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Let me just say that I am so glad to live near a part of the world as outrageously great as the Columbia River Gorge. I lived here for a whole year without seeing the Gorge before it was interrupted by Chad, a friend and production client of mine, who forced me to get out and experience it with him. It was unbelievable.

My favorite thing in the world, besides maybe music and… well anyway, one of my favorite things in the world is to be in a really dense forest or jungle. The denser the better. Especially if there are ferns and tons of moss everywhere. So now I’m looking for any excuse to return…

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To read ‘part 1′ first… scroll down to ‘The Lotus Moment.’

One of the highlights of my tenure with WAR was the first time I met Carlos Santana backstage at the waterfront in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Our tour manager got me a backstage pass on the condition that I make it back in time for our own gig, and that turned out to be a tall order… I’d never seen Santana perform live, and I knew I was going to have to tear myself away in the middle of their set, fight the crowd and catch a taxi back to the venue before it was time for WAR to play. But it was worth a shot.

I met Carlos right before he was about to go on. He was kind of jogging on the spot, listening to Miles Davis’ Tutu really loud and burning incense. He had big sunglasses on, and a big smile when I told him I was playing with WAR. He said ‘That’s a good gig, man – did you know that in all these years, WAR and Santana have never played together?’

As it turns out, it wouldn’t be much longer. I was more than happy just to meet the man, but later that year we wound up playing with Santana for two huge arena shows in Annaheim and San Francisco, and he invited us on stage in the middle of their set to play ‘Exodus’ with them and jam a little. I thought it couldn’t get any better after that – singing a Bob Marley tune with Santana and WAR, I all but expected Stevie Wonder to walk on stage – but when we were finished, Carlos kept me on to play ‘dueling’ lead guitars on the Funkadelic classic ‘Maggot Brain.’ For those of you who don’t know, the original ‘Maggot Brain’ was considered a high point of post-Hendrix fuzz guitar, and Eddie Hazel’s performance on the track was legendary. That would have been intimidating enough I guess, but to play it with Santana was… Funkadelic.

He proceeded to handily mop the stage with me, but it was the best whooping I’ve ever received because about halfway through I managed to stop thinking and just ‘play crazy,’ a strategy that served well in many other Santana stage situations down the line. Carlos commented that Miles would have described the moment as a ‘musical orgasm.’ Not too far from the truth. The next gig was even better, because I was a little more mentally prepared to go toe-to-toe with my hero, plus it was New Year’s and the whole atmosphere was much more of a party than a ‘show.’ In photos of the gig, my hair looks like it’s exploding.

I spent a few days walking around San Fran in a strange electrified state. It was dawning on me that anything is possible in this life. I had proof: a guitar-obsessed kid from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan was rocking out with Carlos Santana on New Year’s Eve in San Francisco. Only a few years earlier I was listening to his records and imagining what it might be like to hang with him and get some of his mojo.

I had no idea – we were just getting started.

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It’s just a test run, really… we’re only going an hour or two out of town, but it’s our first RV experience, so its significance is not to be underestimated. We’re heading out to the North side of the Columbia River Gorge this weekend to attend a youth retreat, at which I’ll be playing a lot of acoustic guitar around the campfire, stuff like that… sounds great to me! I’ve been in front of a computer screen quite a bit lately, thinking and working (and thinking about working). The idea of sitting out in the bush somewhere roasting marshmallows with a bunch of teenagers (and a few deer and rabbits) should be just what the doctor ordered.

This RV came to us in an interesting way… the decision was made that we want to travel together as a family, playing music, fighting crime and solving mysteries, etc. A few weeks later our friend’s dad said; “Well we’ve got this RV out here on our land, just sitting around. Why don’t you use it?” We were blown away, but of course we said, “Um, let’s think about it. YES.”

So here we go. The first of our many road adventures… not including our previous continent-spanning road trips in a little Nissan mini-van, of course. (I mean, there’s your road adventures and then there’s your 10 miles-a-gallon apartment on wheels traveling roadshow with a 2-yr.-old road adventures.)

