#willamettemtn

[willamettemountain]

I Travel / I Travel in Time / I Travel in Time Until I Don’t.

Sand in hair / Millie girl / Laguna Beach, CA.

Time THOUGHT, warping back to the year 2012. Touring / traveling at that time in my life felt completely logical / normal / sustainable . Regularly scheduled departures and arrivals to and from my home in Utah were the ways of what I truly believed were the “artist’s path”. The lady who had been sharing living space with me, seemingly ok with my erratic choice of “career," granted me freedom to explore the ins and outs of my constantly swelling and shrinking views on life, via musical endeavor. My direction / life, felt balanced, or at least a semblance of “balance”. All of this changed when the forces of life brought the strands of makeup from both me and my lover together in a beautiful array of cellular fusion. Our boy Oliver was to be birthed and like that life shifted.

Fast forward to November 28th-2017. I packed my car with a guitar, two bikes, microphones, papers, a typewriter and an urgent desire to create songs from nothingness. I drove myself to Las Vegas where I picked up Mr. Jordan Clark from the airport and we headed South-West to the land of the LAGOON. Mr. David Helfrich welcomed us with the warmest heart that I ever did experience, as we pulled into the gated community, located somewhere in Laguna Beach, California, we saw the sun set and felt fearless for the task. At first there was little talk of song-writing, the conversation was safe and bounced from theme to theme until dinner was over. As the dishes got loaded into the washer we talked of intention and locational purpose. The goal, as explained by David, who had initially dreamt up the idea of traveling to California for the SOLE purpose of song writing, was to try and write 2-3 songs during our 6 day stint of “surf-style” living. The schedule was easy, simple, freeing;

Rise when you rise

Write when you feel inspired

Explore the city

Enjoy your moment

Write when you feel anything

Sleep when you are tired

And like that we started our journey into the ethereal quest of creating something from nothing.

I have been writing songs for 12 years, but never had I set out with such a retreat to the land of writing, and solely that. With the directions laid before us of how we were to go about the day, albeit loosely, we began writing. I can’t pretend that the songs fell in our laps, and that there was not hard work, long moments of brain squeezing struggle for lyric, or melodic structure, but as the sixth day came to a close we put a nail in the 16th song of the inspiringly productive week. I had never written that many songs in that short of time, and felt elated, grounded and tired. 

Helfrich Homestead / Retreat To Write / Songs.

Hello, Old Friend / Song.

Light In The Darkness / Song

The next day both Jordan and I’s families flew in to spend three days in the sun lit sky of Laguna beach. The sand castles were built and destroyed, the street tacos and hotel room service-delivered pizzas were consumed, and I felt rejuvenated.  

Babes in BeachLand, CA.

Afternoon Street Tacos / Millie Girl.

Jordan / FAT bikes / Working Wonderfully.

Saturday morning came crashing through the windshield of our car as we headed north toward our home state. We stopped in Las Vegas to see my parents. As we sat in the decadently decorated living room of my parents “new” abode (Since retirement in 2016) we quickly realized that we were too tired OR too unwilling to continue our journey north to Willamette MTN. We conversed with the two statutes of my existence until my Mother had to be off for the sake of her students, she is a piano teacher. I suggested, to Emma, that we take bikes to the foot of the Red Rock loop and cycle it together. She, being the supportive and adventurous woman that she is, obliged. We parked our car at 3:42 pm at the base of the loop and started to pedal our way in. The air was brisk on our skin but the golden rays of the sun warmed us and kept us at a comfortable temperature. We reached the peak of the loop at 4:23 pm, I took a quick photo of Emma as I noticed that the sun was already beginning her crouch, sinking behind the Nevadian Mountains.

