Daily Loaf

It’s been a little while since I’ve written one of these, I know. I blame the relentless daily grind and its effect on my creative juices, which used to flow in a healthy torrent and now trickle in erratic drips and bursts. Phish has helped me through it, and I’ve hopscotched my way from one musical reprieve to the next to keep a firm grip on my mental well-being — a roadtrip to Knoxville via RV with some Bonnaroo-bound friends; a long weekend in the Midwest at the Deer Creek and Alpine shows, with some relaxing downtime at a lakeside resort and the small town surrounding it; and a long weekend in New England, the rather stellar Hartford and great Saratoga Springs shows serving as bookends to a good friend’s 40th birthday extravaganza. That last was a particularly fulfilling excursion because my husband and I met a diversity of like-minded music lovers, made new friends and re-connected with older ones, chowed down on delectable homemade cookies (gotta get that recipe, Stephen!) and other tasty eats all throughout, and generally took in some tranquil good times amidst one of the most pristine mountainside settings I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing. [All photos by Phil Bardi.]

So basically, I’ve spent more time catching the grooves and enjoying the comforts of good friendships (i.e., taking real vacations), and less devoted to actually writing about the band that got me writing about music in the first place. Seeing Phish is a sort of soul cleansing, the metaphysical lift I need to get me through to my next phase of reality, and lately I’ve focused more on trying to soak up the time while it’s happening rather than trying to overanalyze it, or even analyze it at all.

But I digress. Yes I was wrong about the festival location — I’ll happily eat my words because Phish Festival 8 was … a little like paradise. Just imagine for a moment that last Phish festival in Vermont — the nasty weather, a hellishly long wait in miles upon miles of gridlocked traffic followed by Mike’s disheartening “Please turn around” radio announcement, the thousands of cars abandoned by fest goers who decided to hoof it in, Trey pretty much falling apart on stage, the mud, oh god, that awful, stinking, sticky dark brown mud …

Now, picture staying offsite in a big comfy bed and taking showers everyday, driving into the festival grounds amidst little or no traffic, the only real down side the kerchief covering your mouth, Old West-style, to fight the grainy dust of California’s Southeastern desert reaches. The surrounding landscape is gorgeous in an unforgiving sort of way, bursting with a multitude of earthy hues that change depending on the position of the sun — sooty brown, russet, cinnamon, amber, ochre, burnt sienna, rust, umber, terra-cotta … You enter the Empire Polo Club, park, make your way through amiable, if entrapment-attempting security personnel at the gate, then suddenly, you’re in and luscious food scents are drifting on the breeze along with snippets of excited conversation about the seeming ease of every single thing so far, postcard perfect surroundings — the clear cloud-free sky, the line of palm trees that seem to be everywhere you look, and behind those, the rugged peaks of mountains; the bars that serve beer and alcohol (Bloody Marys!!); and oh my god, can you believe the fucking grass?? Take your shoes off and dig your toes in it. Carpet-soft, clean and dry — no puddles of mud forming anywhere. Venture deeper into the circular, verdant stretch of lawn, and explore the scattered art installations and creative diversions, white tents set up over clusters of food vendors, retailers, not-too-nasty Port-o-Potties (with the fabulous option of port-o-trailers with toilets and running water — nonpotable and recycled, of course, everything here is green-friendly) … [Video after the jump.] Read the rest of this entry »

Routes Music is a documentary film acting as a roving music census, taking in the true musical passions (and disgusts) of the American people. We’re traveling all across the country, stopping along the way to interview local bands, take footage of live performances and chat with anyone and everyone. Learn more about the documentary here; check out all previous entries here.

Refreshed and well-fed after another night’s stay at a Hampton Inn (thanks Routes Music friends!), we dashed out of the desert sand of Indio, which was quickly becoming a snowbird party scene. Past windmills and through a raging wildfire, the Gray Box cruised the mean palm-tree-lined interstates of Los Angeles. Tonight, we’re in Malibu for our first interview on the Pacific Coast — literally 20 feet from lapping waves. It’s a nice, quiet beach community here, and we aim to keep it nice and quiet.

Oh yes, about those wildfires — you can watch the video after the jump:

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Routes Music is a documentary film acting as a roving music census, taking in the true musical passions (and disgusts) of the American people. We’re traveling all across the country, stopping along the way to interview local bands, take footage of live performances and chat with anyone and everyone. Learn more about the documentary here; check out all previous entries here.

“Where eeez yer pipe?”

A 6’4 security guard towered over me, glaring.

“Where eeez yer pipe?” he repeated in a thick Islands accent.

“What?” I replied, not sure he really just asked me what I think he just asked me.

“Where eeez yer pipe?” he asked again.

“My what?” I said again, still shocked.

“Yer pipe. Yer pipe.”

Now he was aggravated. I’m enjoying feigning ignorance.

“I don’t know what you’re saying, man.”

The guard switches tactics.

“Drugs?”

I smile.

“No, no drugs.”

“OK, go ahead.”

So began my very first experience at an extended-day music festival, and only my second time ever seeing the seminal jam band, Phish. Luckily, the rest of the three-day fest at the Empire Polo Grounds in Indio, Calif. went smoother than my entry.

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