Groundation and The Abyssinians in Hawaii December 2013

Hawaii is reggae country, and a beautiful relationship is in the making next weekend when the Abyssinians arrive for the first time, alongside Groundation, for three shows.

No reggae fan who witnesses the power of an Abyssinians concert ever forgets it. Their sound combines commonsense wisdom, mystical poetry and majestic roots grooves to create one of the most distinctive sounds in reggae. Comfortable in their role as elders, their stage performance holds nothing back, and their devotion to Rasta is no less apparent than their musical excellence. Maybe I’m a sucker for the minor keys, but, for me, the Abyssinians rank in the top five reggae bands of all time.

I’m always amazed at how many fans Groundation has found in Hawaii, because our sound features a different side of reggae than many local bands do. Atypical of Hawaiian reggae, too is Satta Massagana, the reggae anthem by The Abyssinians. This horn-heavy song explores exotic minor harmonies and prophetic scripture. But if Hawaiians like Groundation, I want them to know The Abyssinians are one of our biggest influences in reggae.

The Abyssinians on tour with Groundation in Brazil.

That’s why I want every reggae fan to see this amazing group of Jamaican musicians. True reggae fans of Hawaii will be telling their grandchildren about the time they heard The Abyssians in concert, that’s my promise.

Also, after last night’s show in Santa Cruz we wanted to thank California Grown, clothiers and haberdashery for the Cali coast. Thanks for keeping us warm on tour, and making us feel welcome whenever we come through.

The bus got a sticker, how come I didn’t get a sticker?

João Pessoa, Brazil

Groundation with tour buddies Reemah and Mato Seco in Brazil.

Before I got serious about music, I was a history student, Chinese history to be more accurate, plus Chinese culture, politics, economics, etc… I went to school in Santa Cruz, California, but I’ve spent a lot of time studying in China, and met many Chinese people, and these encounters never fail to stir vivid associations with the historical events and forces that I’ve read about and studied. I’ve read hundreds of pages about the Cultural Revolution and met people who were a part of it. I’ve read about the complex relation between the Middle Kingdom and the people beyond the Great Wall, and I’ve stood on that wall.

Since that time, my interests in history have only intensified. I’ve heard stories about the Berlin Wall all my life, and now I’ve touched it, and met people who lived on both sides of it. With Groundation, I’ve had a chance to see Jerusalem, Paris, London, Rio, and New York City, places steeped in history: echoes of the past that reverberate as we glimpse Taos Pueblo or Mont-Saint-Michel from the windows of our tour bus.

Doctor Robinson lets his hair down.

History echoes through Groundation’s music, something that’s easy to remember when you travel with not one, but two professors in the band. Musically, when I’m in creative mode, I think not only about Bob Marley, but about Don Drummond, and Miles Davis, and Louis Armstrong and even Buddy Bolden, who was never recorded, so we’ll never know what he sounded like, but who represents a certain spirit of the horn that has continued to this day, a spirit for which I am a living vessel.

Sadly, we’ve had limited touring opportunities in Asia, and likewise in Africa, the most historical place on our planet. So when we visit Northeastern Brazil my eyes and ears and nose are specially tuned to the echoes Africa has transmitted to that place from across time and the sea. The music, food, dress, religion; all of these cultures can be, in places like João Pessoa, traced to African roots.

As though to bring home that point, Ponta do Seixas, just southeast of João Pessoa in the Brazilian state of Paraiba, is the easternmost point in the Americas, and thus the closest point between Africa and my world, the New World, where history is represented by a few loose threads towards the tail end of the human historical tapestry.

At Ponta do Seixas you’ll find a bluff above a nice surf spot and beach, not so different from Steamer Lane in Santa Cruz. There’s a little plaque, a lighthouse and a kid’s mosaic of a rising sun. A couple of tourists browse the little gift shop and the row of the food and drink stands which can be found along any Brazilian highway. An old Brazilian fellow chatted with us in Brazenglish about geographic facts, pointing towards the spot where an old couple dozed in the sand, closer to Africa than any other dry person in this hemisphere, and probably totally unaware of it.