My Bird / Red Rock Canyon / Bird Flipper

“Well, no more photos, your phone just died. I hope ya won’t need to take any more on the way down.” I laughed quietly as I packed the battery-less mini computer into the back pocket of my backpack. The ride down the loop was approximately 9 miles and the air had already dropped since we started our biking, I expressed concern to Emma about the temperature, and told her we better get going. At about a mile into our return down the loop my hands were feeling the strain of the frigid air, feeling in my extremities was quickly disappearing. The sun was dropping quicker than I had anticipated, I turned to Emma,

“Once that sun drops behind the ridge it is going to get really cold…

 I am happy to race up ahead, get the car, park the car at the bottom of the loop (it was about 2 miles from the exit), grab your coat and gloves and race back up the loop to bring you some warmth.”

She agreed to the proposition and I raced up ahead, as quickly as my legs would carry me, to the bottom of the loop.  As I was exiting onto the main drag that would lead me to the car I couldn’t feel my hands, a realization quickly followed that Emma too was feeling the temperature drop and that time was of the essence. I got to the car and fumbled for my keys, my hands were not working in conjunction with my brain’s demands, I couldn’t get my fingers to properly grasp the key to insert it into the key slot. I blew on my hands and then persuaded them to play nicely, and I was in. I was chattering when I parked the car at the bottom of the loop. Quickly as my body could muster I grabbed a coat for Emma, gloves and started up the Red Rock loop, backwards. The loop is a one way and I was NOT traveling with traffic, my lack of bike light was causing drivers to swerve around me, barely keeping me in the game of the living. At this point there was next to no sunlight left, just a soft glow, fading quickly behind the eastern ridge.

“EMMA!   EMMA!” I screamed up ahead of me, hoping there would be some sort of distant response. By this point I was losing my calm and panic was seizing my composure. I had biked back up the loop 3 miles and there was no sign of her. My options, at this point, were few, either continue up the loop looking for her with next to no light, and eventually NO LIGHT, or… turn around, and race up and around the loop with the car, in hopes that she is somewhere off the shoulder. Neither of these options were of much comfort, but I opted for the first. I raced back down the road and pulled the car back onto the main drag toward the entrance of the Red Rock park, near the place where we had parked initially. As I passed the area where we had parked I noticed a white CRV, lights on, stationary. The car began to honk. Could it be? Had Emma found a ride, with her bike, down the loop? I pulled to the shoulder, and like an angel from the heavens Emma came racing around to the passenger side of the car, teeth chattering and face frozen, but relieved. I haven’t felt fear like that in a long time.

With the whip of the wind our reality can escape, distort, dissolve.

I am grateful for this wicked ride, this weird turnpike, this insane existence,

Surely to disappear,

Joshua F. James

[willamettemountain]

Lone Star State and The State of Being / Staying Alive.

The past six weeks have sent me into a tailspin of illuminating highs and blistering lows. A concoction of alcohol and speed (sans the alcohol and speed) for the soul that has left me back at Willamette MTN with fifty-five mouthfuls of stories to recount to my gang and posse of like minds.

I have driven through Texas a small handful of times. The last time I had been in Texas was well over two years ago. Hell, it could have been three years ago. For reasons that are semi-unknown I had never had the greatest shows in Texas, and as unfortunate / fortunate as it might / might not be I hadn’t gotten the sweet taste of the southern state that feels like a country when driving from one side to the other.

STOCKYARDS / Ft. Worth, Texas.

