Running Up That Hill

It's race weekend. That is a Picture of "BLOODROCK" . The infamous BUMP AND GRIND race in Birmingham, Alabama, is this Sunday. I hope I am ready. I'll let ya know how it works out.

W.B.Z.N.

In A Big Country #3

This entire trip was laced with memories for me. Memories of things bitter and sweet. That's a tired old chestnut, I know, but I am a melancholy bloke. The first time I flew over this acrid expanse, was back in 1984 to do a record. We were on our way to L.A. and in our naive twenty year old hands, we held the Palm Beach Post, The Miami Herald, and our local paper, the News tribune. We were reading about ourselves, in three papers, on our first plane ride. The last time I was in Las Vegas (2003) we rolled up in a tour bus, and walked like we owned the place. Our record was top ten and we stayed at the MGM Grand, with separate rooms for band, management, and crew. The tour money was flowing like water, from the label. I was looking out the window from the back lounge thinking it would be great to come back here and really see this area. The time before that was to cremate my Dad. I hold a grudge to this day with Vegas, I can't forgive the town, where my father died. The last time I was in Albuquerque, my boys played a show for 7500 people. I stood side stage, wondering how any of it could have happened. Those days are gone. Now I am just a guy in a car, with his brother, on one of the best trips ever. Bitter and sweet, but no less remarkable and no less memorable. In the darkness, deprived of landscape, I watched this slide show in my head, while my brother drove.

We were on our way to Santa Fe' to see one of my oldest and dearest friends. He's is a hero to me, and I owe him a debt of gratitude for changing my life, I could never repay. When we played together, I would tell people I was in a band with him, and my credibility was immediate. My fondest memory of him is arriving at his $150.00 a month apartment to see him, knee deep in water, with his jeans rolled up. He turned and asked if I wanted coffee, oblivious to the surroundings. Another time he pulled out of the Cab Stand parking lot and the rear axle fell out of his Honda Accord. He had a hit with Creed by then, but lamented the loss of that car. I negotiated the purchase of his Toyota Forerunner and when he got in it, he turned to me and said, " I'm just not a new car kind of guy." That's John.

We pulled onto the long, grey, gravel road. The impossibly steep drive took us to the left of the house and past the mud covered Toyota parked unceremoniously, off to the side. The house is anchored to a desert hill facing north west, and it looks like it grew out of the ground. The requisite logs protrude from the classic adobe exterior. The tea stained colors were awash in flood lights hidden by the landscaping. This house has a great history. It was built over a hundred years ago, and was owned by a local family. They sold the place to a guy named Glen Frey, in the seventies. Rumors run rampant about the multi day parties and the comings and goings of music royalty. The property adorns several cement tokens to commemorate the songs written here; Hotel California, New Kid in Town, and Lyin' Eyes (all under different working titles, that would later change). The house stayed in his hands until his romance with the place and his wife had eroded. One night in his absence, his wife threw a party and a fire started. She and her guests stood and watched it burn while singing, dancing and drinking to commemorate the event. It was rebuilt by the man that John bought the place from, who is now a fugitive from the law. The inside is immaculately designed by John's wife Cece, and decorated with mid century and western furniture. The walls are feature local art, as well as some pieces by my pal, Paul Tamanian.

It was magazine ready when we arrived and I did several laps to take in the all the details. Cece, heard that we wanted to leave at five A.M. and quickly dispensed with our plans, demanding to make us breakfast. She informed us that we would be going on a hike with John, in the morning. I like a commanding woman that knows what she wants, and we gave in with no struggle.

The morning came too soon, and Davey and I crawled out of bed, sore and groaning, from the long drive. The sky was clear and the crisp air was chilly. Cece was having coffee in the sitting area outside. We looked out the at the view, that surely was the selling point for this amazing home. I had tea, and we readied for the hike. They recently acquired the hill that bordered their property. They own the half facing the house, and Microsoft co founder, Paul Allen, owns the other. Pretty good digs if you can get em'!

Off we went up the hill.