The first rays of sunshine touch the shores of America.

Makes me wonder what I’ve missed over the years. I once bought chocolates for my wife at a shop in the former home of Charlotte Corday. I felt rather smug about recognizing the significance of that. But really, is there any significance? Maybe I stayed in the same hotel room John F. Kennedy stayed in the night before he was shot in Dallas. How can I know, and what does it matter? We’re swimming in the wake of the past, pondering the wave of a ship that’s long since sailed as we bob in the currents of its passing.

Cabo Branco

Baltimore, Maryland

Ryan Newman: a man and his ice cream cone.

I discovered the joys of the chocolate sundae for breakfast courtesy of Dave Alima, our very old friend and former publicity czar. The Charmery is his new ice cream parlor on West 36th Street in Baltimore. Dave and his wife Laura started churning in a funky-in-a-good-way neighborhood in Baltimore. I think he shows more aptitude for ice cream than he did as our tour manager! Oooh, ouch! But I couldn’t resist!

Mighty cute for an Oompa Loompa.

It was comforting to remember, as I shoveled chocolate sauce into my mouth, that I was just two blocks from Johns Hopkins, but it’s good I didn’t have a heart attack because the medical school is on the other side of town. Personally, I can’t resist the cocoa bean; why even try? The other cats in the band licked up cones and bowls of Vibes Alive, a totally original flavor Dave named after a Groundation Song. What does it taste like? You’ll have to stop by his place and try it. I will confess Dave and Laura spilled the beans about some pretty serious secret desserts they’re working on. I’ll admit I waddled out pretty wired on the old choco, but I’d swear I saw an Oompa Loompa taking a smoke break by a tiny door in the back.

What bay did you say this was?

I like horns, I can’t lie. When I see a band has some horns, I always stick around. We share the burden and the uncommon joys of the fellowship of the wind instrument. I’m pretty sure bassoonists feel it as much as trumpeters. There’s  sometimes a bit of competitiveness, but it’s low key most of the time. Mutual respect: that’s usually the tone backstage.

No, we’re not going to take your wallet.

If that’s not an obvious lead in to the subject of John Brown’s Body, it’s not for lack of trying. Playing shows with them was inspiring: energized, positive, celebratory. They can really play; we let them know we hear that, and they let us know the attitude is reciprocal.

Respect has a way of radiating outward. Of course, the center of respect in the reggae world is Bob Marley. With almost all other figures in the culture, opinions are less unanimous. I don’t doubt some serious heads disagree with some aspect of Marcus Garvey or Peter Tosh or even Haile Selassie. I don’t believe in sanctifying people. Bob made plenty of mistakes, that’s not the point. You don’t have to be perfect to deserve respect, but in our lives we watch for those noble qualities in the people we meet, and acknowledge when we see them, and try to embody them. Dedication, humility, love. Reinforcing these qualities in each other.

Our show at Soundstage in Baltimore was awesome. The crowd was incredible, as they had been the night before in Philly. Baltimore’s got a rep. I think The Wire has something to do with that. What-everrr.  Anyhow, it was all good when we were there. Doctor Robinson and I hoofed it over to An die Musik to watch Cacaw play experimental jazz music. I took pictures of historic ships and checked out the bagpipe player. What’s the big deal?

No ma’am, we’re musicians. JBB and us.

New York, also awesome. Dramatic, sublime, the view right across the East River to Brooklyn, with the Bridge soaring overhead and boats, many of them historic-looking, ferrying people between the harbors. An epic horn battle ensued over Bob’s “Wake Up and Live”: Me and Doctor Robinson, Brian Landrus, who plays with Portlandian Grammy winner Esperanza Spalding, and the entire horn section from John Brown’s Body. No one survived to tell the tale except for a handful of superfans. Thank you Philippe and friends and especially Rachael. Thank you for your spirit and kindness, and congratulations on your fiftieth show!

You guys back East really love your old ships, don’t you.

Brighton, England

Take a deep breath and smell those deep fryers!