We pulled into Ft. Worth late at night and strolled down the historic district before stumbling into a slightly hokey, done up, but for a let down-style saloon, sat in the corner and started listenin to a fella singin’ his heart out to absolutely no-one. He sang about his lady leavin him and only given back the dog, about his papa and the relationship that exists while not really existing at all. He sang and drank and eventually sauntered off stage. Slowly but surely he made his way over to Timmy and I. “Good singin’ up there, amigo.” I stated. “Ah, thanks.” He said, as he lit up a cigarette. “Where you boys from?” “Just outside Salt Lake City” Timmy quickly responded. “..ah…right on. Well I am headin to the good part of Ft. Worth if you boys wanna join me.” He said as he started making his way for the door. We got off our stools and proceeded to follow the fella to his car, behind which we were parked, and all together we made our way into the “GOOD PART” of Ft. Worth Texas. We arrived to a bar that serves up singers and tonics to those that have the desire for either and began listening to the many talented Texas songwriters that seemed to have quite a hold on the local music scene. The evening continued in this fashion until it was too late to drive anywhere. We said our goodbyes to the many new peoples that we had had the pleasure of meeting that night and packed our bikes with sleeping bags and pillows. We made our way to a small park that ran along a river, we were too tired to care that it appeared to be along the main walkway of those that take comfort in their morning walks, knowing good and well that we would be spotted dozens of times before our eyes actually broke their closings. But no matter. The air was hot and sticky. I laid atop my sleeping bag in hopes for an occasional breeze that might serve as some small consolation prize for enduring the Dallas night. Very soon after I had lain down I kept feeling small bites on my feet and legs, then on my arms and neck. For the next couple of hours I tossed and turned, hoping that my body would cool, that the bastard bugs would leave me be, even for a moment, please, PLEASE. At three in the morning I gave up my hopes and shined my phones light across my sleeping bag, I was covered in black ants who had seemed to find some sort of comfort in my bodies cracks and breaks, it was truly hopeless, my intention of slumber. I climbed back on my bike with my bag and pillow and headed back to the car that was safely parked at the bar that we had previously been at. I climbed into the passenger side of the car and gave it my best go to sleep. Three hours later I heard a knock on the window and a man who explained to me that I could not be parked there. My night was a mare of nights. Truly.

(There is some slightly “colorful” language that is found in the text below. Proceed with a very small amount of caution.)

The day’s morning felt like a fever dream that wouldn’t stay in focus. I would lose sight, thought, hearing at any given moment, but that all seemed to fade as the day went on. After arriving to the venue we pulled our bikes out and the clock read 11:07 am. I had my sights set on doing a 50 mile bike ride that day before the show and started heading toward the University of Dallas Texas that was found 26 miles from where I was currently standing, and so the round trip would be perfect. I started the ride without properly preparing myself for the journey. No socks, no water, no thought (good).

Sans Fashion / A Cyclicsta.

At about mile 18 I stopped my bike, out of necessity, at a small corner shop, off of the bikeway. There was something peculiarly perplexing about the shop. It seemed run down and dark inside, nonetheless I parked my bike up against the brick wall and started my way in. Before I could even open up the door I saw a man heading my way with a quickness in his step that spoke much more then he could have actually shared to me in words, he was headed right toward me. Our eyes locked and he spoke: “You know where dis’is?” He asked as he showed me a location point on his phone. I looked at the phone as if I had any idea where it was, making faces that might have even led him to believe that I knew, and then answered. “No, amigo, no idea. I actually am from Salt Lake City…in Utah. I haven’t the foggiest idea of where ANYTHING is, I wish I could be a bit more helpful.” The man kept making eyes at me that made me feel that there might be something more he was in hopes of getting from me then directions to “x” point. “..So you don’t know where dis’is? He asked again, slightly agitated.“Nah, no idea.” “Well shit, I gotta get me dare somehow soon, my boy got sumpin I can’t zactly explain, know wh’uh mean?” I just shrugged my shoulders and sat down on the curb to begin putting on the socks that I had so haphazardly placed in my fanny pack before putting them on my feet. “..Ah yea, dis what I need to get dare…” he said as he began placing his hands on my bike. “..Yes, yes, its nice being able to get around from one town to the next on a bike, it’s my only form of transportation” I lied. “Say, is that one yours?” I asked as I pointed to a mountain bike leaning up against the same brick wall that mine was. He slowly walked over to it and felt the handlebars. “Nah, ain’t mine…but it should be, huh?” he slowly sputtered as he made a half smile. I said nothing.  The man then proceeded to hop on the bike and start across the parking lot. No sooner had he made it to the other side of the parking that a man from two doors down from the corner shop came jetting out, asking me where his bike was. “Brother, I am not sure…” I said scared out of my wits. “Someone stole my bike…Someone stole my muthafu**in bike..You know who took my bike?” I felt that somehow I had landed in between a very unlikely situation of having to serve as some sort of mediator for the taken advantage of. I pointed out to the far corner of the parking lot, “Is that your bike out there?” “AH, SHIT, That muthafu**uh is getting it! I gotta use yur bike.” He said as he started grabbing for my bike.