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In my epic quest to replace my stolen L6-S, the closest I came (in spirit anyway) was when I arrived on Vancouver Island in the summer of 2005 and discovered, in a vintage guitar shop, a tobacco sunburst Gibson S-1. Never having played one myself, I was nonetheless intrigued by what I considered a ‘sister guitar’ of the L6, in that it was another of the ‘lost years’ Gibson concepts that never seemed to catch fire in the guitar community – despite some high-profile endorsements.

The S-1 has a great-feeling neck, taken from the ‘Flying V’ (complete with pointy headstock), Les Paul jr. body, and oddly, the sound of a Fender Stratocaster (and the weight of two or three of ‘em). I especially dug the decadent swirling pickguard and the funky see-through epoxy single-coil pickups. As with the L6-S, it screamed ‘ROCK!’ I traded in another guitar immediately and paid the difference. After having it around for 2 years, however, and not having used it on a single session, I thought about getting rid of it… the sound was too thin, and though I understood that this was supposed to be a bright, “Fender-inspired’ guitar, I just wasn’t convinced. When I wanted to get a Strat sound, I would just use a real Strat.

But then it hit me: here’s a guitar with a wicked cool look (mine looks like the bottom one in the picture to the left), perfect feel, and ultra-cool Bill Lawrence-designed pickups. I figured if something’s wrong with this guitar, it’s probably none of the above. Then I remembered the last Strat I’d played: a new Stratocaster Deluxe owned by my friend Dean that sounded killer and had 5 extra settings available, courtesy of the patented Fender S-1 switching system. And I thought… Gibson S-1… Fender S1… the unholy union of these two namesakes could perfectly complete Gibson’s (rather ill-considered) attempt at capturing the Fender mojo in one of their guitars. And once again, we’re not talking about one of their untouchable classics here. So I ordered an after-market S1 system off of a guy selling them on Ebay (who as it turns out was being sued by Fender doing just that), and a newly cut pickguard to replace the broken original, and gave the whole mess to the guys at Renson Guitar in North Hollywood to straighten out. They also replaced the low & wide ’70s style frets with some nice chunky ones.

What I got back in the end made me relieved that I hadn’t sold it. The crazy S-1/S1 pairing worked out; the Lawrence pickups sound killer through the new Fender circuit, and the 5-way Strat selector and push-in volume control, while not as hip-looking as the original chickenhead switch, provide a wealth of tones unavailable on a regular Strat or a stock S-1. I used it on the intro to ‘Rock & Roll Days’ on the Lonnie Jordan album, and got a nice juicy Stones rhythm tone, as well as the various Hendrix references throughout the song (the solo, however, is the L6-S).

Also… here’s the diagram for the Fender S1 switching system in PDF format if you’re interested. Click here to view or download

And some more details about the guitars in their original state… (click to enlarge the picture).

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I was 16 when I got my first guitar – a used mid-’70s Gibson L6-S. I didn’t know anything about guitars, so I didn’t know what a strange specimen it was… the L6-S has the smallest neck of any Gibson ever made (or any other guitar I’ve seen), and some of the strangest tones as well, via the 6-way chicken-head switch that can put the pickups in series, out of phase etc. And I especially didn’t know that the paint job on this particular L6 made it even more rare – a black sunburst, which seems to slim down the body shape and give it a smoky old-school vibe. All I knew was that this guitar, to me, embodied rock & roll, in a circa-1973 Keith Richards sort of way. It simply couldn’t have been any cooler. (In fact… that’s Keith playing an L6-S! —->)

I never had another guitar for the longest time. It was my constant companion through my 6-month stint in Mexico at age 17, on my first gigs, my first recording sessions, and writing my first songs. People identified me with the L6 because you just didn’t see these guitars around, and if you did, they sure weren’t in a black burst. As my guitar obsessions started to zone in on Jimmy Page and Carlos Santana, the L6 seemed made to nail Page’s clucky, somewhat filtered tones… and as for Carlos, I was confirmed to find out that he actually played and endorsed the L6-S during his white-suit Devadip period.

Fast forward to when I was 23, when I moved to Los Angeles and my beloved guitar was stolen the first day, right out of my living room while I was out for a hamburger (everyone I tell this story invariably blurts out ‘Welcome to L.A!”). I sat there on the couch, staring at the broken glass and the brick in the middle of the floor. I knew I would never see my guitar again, and I had the feeling that since it was really the only material thing in the world I cared about, I was supposed to detach, let it go, move on. But it cut pretty deep anyway, and I can’t say I ever truly got over it.

