2572.370 Mile South American Blues or: How I Learned to Accept Chaos of VE and Feel a Little Like Home

No its not a giant guinea pig (capybara)

Welcome back.

I hope the Ides of September have found you in a desirable climate, with desirable people, and in a position of comfort.

At this point in the broadcast I would like to give a nod to my dear friend Joshua Bruce “Pud” Radke and his wife Stephanie (Girton) Radke on their one week anniversary this past Saturday.  Congrats you two!  Here is to the next 2600 weeks!  You guys are doctors so I set the bar high!

Happy Birthday! (Red-Handed Tamarin)

Second, I would like to extend the first Happy Birthday to my dear brother Marcus Nolan.  He’s turning the big 29, but already living the American dream.  I was hoping to send you a Red-handed Tamarin (the monkey with the golden touch) and a capybara for your science classes, but for some reason they would not let me put them in a box and bribe them past customs.  Anyway, here’s a firm handshake and a big hug from across the internets.

“For me there is something primitively soothing about this music, and it went straight to my nervous system, making me feel ten feet tall.”
― Eric Clapton

The blues. Born out of the back-breaking, blistering business of plantations of the Deep South, finding adolescence in the Mississippi Delta before finally leaving home to travel up river to the electricity (figuratively and literally) of Chicago in the early 1930’s.  

From W.C Handy to Robert Johnson to Muddy Waters to Chuck Berry, the blues are the ventricles of the musical body.  Country, metal, hip-hop and pop all contain capillaries of the blues.  More importantly the blues feel like home.

Many of you may (and equally as many, may not) that I played in what started out as a “backdoor blues/jug band” that turned into a fake band, which later became quasi-real, much to the humor of those of us in it. The Dukes of Mississippi, as we named ourselves, played many blues and R&B numbers before we matured into a rock band.  Prior to our most recent (most consistent and most skilled- thanks Josh) line up, we jammed with lots of different players of all skill levels, and each session yielded some fantastic moments where emotion and the vibration of sound meld.

That’s the beauty of the blues.  You feel it.  It doesn’t matter what your musical background (or lack of), when you are lucky enough to catch a group or musician with the skill and passion of the blues, it is virtually impossible to tap your foot or nod your head.

It also felt like home when I really needed it.

Didn't shower and no one noticed. Thank you Mt. St. Trasher.

We negotiated the east bound traffic, side stepped a small castle of garbage, and walked up the ramp to the blues bar, Oh Qué Bueno (translation: Oh, So Good!).


El Rey (translation: Frank) had reserved a few tables which we discovered while being tempted with some savory sights and smells of the local cuisine.  After settling in, we suppressed our palates with some buckets of iced-down Polar.

The muggy late afternoon had finally subsided to a mild and admirable evening.  The building was open to the street side, with the stage being covered with a canopy that met the bar perpendicularly.  The PA shuffled between Chuck Berry, Blues Traveler, and the Stones as the bands tuned their instruments and mingled with some members of their entourage.  Finally, about fifteen minutes late (typical musicians) they started with a standard 12-Bar blues track.

Suns out guns out. Also, the guy on the right didn't even notice his bass was upside.  Damn, I should have told him.

Right before the hit the synchronized Kiss guitar sway.  Don't look at the ketchup and mustard. HA got ya!

From the onset of the show, I had a smile on my face.  The band, Zamuros y el Hombre Mal-Boro (translation: Vultures and the Marlboro Man), led by its sunglasses-at-night lead singer (complete with harmonica holder necklace), bounced through a slew of blues numbers with ample opportunities for improvisation.  The guitar solos snaked around the bar with a temptation sense.  The band was compact and solid, while the leader drizzled harmonica solos on any unsuspecting dry spot of a song.  They played mostly original numbers, predominately in Spanish, and the crowd (even us gringos) loved.   As the ended their set, they were joined by several special guests including one silver shaded harmonic guru with a tool belt of “Mississippi Saxophones”.  They had a few dual solos that sounded like nothing I’ve ever heard.  The two players weaved in and out of each other’s riffs until combining on a rather stunning outro.  Good stuff.

Mr. Miyagi and the Marlboro Man. 