“NO! You can NOT take my bike, that is my only form of transportation and I can’t have you take my bike.” I surprisingly said. “Well you gotta help me get that Mutha….er” he said as he started running toward the other end of the parking lot. I stood there staring at the man, not quite knowing what to do. “You get on your muthaf**in bike right fu**in now or I am gonna come back and whip yer ass.” He furiously said. I had NO idea what to do. I got on my bike and started riding next to this man that for some reason thought that I could catch and capture the thief of his beloved cycle. The man ran at an absurdly fast rate and we were actually gaining on the man atop the stolen cycle.

“What do you want me to do if I catch up with him?” I asked, perplexed. “I want you to kick his muthafu**in ass.”   The overwhelming cinematic feeling of this moment is something I won’t ever forget (or so I hope). I was atop my bicycle, chasing what I could only assume to be a slightly or fully dangerous criminal, who had wronged another man, a man that had threatened me to help him catch the assailant, and bring the same to justice. As I was closing in on the other biker I saw him turn around and see us after him. He turned his head to face me.

“What the hell you think yo’ doin’?”

I had absolutely no idea what to say, what to do, what to think, or how to escape this triangle of danger that I had found myself in. I saw a side street to my left and saw my option. I pedaled as hard as I could and jetted in front of a Ford F-150, nearly allowing myself to be smashed into the Dallas streets, in hopes that I could escape this RADICALLY zany situation. There was some shouting and words that I heard behind me and kept my eyes on the road in front, pushing harder and harder on my pedals. Like I said, I had never had the best shows in Texas. But this time it was brilliant. What a dream. What a life.

Joshua

[willamettemountain]

A Box / A Brain.

Ollie-VER / Plowing Through The Spring.

Being boxed in has had its benefits (albeit not many). I must admit, there ain’t much dynamic range available to the pursuit of advancement, which, for a spell, can serve as a resting point of sorts, when placed in such a place (a box, a box). AND of course there is that beautiful “sense” of safety in that static environment of boxivity, everything plotted out, all answers provided, no questioning needed (or wanted often time), all things are in their place. Little chaos, little movement, little light, little of anything. “Looking out the window on my color TV” has done, throughout the years of my existence, very little for what I would classify as true contentment, and dare I say, happiness?

Early Plantings / Stakin’ Claims / Willamette MTN

Millie Girl / Dirt Dinner

MTN Dew / Baby Girl / Diet Coke. THE new TRINITY.

We have lived inside of Willamette MTN for 6 years now, and for those 6 years we have never (from what I can recall) opened up our window’s blinds that face South East, directly toward the majestic mountains of the Wasatch Range. There never seemed much of a point, I suppose. What if the neighbors were to see me? Or I them? (gawd furbid), but the other night we opened the shades, to most windows in the house, it has completely changed the entire environment within (both the house and body). AMAZED at this transformation we are heading toward the new season. It is April 2016 and I am about to burst. The snowfall has subsided and the color of the sun has changed from her wintery white flicker to a golden burst of flames. I couldn’t be happier. Truth is I have not been one for snow, or winter for that matter, for quite some time now. As a child it seemed (and most likely was) magical and full of possibility, but the years tacked onto my back and the whole ordeal became fastidious. Perhaps it’s the sadness that quickly follows the post Christmas mayhem, or maybe it’s the gloom / the darkness that can so often accompany those short wintery days.  But most likely it’s the thickness (or thin-NESS, depending on how your eyes are viewing it) of my skin. As soon as the first snow falls I find that my body quickly goes into a survival / hibernation rhythm, COMPLETEY unable to find warmth. Cold. Freezing. ALL WINTER LONG.

