NeilVille
...In North California-Oh.
There is this tiny little town on the northern California coast called Point Arena.
Located between the monied hordes of Sea Ranch to the south and the artists of Mendocino to the north it is a place out of time.
And we love it.
This year we were there for both Canada Day and 4th of July so that we could celebrate both with our good friends F. and L.
The latter involved a morning parade of hippy veterans (see above) and an afternoon BBQ of burgers and blues bands.
A few days later Bigger E. and I headed to the local bar for open mic night.
But, as so often happens in Pt. Arena posted start times are not real times.
So, with an hour or so to kill, we headed down mainstreet to the General Store for a coffee or some such thing.
Lars, the proprietor, was there at the door waiting for us and he insisted that we come in and play a few songs for his wife Kelly.
As so often happens E., who that particular evening was playing her dumpster find mandolin, soon stole the hearts of just about everyone in the place, including a little girl whose tourist mom initially wanted absolutely nothing to do with us as well as three middle-aged bike travellers from Tampa Florida.
As the sun set and fog began to roll in we strolled back up the street to the bar for the regularly scheduled musical festivities. Soon after Lars, Kelly and one of the biker guys came through the front door to join us.
There were a few regulars in the place that we recognized from the last time we were there two years ago, including a young guitar wizard named Jason. There was also a big whack of really excellent local musicians we hadn't run into before, one of whom was a retired travelling pastor who led a wicked trio that blew everybody's socks off.
For our set E. insisted that we start with one of my so-called 'originals', so I told the entire bar about this a bit of wordplay written by a mill worker anarchist poet that we know from back home that I spackled over with a wee bit of Neil-ish melody to produce the tune 'Dope City Blues' a while back.
A little later, when everybody had loosened up and the really fantastic open-mic show runner named Steve had already run home to get his own superfine mando for E. to play, things evolved into a rousing, rollicking jam session that included an extended bit with E. and Jason riffing off of something that started out as a Lucinda Williams tune that soon moved into the stratosphere to a place where I couldn't keep up, what with my cowboy chords repertoire and all.
So I just sat back and enjoyed the whole scene and the entire soundscape.
Immensely.
****
Not soon thereafter Janey the bartender said it was time to go so we headed out into the dark and the quiet of late night Highway 1 and started off on the winding cliff-side drive down to the even smaller town of Gualala where we were staying.
And by the time we got there it was like the whole thing had been a dream.
Except for the fact Jason's exclamatory words, shouted just before closing time, that we should 'Make this a tradition! Exactly two years from now!' were still ringing in our ears.
I think we just might take him up on it.
OK?
.