I searched pretty hard for an identical black burst L6-S for years. Never found one. It became something of an obsession for my brother, who treated it as though I had lost a limb. We even thought about buying a ‘natural’ finish L6 and having it repainted. But after 15 years, a casual search on Ebay yielded the impossible: an exact copy of my old guitar, in killer shape, only a few serial numbers off… and here’s the kicker: the seller was in my hometown of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Of course, it was destined to be mine. After a nervous day of struggling with my attachment to the outcome – okay, after a manic day of Smeagol-like hand-wringing and conniving about ways to interrupt the bidding – I won the auction at less than a grand. Truth be told, the guy could have taken me to the cleaners. I was so paranoid something might go awry, I had my cousin Blake physically drive over (with cash) and pick it up in person. But anyway!

When I got the guitar, it was like seeing myself walk into the room, but as a teenager. A little creepy. We got re-acquainted pretty quickly: I used the guitar a lot on the Lonnie Jordan record, whenever some nasal chicken funk was called for (which was often, especially on the song ‘Get That Feeling’). I currently have the L6 set up to play slide, as an incentive to practice. The strings are a bit close together for slide, but the tones are definitely rootsy. Check out this diagram for the switch:

So… the Gibson L6-S. One of the ’70s ‘Lost Period’ Gibsons, when the company was in the midst of an identity crisis, managed and owned by a third party that was out of touch with its illustrious history, trying to compete in the market place with Fender and others by ‘modernizing’ its lineup. Most of the new models, which strayed too far from the Les Paul/ES-335 mold that had created the Gibson legend, were commercial flops and didn’t see the end of the decade. But here’s the thing: in their desperation to sound like Fenders without actually copying any of the Fender technology to get there, Gibson inadvertently created a bunch of funky, individualistic instruments that sounded neither Gibson nor Fender, and because of my early association with the L6, I will always have a soft spot for these guitars.

I find that in many of them, there are elements that are just a bit off, not as harmonious and perfectly balanced as the Les Paul and its siblings. Bill Lawrence, the pickup guru who conceived most of these instruments, was never truly happy with the results because of budgeting constraints and a bureaucratic decision-making process within the company at that time. But, true to the mod-it-yourself spirit of the ’70s when every guitar had a few extra switches and replacement parts, I find that if you spend some time dialing these guitars in to your own specifications, the results are very rewarding. I mean, they’re still Gibsons, right?

(Also, I have a hunch that Santana has a closet full of them, so one day I may try to talk him into parting with one or two…)

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This is one of those ‘Weird & Wacky Portland’ summaries that keeps popping up. Thought I should include it for those of you who’ve yet to visit.

The chi of Portland: High weirdness in Nirvana
By JOSEPH B. FRAZIER Associated Press Writer

May 5th, 2008 | PORTLAND, Ore. — Acupuncture is not just for people. It’s also for cities — if the city is Portland.

Adam Kuby has stuck a 23-foot needle into the ground down by the Willamette River and hopes to plant more, choosing locations where he figures the city’s “chi,” or vital energy, needs some help.

Unusual? You bet. Unusual for Portland? Not really.

For several years, Portland has been reaping praise from lifestyle magazines, from Men’s Journal to specialty publications, as one of the nation’s more livable cities, listed among the best places to have a baby, grow old, go for a walk, ride a bike, take a jog, breathe clean air, own a dog, take public transportation, start a business (green or otherwise), go out for dinner or not get mugged.

The praises don’t stop. Swing a cat and hit 10. On second thought, don’t. Portland is rated the third-most humane city in the nation.

But the magazines skim over Portland’s quirkier qualities. They aren’t bandied about, but they’re not hidden either. To some, they make Portland even more endearing.

There’s what’s left of the 24-Hour Church of Elvis (online only these days), the Voodoo Doughnut Shop, nude bike festivals, the 5K Bare Buns Run in Forest Park and what was billed as the world’s longest drag queen chorus line.