But alas, the cubicle in which we (we, as in the wintery creatures that live in this place of the Utah tundra) have been living has had its walls chewed through by the termites of the CHOSEN SUN. YES! We are headed toward the liberation of our limbs and hearts. Able to make the small journey to the chicken coop and release the tethered feathered friends from their nests without cursing out venomous / vile wordings that (SURELY) Mother and Father James would NOT approve of, has served as a small, victorious event every morning during the past weeks. The dirt is warming and the cold frames that are placed around the house are soon to find company in their ability to grow food for the animals found in and around Willamette MTN. The long days that have spent with my little ones and lover have filled me more than I anticipated they would. I have been eagerly wrapped up in the finishing of the new set of recordings that we will be making available for those that care to listen. IT has taken a lot of my time and focus and it feels good to shift into something that seems, for lack of a better phrase, REALER.

Millie Girl / Trucks

New Turkeys

Seedlings / Onions / Mama

This isn’t to say that music isn’t real, or that it doesn’t cause REAL events / feelings/ effects. HEAVENS, what a silly thought now anyway. The bindings between the world of the singings and sowings are so closely intertwined, and I feel (at least currently) that my sentiments aren’t to change. I suppose what I mean to say is that the “REALNESS” of the plantings / sowings / diggings and tillings is one that feels inherently close to my humanity. To share this with the three human beings that I am so closely tethered to is something that I find hard to describe. The “farming” of our food has personally broken me out the boxed feeling of leaning on the grocers to provide my family and I with food (which so often is anything BUT (food)). We have been able to find a different connection with the world / family / each other and EVEN OURSELVES through the magnificent makings of a home(stead).  The time that Millie Girl and Ollie Boy have spent in the garden with Emma and I have been some of the most emotionally moving experiences of my “ADULT” life.

Rainbow Ride / Night Paintings.

Timmy The Teeth / Drummin’

Every person that I have known well (through it all) has had certain parameters and molds that they were poured into, gelatinous organisms expected to act / think / be a certain way or thing. Every aspect of this can be crushed and recreated. The capacity with which we are able to function, our capability, our possible reachings are (almost) endless. I s’pose I need to remind my bloody forgetful / slow and silly mind of this. I fall into terribly binding and suffocating circles (boxes) so often that to write it down feels therapeutic (at the least), and changing (at best).

Constant in forgetting. Hoping in the changing.

Joshua

[willamettemountain]

An Unveiling / Ain’t no ONE like the ONE ya got.

The concept had been stirring in my brain for sometime. It seemed ridiculous and silly, something to scoff at, but still, it stayed, lodged deep within the confines of my brain, leaving me curious of how such an image might be portrayed on canvas. Completely outrageous but bound for absolute notoriety I couldn’t just let the image seep through and leave me feeling empty and cowardly, and so I pursued it. I had to.

Two of the most mythical men in my upbringing carried with them a sense of otherworldly powers, images / portraits / personas and prestige’s that I could only describe as REVERED. Growing up as a mormon boy I was neck deep in story / myth / legend of the man, Joseph Smith Jr. and his predecessor Brigham Young. The stories that these two men left behind kept me enchanted and intrigued from an early age.  The mystical and magical tales that I was told of the two giants kept me feeling completely incapable of ever achieving a life as holy and pure as the ones of the two aforementioned religious leaders. 

“You know what blood looks like in a black and white video? SHADOWS!” -John Prine I can only assume (assumption is for the bigot), suppose most, if not all of us grow up in the shadows of SOME one or SOME thing that could (though not MUST) be categorized as “otherworldly”, be it parents, grandparents, siblings, gods, prophets, poets, singers and the like. As I got older the shadows of these two and others were in constant view, projecting what a boy / man / person could and should be, and I hadn’t any reason to believe that this feeling would or could (for that matter) change.   The utter acceptance of the person I had been, that I was, in the current moment, and that I might or might not become in future days had never (nor has) completely arrived. BUT! I had come to the conclusion (which is in a constant state of sway), through some detangling of my thought, that I had no obligation to any person / parent or other to be THIS way or THAT way. That I had no reason to walk with the right foot first or the left, and that the only arrow I was to (if it was to be mine) focus on was the one upon which I was traveling. The part of me that had been hidden in the shadow of him or her, this or that was emerging, albeit slowly, out of a circle of cloud, in search and question of what it was that I WANTED (I truly had no bloody idea) to do with the days of my life, and not what I had been taught that I wanted (and or needed).