Past experience clouded our predictions here, and Linton Kwesi Johnson’s description of the place seemed to ring true. This time, Inglan was different. Anchored by shows in London and the Shambala Music Festival in Market Harborough, we were treated to a real welcome.

People around the world try to outdo each other in their hospitality. A smile, some hot coffee, a clean place to rest. These things  make us feel welcome, and we find them almost everywhere we go. Good food is the next level of amazing, but sometimes hospitality transcends these comforts.

Acting Director of Awesome and colleague.

I don’t know how Doctor Robinson came to be wearing the official hat of the Director of the Department of Awesome. It seemed to match Jason’s exuberant, colorful spirit and that of the festival itself. Still, a furrow of concern crossed the brow of our host when he asked to borrow it for the show. She hesitated until a chorus of support went up from the band, and she agreed to let the Doctor wear it.

The band had a great show that night. We’d finally done what we’d wanted to do here in England, both musically and as a working team. Relaxing afterward, we’d almost forgotten the hat, but when Jason returned it he heard the story. It had originally been worn by a young man who loved the Shambala Festival and attended every year until his death. His friends wore it in his memory, and although Jason never knew him,  I hope they too thought it was right for a musician like him to offer his joyful, living music to Vito’s friends. Peace! The charm’s wound up.

The view from Camden Lock. Remember to look right crossing the street.

Dingwalls sits at the heart of Camden, the legendary London neighborhood where the ghosts of Sid Vicious and Amy Winehouse still window shop the tattoo parlors. I mourned them, wandering, attuned to lingering traces, but Camden can make you crazy, so after an hour I headed out for the open space and quiet of Regent’s Park.

Sunset on Foxton Canal. The most beautiful place in England at that moment.

 

 

 

England is filled with quiet little hideaways: churchyards, woods, and countrysides largely free of fences and barbed wire. Unfortunately, our hotel was miles from town. I set off navigating the edge of the highway, the words “they’re driving on the wrong side!” screaming through my mind as the trucks blew past. But at an overpass by an industrial yard I saw a little gravel path following a murky canal. Turns out you can follow these canals for miles, and they are incredibly beautiful in the late afternoon light, with ducks and swans, fishermen and strolling families. Revel in the easy consonance of man and the world.

Speaking of which, I should clarify the job description for musicians I posted a couple of weeks ago.  For most musicians, the career arc can be punishing during the first five years or more. First, the practicing: People usually sound so bad during their first months they end up sequestered off in an outbuilding so as not to piss off neighbors and family. In jazz circles this is known as going to “the woodshed”. Practicing, especially of the most fundamental and repetitive kind, is known as “woodshedding” or “’shedding”.

Once this stage is well underway one can begin “paying dues”, a slightly old-fashioned term considering the vanishing of unions and their jargon, but it is a very real part of most musical careers. It consists of networking, learning business and professional skills and plenty of straight hustling, working towards more challenging music and  better-paying gigs.

You’re mostly done paying dues when you’re making enough money to support yourself and your family. Your reputation is established, you’ve got some recordings under your name, possibly some famous artists you’ve played with. When you get to this point you can take jobs even when the money is not good if you like the music, and you can you can afford to turn down good-paying gigs on the chicken dance circuit*.

Only a tiny percentage of musicians make it beyond this point, so  I’m not even going to talk about them. The majority of successful musicians I know earn about as much as a part-time plumber, but spend less time underneath peoples’ toilets. The money? Well, you just don’t do it for the money. Nonetheless, its a real job, and it provides a comfortable living and lots of benefits.

So, in thirty-five years we’ve managed to claw our way up to that penultimate tie. The things is, there is not one among us who is not grateful to be here, no one regrets the years they put into woodshedding and paying dues. A Groundation tour doesn’t go by without us looking at one another and asking: “Is this real? Are we the luckiest people in the world?”

It’s allmost time to say goodbye to Europe for 2013. East Coast of the USA, you’re next!

Would you believe these sheep almost didn’t make it into this post. Whew!

