Buda (among others) on Arch Hill. Have also pitched to Loop Recordings, the Wellington International Ukulele Orchestra, and WIUO/Don McG's Manager. Thanks to Bibi and Lynne for being my daily sounding boards on these matters and to Steve for the encouragement from the muso's perspective and to Karen and Matty and Diane for the general "go for it-ness" of it all.

Night two. NZ Music holds court in a basement somewhere in Downtown LA

I got to meet Don McGlashan minutes after weeping like a maudlin baby for Paul Hester. Crowded House closed the tour with "Better Be Home Soon" for PH, and after the high emotions of the week (all the Schoberlews are being treated for strep, family reunion dramas, personal dramas, blah blah), the thought of poor, fucking Paul Hester hanging in a public park just made me very, very sad.

Don McGlashan is cheekier than I imagined. He got and ran with it when I thanked him for "embracing his 'inner Black girl' on this tour." He said, "Ah, but you should have heard me sing "Bathe in the River" (a song of his in the gospel style with lovely falsettos) in New York." Matty thanked him for writing love songs to civil engineers the world over (McGlashan's father was a civvie). Roger King was lovely for offering us a chance to go after the show to say "hullo." I initially said, "Thanks, nah [strange melancholy twitter goes here]," but Bibi kicked my ass. I guess part of me wanted to always be able to refer to the "time I turned down the chance to...."

Don McGlashan loves the Phoenix Foundation, too. Joy. Pure Joy.

So, in the dank green basement of the Orpheum Theatre in rundown Downtown LA, I got to say a heartfelt "thank you" to the man who sings the Very Important Songs inside my head. Matty and I spent the rest of the time people watching or chatting with each other or with Bibi or with a lovely college concert promoter from Vancouver who flew in for the night to pitch to Don, too. All I have to say is Bishop puts together better appointed afterparties in our backyard.

Roger and Don seemed to appreciate the Woodford Reserve Bourbon we brought. I am getting superstitious. Woodfood, I think, helps me with "closing" (if I may continue to use the Glengarry Glen Ross references). I think it's what did it for with the Phoenix Foundation fellas. Thank you, Woodford, for making a good, lasting impression.

Extra highlight of the night: I got to thank Bret McKenzie for telling me how to get the Phoenix Foundation (and the Black Seeds) to Bishop (Stop wasting your time with the band. Convince Matt, the manager. His bands will go where he books them). I was touched that McKenzie asked, "Didn't I meet you outside Spaceland? It (the Phoenix Foundation show) happened? How did it go?" I just thought, "What a classy guy." I mean, here he is King of the World and he a remembers talking to some crazy woman (of which there are more passing through his and Jemaine Clement's lives than probably anybody else in the world) a few years ago and then asks how his friends were received in a small town in America....

I also got to tell Greg Johnson that "Liberty" was a fine song. Bibi told him that his cornet solo on the Able Tasman's "Michael Fay" (one of her fav. songs of alltime) is stellar. I did the Bishop pitch lite. He seemed interested. I couldn't tell if it was because he's been living in LA too long and has become a good actor or because he *would* come play in my living room for little more than a band of interpretive dancers, gas money, food, lodging, some CD sales. We exchanged email addresses.

Shimmering songs fall on Bishop - Over the Atlantic

It is safe to say that Over the Atlantic went over really well in Bishop last night. Nearly 50 punters turned up, and up to 40 of us took turns on the dancefloor at any given time (Karen counted).

We are the lot for whom jangly guitars, driving beats, and romantic and melancholy songs were made. We are the lot who spazz and interpretive dance and don't talk through sets. We are precisely the lot who loved Nik Brinkman on guitar and vocals, Ash Smith on bass, and Rhys Telford on drums and backing vocals for playing their honest to goodness asses off for us.

Babbo was up front in his ear protector headphones rocking out and learning the mechanics of bands. Our wee man swayed and pumped his arms and legs, mesmerized by Nik's singing and playing. Many of Nik's songs start as slow burns, build layers, and become walls of lovely melodies. It doesn't hurt that they make you want to move, be it a sway or a full on bop. As lovely as Over the Atlantic's Junica is as a record, I think the songs benefit from the backing of a real live drummer and a real live bassist. To be honest, I wasn't sure how to pitch the band to friends. Were they shoegazey? Were they spazzy new wave? Were they cerebral electronica? In the end, I didn't need to worry. They were just damned good.

The show was a stone soup effort. Derik donated his time and PA. The Inyo Council for the Arts donated their stage. Peter at the Black Sheep donated caffeine. Goike made a great recording. Janet plied the band with wholesome salads and homemade organic lemonade. Kate played "merchbitch" extraordinaire and probably got 10 extra cd sales. We were probably both the oldest and youngest crowd the band have ever played to.

We started the evening with a potluck and ended the earlyish set (started before 7:45 and ended before 9:15) around a firepit (thanks Janet for facilitating that, too!) chatting with the fellas. Folks bought vinyl (who would have thought there were so many closet DJs in Bishop?) and cds and had the band sign both (I didn't say we weren't dorks).

Thanks to Blink and Over the Atlantic for bringing their magic all the way from New Zealand (actually, it does not matter where Over the Atlantic are from, they should not be missed)! (Shout out to the Phoenix Foundation, too, for teaching me about putting together a show and for vouching that we hicks were worth a visit.)

SJD

Songs from a Dictaphone just arrived and it's such a thing of beauty WITH a beat that I'm just sitting here simply gobsmacked.

I learned about SJD (Sean James Donnelly) when I saw Don McGlashan play the 2002 New Zealand Festival. SJD was his bassist. It was a very lucky thing for me, Matty, and some friends here, too. We've been grooving to and thinking about his music since we got our hands on the amazing Lost Soul Music.

You can hear samples of three out of four of SJD's releases (Lost Soul Music, Southern Lights, and Songs from a Dictaphone) at Smokecds. The song "Two Bodies" from Dictaphone slays me.

the Black Seeds

Bless the Rugby World Cup. Because of it, it appears we'll be able to catch the Black Seeds in Paris. Serendipity, man. They will be playing in a cool looking space in Belleville (birth and resting place of Edith Piaf) called La Bellevilloise. Have already emailed the venue asking if our enfant terrible with a love of NZ music is allowed.

Even though we'll be in the South of France in time for the World Cup kickoff between the All Blacks and Italy, we'll be in Banyuls, not Marseille.

Having been to Hong Kong Rugby Sevens a few times, it would be strange to go to a match without our friends and a vat of jungle juice.