Brian Koch has been a good friend of mine for many a moon, through those years of friendship and experience I have had other images seep into my thinking’s, consuming the side of my brain that is in NEED of relief, a antidote to the tremor. Some of these rambling images have had such an impression that I have forced (things are bound for true intensity) Brian to paint them on canvas for me, to be hung / displayed inside of Willamette MTN. As I made mention of the new IDEA that I had for a painting Brian seemed giddy / excited / nervous with the concept of the whole thing. I knew how it MUST have sounded, but I had to pursue it, see it through, finish the concept. And so it happened.

The idea had first been discussed, before I had much time the image that had been floating around in my head was suddenly put into words and those into sketches, sketches that would be smeared with paints and colors upon the back of a stretched canvas.  WHAT!? Was this REALLY happening?  I felt only power enough to embrace the idea (I get so dramatic) and move on, live and die with the product of your hands. It just happened so quickly. The whole concept was to make light that which was once (for me) SO HEAVY. To take something that at one time consumed your (my) whole breath, day, night, dream, thought and turn it into vapor, dissipating with the softest of breezes. After Brian’s dedicated artistry was finished I was convinced that there had to be a celebration of sorts! A painting! A painting! There was surely a festivity in order, how could there not be? (gawd forbid). The date was set. February 26th. We would welcome friends and family into the MTN to celebrate early in the wonderment of the living. The communal aspect of our brotherhood and friendship, with art and unity as the crowning jewel of the whole evening.

Two days before the “unveiling” was to take place I received a call from my Mother, informing me that her and my Father would be arriving a day early in order to attend the Face book event that I had invited them to: “The New Painting Unveiling. A Celebration” This caught me more off guard than I could have imagined. I was proud of what the painting held, but felt afraid that the pride might not be shared with that of my own blood. This news took the celebration and shed a new kind of light on it, one that I was not entirely sure I was comfortable with, but as life and death go, we moved along. People began showing up at 8pm, by 9 we were in the studio, the painting covered in curtain, hanging on wall, a mystery to most in attendance as to what the canvas might be holding.  There was food and drink that had been brought by all. Strangers meeting strangers, caution led to comfort and made for a perfect mixture of emotion. A little after 9pm Timmy sang two songs for us, after which Stewart Wheeler took us into the realm of the unknown, soaring his voice and elevating us up, through and past the rafters of the studio. He ended his singings. I was nervous. What was I doing? I stood up and headed toward the sheet that covered the newest addition to the MTN.

Timmy The Teeth / One Man I Love

Father James / Another Man I Love

Stewart Wheeler / A True Friend

An inspiring Artist / Friend / Father.  Brian Koch

In life (and yes, I can only speak from my own human entrapment) we are capable and maybe even likely to create our own brand of reality, our own mythology, an environment that is able to serve as a cradle to our wildest and most wondrous dreams. It is in this creation that I find my lover, my boy, my little gal, my amigos, my parents and family, my brother and animals, all pushing me ADELANTE. And I think forward is the only direction that actually computes, that can actually serve as a fulfillment.

“Mormon Culture” a painting by Brian Koch

(photos taken by Jennifer Carter)

And so, here is to your creation, to his and her creation, the mystical myths and legends that we are all building, with little reason, much reason or no reason at all.  

Joshua (howling)

[willamettemountain]

Nailed in Place / Shuffling Shoes

“Emma??   EMMA!??....SOMEONE!?”