*The chicken dance circuit=wedding bands

Furuvik Zoo, Sweden

After five years the Swedish Police welcomed us with their special-but-familiarl brand of hospitality. Marcus got pulled out of line and strip searched all within our first two minutes in Sweden. Police dogs swarmed through the travelers coming and going. I really don’t want to believe that’s business as usual here. Everyone’s got their problems.

Except perhaps for Yared, a Swede and an African, and our good friend, who really welcomed us to Furuvik Reggae Festival. A first class set of bands came through, and he had hot rice & peas, dumplings, and brown stew chicken for all. After our performance, Kim and Jhamiela hung out with Marcia Griffiths in the circus ring that served as our back stage while I grabbed my camera.

Furuvik is famous for its animal park, and it held some strange fascination for me from the moment we arrived. They have some serious rides, and a Disney style-castle, which is always cool, but I was more interested in their chimpanzees. I spent half an hour trying to talk a zoo administrator into letting me take pictures of them.

“They don’t like to be woken up,” She said. “They get very irritable.”  She told me that their alpha chimp, Santino, stockpiles rocks in the morning to throw at the annoying humans who file past his enclosure every day. A Swedish primate scientist made his career telling other scientists about this behavior.

“Sounds dangerous”, I said. “But I’d bet he could pitch a fastball at a hundred and seventy. That’s like 250 kilometers.”

“Luckily, he has bad aim,” she said. She looked nonplussed. Probably most Swedes don’t care much about baseball.

Backstage bowling alley. “Groundation? You’re down by lane 25.”

Furuvik Zoo is not the strangest place we’ve played. We’ve played on boats touring Boston Harbor and the East River, bowling alleys, basketball courts, and the water park formerly known as Wet ‘n’ Wild in Salvador, Bahia. A few days ago we played in a defunct casino in Slovenia.There can be a surreal element to such experiences.  I don’t care, just tell me where to point my trumpet and when to start blowing.

The strangest moment of the tour so far was Freedom Taking Over in Ostroda, Poland. It’s the last song of the set. I’ve got my eyes closed because I’m so into it. I’m waiting to hear Kim, because she sings the part Don Carlos sang on the original recording. The recording of that song marked an important moment in Groundation, like the climax of a chapter in a book, and a kind of musical nexus. If you don’t feel the vibe at that moment, you probably never will. Anyhow, I’m waiting to hear this part and then I  can’t believe I’m hearing the actual voice of Don Carlos. I open my eyes and he’s really there, on stage with us, singing: “Oh yeah, oh yeah now.” And it was snowing in August*.

*If you thought I was tripping that it was snowing in Mid August in Poland, you were right. Apparently some bubble machine broke down and began launching thousands of little floating clusters of foam. I knew it was too good to be true.

Tolmin, Slovenia

UNPAID INTERNSHIP AVAILABLE!

Dream Job! Perform highly repetitive physical tasks at home alone for several years, annoying family and neighbors, after which time you may be offered a paid position at approximately half the minimum wage. Applicant shall be available all evenings, holidays, and weekends. Otherwise, applicant is on call. May require heavy lifting. Multiple safety hazards on work site. All equipment and expenses shall be provided by the applicant, including all transportation costs, retirement benefits and insurance. Applicant shall relinquish all rights, including those pertaining to copyright, disability, or the nonpayment of wages.

Welcome to you new career in music. If it isn’t a little discouraging, it should be. It scares your parents. Don’t be mad at them; it should scare you, too. It’s up to you to convince them it’s the right thing for you. That’s the same whether you’re still in school, or already working. For most of us, it really helps if mom and/or dad are into it. Many successful musicians I’ve met have had very encouraging parents. I was lucky. Even though my folks didn’t always encourage me in music, they accepted my career choice when they saw I was happy and no longer asking them for money.

Mingo was even luckier. His mom, Carolyn was a superfan. All her life she loved art and music of all kinds, particularly photography and exotic subjects like Chinese art. As a young woman in Northern California she dreamed of traveling to Paris, while at home she was at the center of some of the most exciting times in American music. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Santana were in their prime, and she heard them all.

