On the Road Again?!
© Adam Granger
In November of 2009, I did a ten-day tour of the Pacific Northwest with bluegrass banjo player Alan Munde. Alan lives in Wimberly, Texas, but is from my home town, Norman, Oklahoma. He was two years ahead of me in high school; I was his first banjo student, in the mid-60s.
Alan has risen to a level in which he's recognized the world over by bluegrass fans. That doesn't count for much in, say, the pop or rock world, but he's happy, and I was happy to be touring and playing with him.
We were to play five concerts and conduct four workshops each on this tour. Two of Alan's fans—banjo players both, themselves—were acting as agents and managers for us, one in Portland and one in Seattle. They set up the concerts, ferried us around, and put us up.
I flew into Seattle on a Friday and was picked up at the airport by our Seattle friend/agent, Ken Weil, who drove me down to Portland, where we were to do workshops the next day and play a concert that night. Alan had flown into Portland earlier that day.
The next morning, we had a quick little rehearsal. We had done this show three months earlier in Oklahoma, and it had changed very little, so it was just a matter of dusting a few things off. Then it was off to conduct our respective workshops (mine were on the flatpick guitar technique and alternated-bass rhythm guitar). That night we played our Portland concert, which went fine.
The next day, we headed out for Bend, Oregon, driven by our Oregon friend/agent, a Portland detective who had been called out of retirement to work cold murder cases. Our accommodations were stunning—a guest house right on the Des Chutes River, into which each of us could spit from the deck off of his private bedroom (although we didn't)—and we played another good show that night. Then it was back to Portland where we had a day off.
We took Amtrak up to Seattle (At $26, a steal! New cars, good track and a beautiful route), where we played concerts in Mukilteo and Sammamish.
We were to do more seminars at a music store called Dusty Strings, in Seattle, and then we thought we were finished, until we found out that a final gig near Wenatchee that we had decided to cancel had not actually been canceled. They were looking forward to hosting us, and had been promoting the show for a couple of months. On paper, this gig had all the makings of a dead-bang loser. The venue was called the Cashmere Coffee House, and payment was by passing the hat. Decades in the business hinted that this would be a little room with eight people and a (loud) espresso machine, and that we would make eight dollars apiece. Moreover, we had to cross two mountain passes, and there was supposed to be bad weather heading in. My flight was the next morning, and, what with worrying about getting stranded, I was not happy.
We arrived in Cashmere to find that the Cashmere Coffee House was the name given to a major concert series promoted by a non profit group and held at the local (brand new) community center. 250 people showed up, and the passing of the hat produced $1280, our best gate of the tour. And we made it back over the passes hours ahead of the snow; we were in bed back in Seattle by 12:30.
I flew out of Seatac the next morning and was home with my family by dinnertime, ten days after leaving.
Alan has risen to a level in which he's recognized the world over by bluegrass fans. That doesn't count for much in, say, the pop or rock world, but he's happy, and I was happy to be touring and playing with him.
We were to play five concerts and conduct four workshops each on this tour. Two of Alan's fans—banjo players both, themselves—were acting as agents and managers for us, one in Portland and one in Seattle. They set up the concerts, ferried us around, and put us up.
I flew into Seattle on a Friday and was picked up at the airport by our Seattle friend/agent, Ken Weil, who drove me down to Portland, where we were to do workshops the next day and play a concert that night. Alan had flown into Portland earlier that day.
The next morning, we had a quick little rehearsal. We had done this show three months earlier in Oklahoma, and it had changed very little, so it was just a matter of dusting a few things off. Then it was off to conduct our respective workshops (mine were on the flatpick guitar technique and alternated-bass rhythm guitar). That night we played our Portland concert, which went fine.
The next day, we headed out for Bend, Oregon, driven by our Oregon friend/agent, a Portland detective who had been called out of retirement to work cold murder cases. Our accommodations were stunning—a guest house right on the Des Chutes River, into which each of us could spit from the deck off of his private bedroom (although we didn't)—and we played another good show that night. Then it was back to Portland where we had a day off.
We took Amtrak up to Seattle (At $26, a steal! New cars, good track and a beautiful route), where we played concerts in Mukilteo and Sammamish.
We were to do more seminars at a music store called Dusty Strings, in Seattle, and then we thought we were finished, until we found out that a final gig near Wenatchee that we had decided to cancel had not actually been canceled. They were looking forward to hosting us, and had been promoting the show for a couple of months. On paper, this gig had all the makings of a dead-bang loser. The venue was called the Cashmere Coffee House, and payment was by passing the hat. Decades in the business hinted that this would be a little room with eight people and a (loud) espresso machine, and that we would make eight dollars apiece. Moreover, we had to cross two mountain passes, and there was supposed to be bad weather heading in. My flight was the next morning, and, what with worrying about getting stranded, I was not happy.
We arrived in Cashmere to find that the Cashmere Coffee House was the name given to a major concert series promoted by a non profit group and held at the local (brand new) community center. 250 people showed up, and the passing of the hat produced $1280, our best gate of the tour. And we made it back over the passes hours ahead of the snow; we were in bed back in Seattle by 12:30.
I flew out of Seatac the next morning and was home with my family by dinnertime, ten days after leaving.