The pain wasn’t anything I was a kin to. Broken bones, split elbows, slivers and the occasional stubbed toe? Sure. But this, THIS!...was something entirely different. I felt helpless, betrayed by my own equipment, and the fear of being glued / tethered / stuck to that table, forever, was something at the forefront of the swirling bathtub of thought that was quickly running out my ears.

I had been building a table for my tape machine earlier that day and was in the process of putting the top on it. As I was nailing, with a 16 ga finish nailer, the top of the table on I hit a knot in the wood, and it just so happened that my finger was next to the knot in which the 2 ½” finish nail decided to travel away from. As the nail avoided the knot in the wood it shot out of the side of the 2x4 , into my pointer and finger and then wrapped back up and finished it’s location in the top of the table, completely pinning my finger to the table. The shock hit quickly and I had very little idea of what one should do in such a situation. And so, like I assumed I should, I screamed. Emma came running in…

“Should I call 911? Should I grab a saw and start sawing at the nail!?”

“NO!!! Don’t do anything with a saw, and don’t call 911, just try and…find something to get this table top off with…Unless we get the top off I am stuck here to the table..”

Emma quickly found a flat head screwdriver and within 30 seconds I was able to pry the top of the table free and slide my finger off of the nail, letting the hole that it had left fill with blood. All of this madness and mutilation for the pursuit of a mental dream. The beauty of recorded music.

The Tape Machine Table / Fear Driven

Shot through / Finguh.

Recorded music has been a vital part of the upbringing of my heart and mind. Though rock n roll was the ugly stepchild that my parents wanted out of the house, I was convinced that the experience of listening could change me.

I suppose it did.

Over the past seven years I have been enthralled with the ability that we have discovered to capture the sounds that can cause an emotional overload in the bodies of other human beings. The process has taken me longer than (probably) most, and by no means have I arrived to the place that I feel is sufficient, but I have taught myself, through MUCH discussion (with wiser, more well “seasoned” recording veterans), online readings, and a heavy helping of trial and error, how to record music. I have been doing this (recording) in the upstairs of Willamette MTN since I moved here 6 years ago. With the coming of children and the need for a separation between home and hobbie I decided, about 6 months ago, that I would try and turn the upstairs into a separate creative space, where I would be able to record / produce / sing / create / and exist in the realm of mindlessness. I feverishly drew plans and made notes on what I would like to see change in the studio. It was overwhelming to discover what went into the building of a recording studio and 4 months ago I decided that I was going to do it.

The whole thing started about three months ago. We tore out walls, closets and ceilings; we cut into walls and made other walls twice as thick. We covered the ceiling with cedar, built chandeliers out of cow hips and caribou skulls, we sanded, wired, cut, pasted, caulked and cured the things that we wanted to see change. We covered the floor with pine and built an environment conducive to the creation of music and the like. The whole thing began to go to bed with me, it would travel with me to the mountains, it would be in the shower and in my shoes. It tattooed itself to my skin and I started to notice that I had become impossible to shake the overwhelming and all consuming project of “THE STUDIO”.

As I suppose we all do, I underestimated the time it would take to finish what I had hoped to do. It has now been three months and I, like a fool, had allotted 3 weeks for the project. It had / has stolen most of my thought, and time, causing me to trade my singing for a saw blade. As the time quickly approached for me to return to the road of travel and music I had yet to complete the things I had hoped to do. I found myself completely consumed with the “FINISH”, I procrastinated many of my self imposed duties and responsibilities. I could hardly sleep for fear of not finishing what I had begun. The hour has arrived for me to embark on yet another adventure, away from my children and lover, away from the pseudo-finished studio and into the arms of the wild and wicked I surrender myself.

Floor Tear / Early Day

Window Maker / Willamette MTN

Finishing Pine / Window Ender / Willamette MTN

Table Top / Closer (Stage Uno) / Pre TOUR

Day Before Tour / Closest

As the tour was approaching I had the BEST OF INTENTIONS to have a design made and then to proceed to have shirts pressed for the small Midwestern run. But, as it has seemed to do, time betrayed me and left me with 4 days before the tour begun. There was absolutely no time to have a design made, let alone having the appropriate window of days to have them pressed and so I took a different approach to T-shirts for this tour. My lady and I headed to the local thrift store and scowered through the racks of used T-shirts, there were hundreds upon hundreds to choose from, but the variety for which we searched was specific. NO graphic. NO design. NO nada.