On the way down we could smell the eggs, shrimp, mushrooms and peppers, Cece had cooked for our omelette's. She has recently taken to the art of cooking and I have to say, it was one of the best meals I have ever had. Good company, and palatial views, never hurt a great meal. We ate and told old war stories about things that happened to us during the gold rush. The absurdities of the business, Scott Stapp's fall from grace and reality. The mutual power brokers we knew, that had drifted out of the limelight, and into addiction and anonymity. John laughed and said..."Just like us!" He has turned his back on mainstream music, and dedicated himself to playing and recording with a local artist. "The Sean Healeh Band" is the proud new owner of my favorite guitarist. He has never looked happier, and his playing is, as always, impeccable. The songs blend blues, desert lyrics, deep soulful vocals, and well constructed solo's by John. If they ever stop recording, the album is going to be great.

John and Cece are busy people, and needed to get started on their day. We hated to leave but, the twenty two hour drive ahead, was hanging over us. Cece made me promise to come back, we hugged goodbye, and were back in the people mover headed for Texas and home.
More to come.

W.B.Z.N.

(If enough people ask, I will post a video of John talking about Ronnie James Dio's manager, as we hiked.)

In A Big Country #2

The west is a lyric you can drive through. The west is a song. Las Vegas, Flagstaff, Wichita, Sante Fe', Phoenix, all get my internal jukebox ticking through tunes that aptly illuminate the landscape flying by the windshield. Any musician worth his salt, would be unable to visit this part of the world, without paying it proper homage.

We left the Grand Canyon and headed towards Flagstaff onto the endless ribbon of Highway 40, the very highway that put the Mother Road into the sunset of America's memory. It ended the era of relaxed travel by car. The fossils are visible, but the romance is long dead with the exception of a few restored facsimiles. The chrome, fins, and echoes of hollow body rockabilly that serenaded the flock west remain, but they are petroglyphs of a lost time and place. It made me sad I was too young to be part of the migration, and yet I was elated to be here at all. Now was as good a time as any. The desert skyline looks the same as before Route 66 was cut into her side, and she will retain her profile long after we are gone.

I left my friend John a message in Santa Fe', to see if he wanted to put up two brothers on the road. We made the left in Flagstaff, and became aware of time and miles for the first time in our trip. We were hungry and tired as we neared Winslow Arizona. I was two hours into my shift when I heard my brother take a quick gasp. I looked up to see tire smoke and a Ford Explorer leave the fast lane, disappear in front of a semi and then jet back left into the median. What followed was a violent cloud of reddish dust and twisted images of a car in flight. We were the first to the car. The young Mexican family of four was crawling from the wreckage. The windows were all gone, the man, his wife and two children were all alive and covered in dirt. The contents of the car, were strewn like trash on the median. The mother and daughter cried and the father (clearly in shock) went from gratitude to grief and back every twenty seconds. Others stopped to help and Davey called the police. We gathered up all the items from the ground, and turned off their truck. When the ambulance arrived and we decided to leave, the young father stood up, hugged, blessed, and thanked us both. We crossed the road to our car, shaking our heads and set off for Winslow to find food. My phone rang, shortly after we arrived at the Pizza Hut. John asked where we were and I said, "I'm standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona!" Without missing a beat John replied, "Take it easy." We traded lyrics for a few more minutes, before calculating the distance to Santa Fe'. John figured we'd roll in around nine, if nothing crazy happened on the way. "What could possibly go wrong?" I said, and we both laughed.

We exited the Purple Heart Highway, in Holbrook, and started down lonely highway 180, towards the Petrified Forrest, National Park. It was almost six thirty, and we worried we might not make the park before it closed. We entered an alien landscape and winded along the Petrified Forrest Road. We saw a few cars, but mostly had the place to ourselves. We stopped and looked around an ancient settlement, and elegant drawings on stone. The golden grass, the setting sun and the Painted Desert made us pause to breathe. Once again we were in a magical place and leaving too soon.

Now we were officially late. Santa Fe' was five hours away. More to come....

W.B.Z.N.

Teach Your Children

My Lil' Man.

W.B.Z.N.