When little Mingo was born, she transferred her enthusiasm for acid rock into supporting her son’s musical talent as Mingo took up the saxophone, switching to drums, and finally Afro-Cuban percussion.On the field,  Mingo was a three sport-athlete, but his mom couldn’t watch him get hurt, so she stopped going to his games. But she never stopped going to Mingo’s concerts, where he is only occasionally injured.

Carolyn Lewis was already a fan of Groundation, even before her son joined the band, so when he took the gig, she became a fixture of the front row, her camera blinding anyone unfortunate enough to be standing too near her son. Actually, she spent most of her time with the other fans in the house; we didn’t see her backstage too often. Maybe that was just Carolyn’s way of being a good mom.

In March of this year Carolyn lost her battle with cancer. Mingo missed Groundation’s South America tour in order to support his family and manage his mother’s funeral. Her death brings to five the number of parents Groundation members have lost in the last four years. I think it has changed us in subtle ways. We channel some of our grief through our music, and the tour continues, around and around.

At lunch yesterday Mingo told us he’d always felt sad when his mother visited his dreams, but last night seeing her had left him feeling good, free for a time from the grief he’s felt.

“She never made it to Paris,” Mingo told me. “But when she saw my photos of the Eiffel Tower she said, ‘Now I don’t have to go.’”

Diesel Dave Chachere August 15, 2013

Portland, Oregon

My dad, 1928-2010; A Man of Parts; The Paper Bag Test; Mysteries of the Seminal Seminary; A Blog Rebooted.

My dad wishing me and my wife a happy marriage. He claimed to have no part in intelligent design.

It’s been more than three years now since my father died of cancer in the spring of 2010. I remember the hearse drivers waiting patiently as I helped dress him in his favorite suit and sent him off. Despite objections from his wife and others he’d decided to donate his body to the University of California Medical Center so young doctors could confront the mysteries of life and death, using his body as their textbook. For him, it was nothing more than another teaching gig.

To me, this seemed both a generous decision and a fitting one. Marvin Lancelot Chachere’s life had been devoted to education in all forms. Socrates was his constant touchstone: a man who would rather die than suffer foolishness, lies and ignorance. Marvin taught American students in Moscow and Thailand, garnered degrees in Math and Philosophy. Teaching was not actually his first choice for a career. He’d narrowly avoided joining the priesthood. I’m glad he didn’t, considering the fact that if he’d fulfilled that ambition, I’d never have been born.

He was the titan of my childhood in more ways than one: strong enough to lift sacks of cement all day in the summer sun, able to build or fix anything, seemingly capable in everything he turned his will to. Sometimes he stumbled. He’d lost a court case once, he told me, but the judge had given him a compliment that made the monetary loss seem insignificant: “I have no compunctions about imposing this fine on you,” the judge had said. “I suspect it will be no more than a minor hardship, for you, sir, are a man of parts.”

A man of parts, was what my father always aspired to be. A man of many talents: incisive, responsible, prudent, tenacious, a man who would land squarely on his feet no matter what happened.

That judge’s words were more accurate than he knew. My father faced plenty of adversity. He often reflected on two of the greatest setbacks in his early life.

The Diesel Diaries do not represent the views of Safeway Foods or its affiliates.

The first involved what was known as the ‘paper bag test’. Southerners, creoles in particular, used a convenient rule of thumb to determine whether one of their number was likely to pass in the world of whites. You can try this test yourself. Stand in front of a mirror. Hold a brown paper bag up to your face. If your skin is lighter than the bag, congratulations! You can probably pass as Spanish or Italian, which, if you’d lived in the Southern United States in the the days of Jim Crow, meant that the promise of the American Dream might still be attainable if you were willing to live a life of imposture. Darker than the bag? No problem, let me show you to the back of the bus.

As I’d mentioned, the wise patriarchs of the Catholic Church refused to let my father take his final vows and become a priest. In his terminal interview, they offered my father three reasons. First, he was too attached to his earthly family. Second, he loved beauty, in the form of art and music, presumably to the detriment of his love of god. Standing there in the office of the monsignor, reeling from the shock and disappointment, with blood rushing to his face and pounding in his ears, my father never actually heard the third reason. To the day he died he never knew what his third “shortcoming” was.

