Make yourself at home

We all imagine it would be difficult to run a club in Taipei. The police and gangsters all want their cut, the neighbors are complaining, and the ventilator system isn't cleaning the smoke out of the air.

If you want to know how bad it really is, you've got to read this post from another Taipei blog.

And if you can find meaning in that story, perhaps this one will strike your fancy as well.

Give me an outdoor venue, where people can dress they way they want and bring their dogs along to the show.

And now for something completely different


I wanted to add this strange story, but it didn't seem to fit in with the other posting, as wide ranging as it turned to out to be.

At the Sacramento Internation Airport (Mexico and Canada are the only foreign destinations served) I ran into a fighting cock handler. Before you get the wrong idea, he does not work in the adult enteratainment industry. He holds fighting chickens, before they go to their death in the ring. He was quite proud of his accomplishments, and happened to be chatting up a Guamanian woman when I started paying attention to him in line at the gate. It turns out her recently deceased husband, leaving her a widow with two young children, had been an inveterate cockfighting gambler, who apparently never worked a day in life. Mr. Cock Handler goes on about the glamorous world of cockfighting and hobnobbing with important people in the cock pits of the developing world while we wait for our Alaskan Airways flight to Seattle. It turns out Cock guy is attending a lavish wedding reception in Seattle that is being held by an important Philipino family. I asked where the wedding was being held, and whether there would be cock fighting.

Is this pushing the bounds of a blog about a band?

I might remind you of the importance of the chicken to the blues.

Out with the old, in with the Blues


I hate to see a blog that has been neglected. In order that the Muddy Basin Blog escape this fate, I will make the first post of the new year. Since the band hasn’t been active since last month, I’ll include some topics that are only indirectly relate to our music.

To start with, Dave and Conor performed as the Blues Cats at Alleycats last weekend. I didn’t make it, but I know that Sandy and TC made it down. Read TC’s account of the evening if you haven’t already. I don’t know what kept Will away from the show, but I was still recovering from my jet lag. If I had made it into town, the perfect Saturday night would have been to see the Betel Nut Brothers at the Riverside and then catch the Blues Cats at AC’s at 11. I did neither.

My jet lag was a hangover of sorts from my trip to the States just before Christmas to visit my family. Fortunately, there was time to shop for otherwise-unattainable-in-Taiwan clothing and shoe wear. More interesting were the visits to awesome bookstores, musical instrument shops, the oldest restaurant in Seattle, and an evening with the Randy Oxford Blues Band at Doc Maynard’s on Pioneer Square.

Book stores hold a fatal attraction for me. My interests are so varied, and when there is money in my pocket, I can rationalize almost any purchase. I agonized over a 1911 edition of Japanese fairy tales (in English), price $40. Why? The illustrations were amazing. I didn’t buy it, but I drank in all of the fantastic pictures for over half an hour. Next, I found a book of "negro gospel, spiritual, and work songs." No agonizing, just purchasing. The price of $6 helped with that decision. I also got some song books, one a Mel Bay ukulele instruction book, that’s got to come in handy, and a banjo song book from 1897. The title of the very first song was a shocking, “All coons are alike to me.” I blush just to type that. Maybe Dave will be able to learn some of the songs.

Oh, one more shopping story before I turn my attention to what happened in Seattle. The night before I left Auburn, I went to Raley’s, a supermarket, to finish buying essentials to take back to Taiwan. As it turns out my cart contained a rather odd collection of goods. I realized this as I was standing in line, and I wasn’t surprised when the cashier commented on my curious selection of items for purchase. Here is a brief accounting: 7 large bottles of vitamins, 5 one-pound of assorted candy bars, the ones you see at Halloween, four bags of dried chiles from the Mexican food section, two bottles of hot sauce, again from the Mexican aisle. I’m laughing remembering the look on the woman’s face as she looked at the contents of my cart and then up to me. Did she imagine that was my weekly diet? She probably thought the vitamins were my attempt at countering the effects of diabetes and Crohn’s disease from my sugar and fiery chile diet.

If you visit Seattle, you have got to stop by Lark In The Morning’s shop near the Pike Place Market. It has the coolest assortment of rare instruments you may ever see. They have a policy that anyone can play any instrument in the store. Where else would you see a guitar harp, bamboo saxophone, drums of every description, resonator guitars, didjeridoos, wind sticks, jaw harps, frottoir, harmonicas in one store no more than 20 pings in space (for you Taiwanophiles)? Check out their website if you’re not already familiar with this store. It is truly amazing to see it all in person. The woman working at the store was really cool and chatted with my daughter and myself for a long time, in spite of the store being really busy. I got the Cajun bottle openers that I had been lusting for after seeing them on Don Z’s rubboard website. I described what I wanted, and the woman, bless her, said, “Yes, we have two, in this drawer here.” She let me have them for nothing. I could have kissed her. She had a really cool dog, too, a black lab / Shar-pei mix. Okay, I’m through gushing.