In a Big Country #1

After a full body pat down in Tallahassee, a brief flight and four hour layover, I found myself with two married people that insisted I sit between them.

"Don't worry, we'll just talk over you!"

Words could not express my joy. The next four hours were a dizzying blur of personal details from two people, that although very nice, reached comfort levels with strangers, faster than Charlie Sheen goes from negotiation, to completion, with hookers. We shared life experiences and my tray table, for duration of the flight.

Once in Vegas, I was greeted by my sister Barbie, and brother Davey. We visited her beautiful house, and I wanted to stay but, we were on a tight schedule, and before long Davey and I were on the road.

We drove up to Hoover Dam and stood in wonder of that awesome structure. The moon was full, and a canopy of stars set the backdrop for the beginning of our trip. Davey and I laughed at the beauty of the night, and off we went into the desert toward the Grand Canyon.

We stopped for the night in Williams Arizona, at a cheap hotel my sister found for us on line. She was doing recon as we drove, and called us to keep us awake and on track. It was like that voice, in the Trans Am, on "Night Rider". We found the hotel at four A.M. and we passed out like Charlie Sheen on a..(insert favorite drunk metaphor here). Three hours later, we woke up and felt like we had slept for hours. It must be the altitude. We found a cool little cafe' and had the last good meal of the trip (in a restaurant).

After being beaten, by the huge plates they served us, we hobbled to the car, and headed for the south rim. I'm sorry, I don't have the writing chops to do this justice. Once you are at the canyon and you see the scale of it, descriptions and photos are sacrilege compared to being there. So few things live up to the hype, and when something does, it knocks your reality around, and makes you realize you have been missing the point for a long time. Grand Canyon is one of those places. Perhaps the best surprise was that the tourists there didn't ruin it. People were quiet. There was no graffiti, and we tried all day but never found trash on the ground. There is a supreme being, and I thank (Deity of choice) that the hand of the ignorant, has not left a smudged print on this cathedral. If you have been, you know what I mean, and if you haven't, stand up, walk to your car, and go right now. It's that good.

We stayed as long as we could and finally drove out the south end, heading to Flagstaff. We stopped at a small Navajo market. I bought some pottery and jewellery, for the ever understanding wife. The canyons continued long after we left the park and we pointed, sighed, and marveled, at the landscape we hated to leave. Onward into the big sky and more adventures to come.

W.B.Z.N.

Ride Of Silence

Jarryd Brown was killed yesterday riding a bicycle. There is a "Ride of Silence" leaving from Krankitup (Railroad Square) tonight at 7:oo p.m.. Local cyclist's will be putting Ghost Bikes at the scene of Jarryd's crash and others around town. The ride will last about three hours, please bring lights and blinker lights for the ride.

W.B.Z.N.

Consider Me Gone

Travel in my life has always occurred under the strangest of circumstances. So it is with some excitement, and trepidation, that I tell you, I will be out for a few days. My brother Davey is leaving Las Vegas and asked me to fly out and drive back east with him. Never one to to shy away from a Mongolian cluster f*#+ I agreed. I am sure the journey will be filled with epic scenarios, that even Dennis Hopper on acid, couldn't dream up.

We will try to hit the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest and see my ole pal in Santa Fe'. I am stoked to be knocking a few things off my bucket list, and worried about being off the bike this close to the BUMP and GRIND race in June, but I heard the knock and I'm off.

Please turn out the blog lights when you leave, and I will try to accumulate some stories and pictures from the road.

W.B.Z.N. (over and out)

The Things We've Handed Down

Not much to report today. The Wrecking Ball gene is alive and well in my line. Went for a little spin with Lil' W.B. (look for his record to drop this fall) last night. Thankfully, the kid has better form than the old man.

Sorry for the blurry pics, I am not only a hack writer, I couldn't take a picture if you handed it to me!

W.B.Z.N.

Give Blood

Giving up, in theory, is fantastic. It's a way to make the pain stop. It's a solution for your fear. It ends conflict. It also has a bitter after taste.