In a daze, he packed his things and boarded the bus for the long journey from Vermont back to his home in New Orleans. It was a crushing blow. The priesthood was one of a very few routes out of Southern poverty, and that door was now closed to him. I imagine that darker paths may have presented themselves to him in the face of this defeat, but he did not choose them. He turned instead to another light which shone just as bright as religion had, a light which would guide him for the rest of his life. He sought truth in philosophy, humanism, and rational positivism. In short, he replaced god with man as the center of the universe.

What does any of this have to do with music, jazz or reggae, Groundation or Rasta? I don’t know the answer to that, other than to say that this is who my father was, and he, in part, made me who I am, and I, in part, make Groundation what it is. When my father died in May of 2010 my perspective on life underwent a number of changes. One result was to suspend the writing of this blog for more than three years, but also to reflect on my fathers life, and the lives and deaths of our parents, and how they affect us and our music. So it’s in his honor that I endeavor again to share with my family, friends and the fans of Groundation some of the thoughts and experiences I’ve accumulated during my life on the road.

Cheers, D.

Moab, Utah

Groundation at Wilson Arch

Au revoir, Orgone; Desert Rocks Festival; How to score a late-night quesadilla; Cowbell supergroup debut.

 I could feel the wheels of the RV scrabbling for purchase on the dirt track through the hills of Southern Utah, the headlights lurching across rocks, trees and tents. The Desert Rocks Music Festival had been the last show of the tour, and now I was lying in the bunk in the dark, remembering the strange day, and looking forward to going home.

Two days ago at a show on the Sunset Strip we said goodbye to Orgone, the best traveling companions and colleagues we could have wanted: musically inspirational and right good chaps backstage. After they killed it at the Roxy, we went up with Alex Budman and Jason Robinson on saxes. Then Jason’s friend Nick joined on for a three way tenor battle on Time Come. Whoah. That got me and Kelsey fired up and we had to have a battle on So Blind. We should have had the sax winner face off against the brass division champ for the solo on Freedom taking over. Horns were having a big night, but we have to remember to leave something for the rest of the band.

Howdy Pilgrim, y’all got HBO?

The next day we flew off to Salt Lake City again, then drove south into the red canyons around Moab, arriving dusty and parched at the Apache Motel (“John Wayne Really Stayed Here”), I was not too thrilled to hear we had a photo shoot lined up in 30 minutes. Ryan was bitching, he hates photo shoots. There was one in France where the guy with the camera told us to jump. Everyone jumped but Ryan. He loves that photo because it shows just how much he hates photo shoots. He hates them even more than me, which I never thought possible.

We pulled off the road along a ridge of jutting boulders by a huge natural arch, brick-red in the setting sun. The shoot was a snap, TM helped mama-bear Kim climb two hundred vertical feet of trackless incline. After we’d had a breather, the beauty of the place and the camaraderie eased everyone’s exhaustion.

Who are those guys with Harrison?

The Desert Rocks Festival turned out to be really sweet. The location was phenomenal, with the sunlight fading gently on the side of Mount Peale. Pulling in, we were both amused and annoyed by the people who put together the festival program. I think I was the first to notice that their photo of Groundation was actually a picture of Harrison posing with half a dozen fans in Sao Paolo. “Nobody knows you guys out here,” said TM. “No kidding,” I said. I thought we were going to have to play “Lion in the Jungle”* to prove who we were. Luckily, we were admitted by festival security and had a killer show, with lots of people coming up to us afterward with encouraging words. By the time I got there the catering tent was completely closed, I mussed up my hair, threw on my best impression of Oliver Twist, and shuffled up to the cook, a tall guy with glasses, who looked exhausted and was slinging industrial-sized ice-chests of salad and condiments.

“Please sir, would it be possible to have a bit of food?” He glanced over and started to say something. I don’t know if it was these sad eyes, or the way my hands trembled as they clutched my hat. “I got a quesadilla for you,” he said. “Hold on a couple minutes.” I wanted to cry with joy, shoveling hot food into my mouth.