I don’t remember the name of the other music store. It was somewhere in the Eastlake district of Seattle, on the way to Green Lake, and they also had an amazing selection of instruments. Downstairs were guitars, basses, violins, banjos, ukuleles, bazoukis, harps; upstairs was all drums. I was in heaven. Jess and I spent an hour or so looking through the drum floor, trying out the percussion toys, and chatting with the resident drummie, who alternated between answering questions from customers and playing a fantastic assemblage of drum gear that he used to create his ideal drum kit. The cymbals were easily four feet across, and shaped like Maltese crosses. They made one hell of a racket. We loved it. Back down in the string forest, we wandered among the dream instruments, strumming or plucking those that took our fancy. In one side-room hung every type of acoustic stringed instrument. You name it, it was there. Most overwhelming was the huge collection of ukuleles. Flying V ukes, Fender ukes, banjo ukes, polished steeel ukes: Uke Heaven. Perhaps most amazing to me was the washtub bass. It used a steel washtub, a stand up bass neck, and one steel string. The fret positions were penciled on the side of the neck. The neck was attached firmly to the washtub, so there would be no pulling the neck back and forth, ala TC. In fact, there were struts, cables connecting to either side of the neck about halfway up and the sides of the washtub to give it rigidity. There was an electronic pick up system just up from the bridge. An amazing store. While we in the acoustic string room, a woman was buying her 7-year-old granddaughter her first guitar, one of those mini ones that you wished you had learned on.

The Central, supposedly the oldest restaurant in Seattle, was the coolest bar to visit before going to the blues show that my sister and I caught later that evening. Not only was it nearly empty (the night before New Year’s Eve), but the friendly bartenderess poured me the healthiest shot of Glen Livet that I have ever lived to drink. It was a full tumbler of whiskey, and another half glass on top of that when I got near the bottom. Her husband was there waiting for her to get off, and the four of us had a nice chat. They were quite interested to hear about Taiwan, and I gave her a NT$100 note to stick on the mirror behind the bar. I noticed that there was a sign above the cash register that said something along the lines of “We will stop serving alcohol to you when you appear intoxicated.” I said to my sister, “I think she will stop serving me if I can finish this tumbler of whiskey.” I was slurring already. Her husband pointed out that it said “appear” and his wife wasn’t wearing her glasses that evening. He doubted that she could see much clearly in the friendly gloom. I was safe. For the time being. Erin, my sis, learned that the oldest restaurant in Seattle may have the oldest shitter in Seattle, one of Crapper’s first, and it may not have been cleaned since he installed it himself way back when. She didn’t use it. If you have time, you can access underground Seattle from the restaurant. I don’t mean the underground flannel bars; the Central is a stop on the underground Seattle historical tour. Apparently, the old city was built too low and kept being flooded by the sewage of the richies who lived on the tops of the hill, so that they built another level on top of the first. We didn’t have time to take the tour. We were on our way to a blues show.

Just across the square from the Central was Doc Maynard’s, our blues venue for the evening. The band was to be Randy Oxford’s Blues Band, whom I chose off the Internet after doing a search of blues acts in Seattle. (Got to love the computer.) The door charge was $8 for that club, or $12 for five different places located in the same district. We paid $12 each, with plans for a long evening. ROBB was electric blues, with guitar, bass, keys, drum kit, harmonica, and Randy Oxford himself on trombone. It was very loud. Talking was nearly impossible. They covered many songs that I have heard before, including some by Muddy Waters, Howling Wolf, and others. The trombone player did a lot of soloing over the top of the mix. The drummer was riding high in his seat and loving the set.

There was a group of women dancing almost from the beginning, and we eventually got up to strut our stuff on the dance floor as well. A lot more people, blokes included, joined the dancing at that point, and the joint was actually jumping. Musicians love having an appreciative, uninhibited audience enjoying the music (no touching), and we surely gave them that. I was pretty loose and limber by that time, thirstily sucking up several Long Island ice teas. I also smoked cigarettes, standing outside entrance with the doorman. By the way, smokes are over $7 a pack in Washington state, and that smarts. Not finding Mild Seven in the rack, I opted for Pall Mall. Why not? It was pretty cold and wet outside, so I didn’t spend too long away from the music.

After one set of ROBB, one from local musicians in the audience (with instruments conveniently tucked under their tables), and a final set from ROBB, the blues portion of the evening was over. I convinced Erin that we needed to use our $12 multi-pass hand stamps, so we headed to the dance club across the way. Erin said it was the premier meat market in Seattle. My perception: crowded, the music sucked badly, and too few women. Soon we were in a taxi, hurtling across the West Seattle bridge, and back to California Avenue.