I have been trying, with all my heart, to walk away from road riding. I even have new routes, that avoid some of the stressful bike lanes, on my mountain bike rides. I had convinced myself, that these were rational decisions, being made by a mature person. Why fight? The cars hate us on the road. If you fall on pavement it really hurts. Bones break, skin evaporates, bikes fold up like paper. This was the easy solution.

Friday was a hard day to be a cyclist. A kid named Rick, was hit by a car, on Monroe Street. In moments of drama, everyone wants to make grand gestures. March on the capital. Alert the media. Form a protest. The hardest thing of all, is to just do what we do: Ride bicycles on the street.

Hours after the crash, people posted comments on local news web sites, taking the side of the driver. One by one they lined up to tell the stories of cyclists getting in their way, running stop signs....on and on. Not one word was mentioned about the kid with a destroyed hip, and skin so badly damaged, he will need grafts.

When I first heard the story, my initial thought was to never ride on the road again. I ended up riding in rush hour traffic down Blairstone. It's all I could do. This weekend, I went on an epic road ride with the boys. I can't stand the thought of my friends being out there without me.

It sucks to ride with traffic. Others will be hit, hurt and killed. The best we can do, is ride on the road, exercise our rights, and encourage others to do the same. Our only hope, is to have so many of us out there, they will be forced to coexist with us.

In the immortal words of Freddie Mercury;

"Get on your bikes and ride!"

W.B.Z.N.

The Beat Goes On

My youngest son is an aspiring drummer. He plays in the middle school band, and hopes to make the drum line in high school. Last night, he told me the auditions for the high school line were taking place. He wanted to see how good the drummers were. He's in seventh grade and wants to have his skills in order. Was I impressed with this line of thinking? You bet your drum key!

There was a room of nervous kids, from twelve to sixteen years old. Everyone was trying to be funny and gain some social capital from the group. They were presided over, by some David Spade clone, that was there to assess them. His mission was to make them pay for the cruel genetic roulette, that made him a great music student, but prevented him from having a female in his life. Yes, he was wearing painters pants from Old Navy. Yes, he was wearing crocs. Yes, his hair was cut by a flowbee. Yes, he could play, and had a vast amount of musical knowledge. Yes, he planned on torturing these kids.

The kids had to get up in front of the group and play whatever rudiments (scales for drummers) he decided they should know. The object of this exercise was to find out what they couldn't play, and make a joke of the kid on the chopping block. Next they had to sight read several pieces of snare and bell music, until they failed. While the kids played, the Spade made inside jokes, whispered to his court, and made notes sealing the fate of the kids, playing for their lives.

This ripped the scab off every memory I had of academic music. I remembered every twit that had hazed me from middle school through college. I remembered the happy day, I bid them all a fine "F#*^ YOU!" and went on to play clubs, tour, and record for the next twenty years.

The problem is, I also walked away from my dream of being part of a college drum line. I never got my degree. These are a couple of items on my short list of regrets. Also, it should be noted that, the times I spent in my high school drum line were amazing, once I got through the initiation. I loved playing the cadences and the halftime shows. I gained skills during those years that served me as a musician, and a person.

My son is small for his age, like I was. He has the attitude of a ten foot Gorilla, like I do. He is in for a rough ride, and I know it's not healthy to insulate your kids from their life trials. Still, I think the firm hand shake and the "I will kill you, and pick my teeth with your bones" stare Mr. Spade and I shared, may help a little.

W.B.Z.N.

This Must Be The Place

I finally found the home of the trail Gnome. It's in plain sight, but you'll never find it. He has been fixing bridges, leveling out trails, and putting 4x4 balance beams all over the place. I caught sight of him trying to talk a hapless traveler into a coma tonight. Poor bastard had a flat. The gnome parked his Puglsey right near him, and started weaving his spell. Just before the guys eyes rolled back in his head, I gave him a tube and sent him on his merry way. I tried to get a shot of the lil guy but he went in his house, and slammed the door.
Well, he does good work. He takes a lot of pictures to prove it, so for now the location of his lair is safe with me. If he ever starts talking about the proper tool for a drainage ridge again....all bets are off!
GNOME BASTARD!
W.B.Z.N.