Chali 2na rocks Desert Rocks.

The calm before the cowbell-storm.

At one point, the siren-call of high-quality rock ‘n’ roll drew me from the hospitality tent and across the sand to the side stage of The Pour, the awesome power trio from Park City. One song near the end of their set featured a cowbell supertrio jam-session, with none other than Mingo Lewis Junior on first cowbell. Christopher Walken would have been in heaven. If they wanted to challenge the horn solo champ from the Roxy, the best cowbellist would first have to pair off against the incredibly shredding guitarists in The Pour and Wisebird, who also had a battle. The winner would get a dinette set, or similar.

The moon rose during our encore, (thanks!) and by the time the RV pulled out I could hear people howling in the tepees and camps. And look at that, I’m right back to my lead. Tidy, just how I like it. See you next in Barcelona. Ciao, Diesel.

*“Lion in the Jungle” is a video originally on Youtube and mislabeled as a Groundation song. We often get requests for it. There’s a lot of misinformation on the internet, if you didn’t know.

Maui, Hawaii

Two scoop Groundation @ Kauai and Maui, one big scoop @ The Pipeline, O’ahu; Twain tight-lipped on Maui getaway; I’m Lewis, he’s Clark & she’s Sacagawea; Aloha is not a slogan.

Twin Falls fruit stand on the Hana Highway

Last week’s shows took us back to the old days of touring with Groundation. On our first trip to the islands we stayed at the infamous Banana Bungalow in Wailuku, eight to a room. This time we stayed at the Pioneer Inn in Lahaina, by all accounts a very historical spot. Maui has an extraordinary reputation for quirkiness. Charles Lindberg is buried here, ’round the backside of the big volcano. In the spring humpback whales are as common as pigeons. My boy Mark Twain spent six weeks here when he was a travel writer back in the 1800s. When he got back to his desk the only thing he wrote about it was this:

“It has been six weeks since I touched a pen. In explanation and excuse I offer the fact that I spent that time…on the island of Maui. I only got back yesterday. I never spent so pleasant a month before, or bade any place good-bye so regretfully. I doubt if there is a mean person there, from the homeliest man on the island  down to the oldest. I went to Maui to stay a week and remained five. I had a jolly time. I would not have fooled away any of it writing letters under any consideration whatever. It will be five or six weeks before I write again. I sail for the island of Hawaii tomorrow, and my Maui notes will not be written up until I come back.”

Predictably, he never wrote them up; whatever happened in Maui stayed in Maui. Your faithful pal Diesel had a jolly time, too, but maybe not as jolly as Mr. Clemens.

MarkTwain

Lani at Venus

With Trombone-man Kelsey riding shotgun, we wound down the well-trodden Hana Road, reaching the Seventh of the Sacred Pools right at dusk. We were accompanied by the lovely Lani and her six-month old daughter Carmenita. A Maui native, Lani looked like Sacagawea out there, diving into pools and hopping over rocks while Kelsey and I slapped on bug-repellent and fumbled along in pursuit. I feel sorry for folks that come here and don’t have local friends to show them around.

More tropical beauties

We’ve worked for it. Groundation has been coming to Hawaii for years, earning friendships. The way I see it, if you want to be welcome in a place like this you need to have two things: First, you need to show respect. This is important in any culture, but especially in Hawaii. Second, you need to have something to trade, something to offer. At the very least, that means money. Most tourists come here with little more than that, so they only see the surface of things. If you’ve got a joyful heart or a good reggae band, that might get you in the door, and once you really feel welcome here, you know what the fuss is about. And it doesn’t hurt to like macaroni salad.

On O’ahu, my old friend Mikey took me around for chicken katsu and mochi. Then we blundered right into a mass-hula in front of the Royal Palace. After botching that photo-op we spent an hour in the museum absorbing artistic interpretations of Hawaiian culture (everything from surfing to quilts) and social issues like the bombing of the island of Kaho’olawe. Soaking it up.