Lino Carver / Stress Recharger

We purchased the 30 or so T-shirts and headed home. From there we took a linocut that I had done last year and pressed the lino on each of the T-shirts. The said design came out looking better than I had anticipated. We have plans of selling these at the following shows:

December 8th      Empire Arts Center                                       Grand Forks, North Dakota

December 9th      The Basement @ Des Moines Social Club      Des Moines, Iowa

December 10th    Iowa City Yacht Club                                      Iowa City, Iowa

December 11th    Studio Winery                                                 Lake Geneva, Wisconsin

December 12th     Gravel Road Concert                                     Minburn, Iowa

December 13th    Schubas                                                           Chicago, Illinois

 Be Kind or DIE / Hand Pressed / Hand Carved / Thrift Store Tour T-Shirts

It will be nice to escape for a moment from the tyranny and demanding tone of the studio. I am happy to be with Evan out on the road, but will miss Timmy and Isaac, but the run only called for two of us boys. If you are in the area make a stand. Come out to the show, and give a hand (shake).

It’s getting later and I haven’t packed.

Joshua

[willamettemountain]

An Unveiling/Resurrection. A Traveler's Companion/True Love. A Fine Life/A Feline.

Timmy The Teeth. Drummer. Friend. Tour Companion.

It’s becoming a reality. Sure, it passes. But it never seems that the hour of loading the van will truly arrive. But alas, it is nigh at hand. And in two weeks we will begin our traveling and vagabonding, our singing and charlataning, and truth be told? I am ecstatic. My blood’s temperature rises when reminiscing on the travels that I have been so fortunate to be a part of. The minimal eating and the long drives. The people and the city. The color and the torture. All of it a part of the mystical and magical journey as a traveler. Music, though it sounds silly, is a byproduct of the touring experience. I love the singing, I do. But the traveling. The changing faces and towns. The ins and the outs. The depression that sets it. The highs are the highest that you feel. The lows? The LOWEST. And so it shall start a new. All over again. In two weeks. The boys and I have been in practice over the past couple of weeks, trying to get ready for the insanity that will surely pursue. A list of the tour dates (thus far, for there are more to be added en route back to UTAH) can be found HERE.

Billie the Visionary. Tuck Boy. Lounging/Waiting.

The past week has been full of preparations of the previously mentioned forthcoming tour. But as the weekend approached I was getting more and more excited about the “Unveiling” party that was to be had at Willamette MTN. A good friend of mine, Brian Koch, is an exceptional painter. I had, for a long time, wanted to commission a painter (in this case, as luck would have it, a friend) to paint a “Willamette MTN” painting. One that would involve current members of the MTN. Including: King Jasper, Sword Wielding Maroni, Dancing Squash Quartet, Tuck Boy, Billie the Visionary, Sister (The lion of the goat) and so many more. And so…. Brian took on the epic project and after four months of intensive painting it was finished. He informed me on Monday of last week. What was I to do? The painting was done! A celebration had to be in the works immediately. I informed close friends of its completion and asked if they wouldn’t join me in unveiling the masterpiece for the first time, and where else would this celebration occur but on the MTN. And so it was set. Saturday night. Food and drink. Friends and felines. Dancing and mayhem. All a swirl of beauty/friendship and companionship that night. At 10pm the curtain fell from the 10’ by 6’ painting that would be hung in the living room. There were “oooohs” and “ahhhhs”. I am so proud to know such an amazingly talented man, that Brian Koch.

Merely a Glimpse. King Jasper. Angel Maroni. "Willamette MTN" by Brian Koch

We are. You are. I am. We all.

Travel down the highway…together.

Joshua Fred.