The headlining band, Soto Blues Band was quick to set up and was led by the silver-haired harmonica player.  They played a few standard blues progression to their original lyrics and solos.  The guitarist, Led Zeppelin shirt clearly visible behind his Stevie Ray Vaughn edition Stratocaster, was nestled in on stage to our left.  They played with great energy.  The drummer, holding out until the back side of every 1/8 had passed before jabbing his snare with his traditional jazz grip.  The bass player nimbly mingled within the confines of the guitar progression and the drums, being the mortar that held the four piece together.  The harmonica player sang out the trials that lined his hair with the grey huge that in no way impeded his sound.

These drums will cure thee of thy afflictions!

But then something magical happened.

The old bluesman nodded at the guitar player who spiritually raised his tightly cropped, dirty-blond hair while simultaneously lifting the heel of his worn black Chuck Taylors from the ground.  His amplifier cried out in relief as he treated the crowd to a wave of blues guitar.  He was all over the fret board, freely dancing over the scales, eking out each possible note before bringing it back in.  The crowd erupted.

Oh no, did I lock my car? 

Yes? Ok good.

Finally after three songs of solid blues, the band let their wild horse run free, and boy did he storm.  They pounded out song after song.  Originals, Muddy Waters tunes, and even “Sweet Home Chicago” was served as an encore.  They were as tight, fun, and talented as any bar band I have seen.  At one point while Jon and I were rocking out, Jon looked at me and said this guy (guitar player) doesn’t give a f---.  He didn’t he just wailed his soul bearing solos for all to hear.  The place was worked into a frenzy.  I would like to imagine this was scene from deep Mississippi juke joint in the first half of the 20th century, the band playing like it needs to earn a meal and bar just rockin’ and a rolling.  This was also the first time at a blues show I’d seen someone throw up devil horns at the band and the band throw it back.  Not only did the simple hand gesture show that both the sender and receiver had returned from their music journey to the port of the blues, but that the symbol on the sail was the acknowledgement of the connection the blues provides.

“The blues tells a story. Every line of the blues has a meaning.”
John Lee Hooker 

And that night the meaning was security. It was a warm, familiar sound of home at time when the challenging and frustrating notes of living in someone else’s land had started to drown out my song.  Good friends and good music were a remedy that I needed badly.

Hey guys great pic...PHOTOBOMB.

 Anyone that has lived abroad would be able to share stories and thoughts on the matter, but sometimes the whole atmosphere of doing what I’m doing is tough.  I chose to do this, and I knew what I was getting into, but sometimes seeing the pictures of football games, the first glimpses of fall, and listening to my beloved River Kings on the radio makes you miss home.  It reminds you of how things in the states are, and unfortunately how much more challenging things can be here.

Only you can prevent forest fires.

Lucky for me, Frank put together an evening that I needed to recharge.

The Anthony Bourdain Travel Thoughts of the Week

1) I’ve never been around or participated in a “Black Friday” sacking of a store.  However, last night I saw what the result can be when a store, Farmatodo, receives a shipment of toilet paper and milk.  It was crazy.  Boxes shredded open, people filling their hands with rolls of toilet, boxes of milk, and the much loved, Pan arepa mix.  *Yes, milk comes in boxes.  I use the word “milk” carefully, as it does retain some of its defining characteristics, but it is filled with preservatives to substantially increase its shelf live.  Don’t even get me started on the quality of the TP, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Not Black Friday.  The store has toilet paper and milk, gasp!

2) Venezuelans love Bass Proshops.  I can’t believe it.  Guys here wear the hats, shirts, and put the decals on their vehicles.  They even have their own kiosk at the mall.  I don’t get it.

3) It hasn’t rained here in four days.  Iowans- I know you’re entering into the reverse Noah’s Ark situation and Coloradoans, you guys are suffering from some crazy rains, but down here in the near tropics this is crazy.  Before this we were getting crushed with rains daily, now it’s just overcast.   I predict a great washout soon.

4)     Just got home from working out to no water again.  I need a better pail (like when you are brainwashing little kids that baths aren't bad) or something to use to take my Call of the Wildman shower.  I'm using a liquid measuring cup and the big trash can isn't big enough for me to fully get into.  Takes forever, and I question the cleanliness of the operation, but you gotta do what you gotta do right.

Some technical difficulties lead this to be a Wednesday am post, so enjoy it over coffee and pancakes (or you eggs whites, gluten free waffles, corn meal, cereal- whatever is your morning poison.

Have a great second half of the week!

Catch you on the flipside.

Until next time,

KRS