The Pipeline show was great, very peaceful, with up-and-comers Product opening up, and veterans Ooklah the Moc in support. Some faces were missed, but there were some new ones backstage as well, and memories of shows gone by floated at the edges of our thoughts.

I felt more welcome in Hawaii than ever before. Overworked Hawaiian bouncers pulled aside the velvet rope for me even without my backstage pass, and a hard working waitress kept her cafe open an extra hour for us. I blinked twice when I saw she’d given me the kama’aina discount on my fish sandwich. She smiled as I stared at the check in disbelief. “You guys killed it at the Hard Rock last night.” I’m here to tell you: Aloha is no joke.

Groundation's first time on O'ahu

Reno, Nevada

Orgone and the orgone; Ray of Sunshine hits West Coast; atheism rears its somewhat annoying head; one-ninth the purpose of Groundation (my 11%).

Outside the Knitting Factory, Reno.

Orgone, the band.

This tour really took off. I’d love to wax rhapsodic, but this is the lead so I’ll spare you. Groundation is about to start the second leg of the Fuzion Tour at the Belly Up in Solana Beach with special guests and co-headliner Orgone. Hailing from the wide streets and narrow arroyos of Los Angeles, our funky southern cousins make a great contrast with Groundation, the lighters to go with our Molotov cocktail and vice versa. You will dance your ass off if you come to this show.

The word orgone was created by psychoanalist Wilhelm Reich, and it refers to a kind of invisible life energy. I learned something about him when I was dating a girl who thought he was cool. He was a student of Sigmund Freud, and he had some interesting ideas about sexual freedom and the psychological damage caused by war and authoritarianism. He ran into trouble with both the Nazis and the American Feds, so I know he couldn’t be all bad. Some of his science was pretty sketchy though, including his theories of spontaneous healing through the accumulation of cosmic energy: orgone. Orgone (the band)’s PR suggests that their music helps charge these unseen fields of sex power. When you the see their show, you’ll see what they mean. It seems that these days everyone has a different way of explaining things.

Superfan Rachael hails from Boone, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. She’s a vegan chef and photographer. A couple of weeks back a patron was admiring Rachael’s work in a cafe. The woman asked Rachael (who sometimes goes by the name Ray of Sunshine) how she would spend the money if she sold her prints.

“I guess I’d go see Groundation in California. And Steel Pulse, too”

A little later, the woman cut a check, which bought a plane ticket, and Rachael met us backstage at the Mystic Theater in Sonoma County, California. She attributed her good fortune to positive thinking, which I agree with.

This picture shows several things I don't like about religions. Can you guess what they are?

I don’t usually like to wear my beliefs on my sleeve, so I apologize for the dogma I’m about to commit. I’m not Rasta, which you could probably guess by looking at me, (being in a reggae band does obscure the issue). In fact, I’m an atheist, which means that I believe there is no god. Also I have eyebrows that can be raised independently of one another, which annoys everyone I know, with just one exception.

The exception is my wife. Gillian, who is an atheist like me. A year ago when she found herself in a dark place, she turned to church, hoping that the music would ease her despair. She began going weekly to Glide Methodist Church in San Francisco and joined the chorus. My wife is still an atheist, but trust me, Sunday mornings at Glide are considerably funner than the SF Atheists’ meetings. The Atheists don’t even have a band. Yet.

If you’re reading this, you probably recognize the power of music to ease the burdens of the heart, unleash your body and your imagination, or at the very least to have fun. You also realize that great music is made all around the world, by all kinds of people, many of them religious. I hope people don’t let their spiritual beliefs lead them to exclude people who don’t have spiritual beliefs. Why? Because even though I’m an atheist, I love the feelings I get from Glide and from Groundation.

Celebration is fundamental, a universal act of sharing, and though I’ve never been in the crowd for a Groundation show, still I hope people leave our shows feeling a little closer to one another. I’m only one ninth of Groundation (that’s 11%), but I think the real purpose of this band is to use music and poetry to inspire people to do good things and increase the amount of love in the world. It’s not so different from a good church service.