Public nudity is illegal in Portland, but in a state where live sex acts are protected as free speech, police involvement generally is limited to keeping order.

For kitsch lovers there’s the Velveteria, a black velvet painting museum. Lots of taste, all of it bad in some eyes, unless you love it, and the owners do. Nothing is for sale. Open weekends.

A black light room enhances your favorite Mack Truck Jesus, wahine, Elvis or bandito.

“You will never be the same after a visit to the Velveteria,” the Web site promises. And it has “arrived.” A monthlong show at Powell’s Books, billed as the world’s largest bookstore, begins May 1.

“Zoo Bombers” are young adults who race on kiddie bicycles down steep and windy roads starting near the Oregon Zoo. Speeds up to 50 mph are achieved. Details and photos of fractures and ghastly scrapes and bruises are posted on the Internet as badges of honor.

“I used to bomb until a friend of mine biffed it pretty hard. He was in a coma for two months,” says Chris Banks, who works the counter at a pizza joint where the Zoo Bombers sometimes gather before starting their wild Sunday night rides.

There weren’t any Bombers at the pizza joint on a recent Sunday night.

“They don’t always start from here. They’re probably up there getting loaded first. These guys are hard-core,” said the well-tattooed Banks.

Among the latest additions to the panoply of Portland’s oddities are Adam Kuby’s giant needles. An artist who arrived from New York four years ago, Kuby says the acupuncture project is an attempt to get people to see the city in a holistic way.

“It is a visual way of expressing what a lot of people already know,” said Kuby. The city is “one organism, one body, one very complex, independent system.”

Not to mention eccentric.

Ubiquitous bumper stickers proclaim “Keep Portland Weird.” They were meant to support small local businesses to keep Portland from being big-boxed out of its identity.

But they’ve become a focal point for what might be a counterculture elsewhere.

Portland has been called The People’s Republic of Portland (land-use rules irk some developers) Beervana, (it’s loaded with microbreweries), the Rose City (they are nearly worshipped here) and Sin City, a salute, of sorts, to its frontier past and recent bouts of permissiveness that some people find a bit much. Others just shrug. That’s Portland.

The first President Bush called it “Little Beirut” for the hostile receptions he could rely on, and his son hasn’t fared any better.

Portland’s quirkiness is homegrown as are many other things, some of them under Gro-Lites.

It never got set in its ways. Many of its residents came from somewhere else. You can pick a Brooklynite or a New Englandah out of a chorus, but there is no Portland accent and people here have no pounded-in traditions of doing things a certain way.

So they don’t.

At first it was “Stumptown,” a just-logged patch of rough riverside cabins in the mud. A wintertime coin toss in 1845 decided it would be Portland, not Boston.

Given the season, it probably was raining. Given Portland’s reputation, many probably assume it still is.

It was always a little different.

Tavern-keeper and recent Mayor Bud Clark was photographed a few years back with a raincoat wide open in front of a statue. “Expose Yourself to Art,” the poster read, a classic then and now.

Teetotaling lumberman Simon Benson, hoping his workers would show up reasonably sober, gave the city the ubiquitous “Benson Bubbler” brass drinking fountains a century or so back, promoting pure water. Portland’s beer consumption plunged. Undaunted, Portland brewer Henry Weinhard offered to pipe fresh beer, 24/7, through a downtown fountain. He got a polite “no thanks.”

There’s more.

Portland’s Skid Road was revered by loggers, sailors and miners flush with pay looking to “blow her in” on a spree. Those who overdid it might wake on a sailing ship, “Shanghaied” as an unwilling crewman. In this, Portland put even wicked San Francisco in the shade. There’s a tour available of tunnels said to have been used for the purpose.

And it’s Skid Road, not Skid Row, named for the downhill road that horse teams used to drag logs to the mills. Portland claims to have coined the term.

It included Erickson’s Saloon, which claimed the world’s longest bar. The late historian Stewart Holbrook writes that it measured exactly 684 feet, “a kind of symbol of local greatness and potency” worth fighting over.

The building still stands, duly marked, in the old district, which is reluctantly becoming gentrified, sort of.

The recent glitter and hype is no accident.

Joe D’Alessandro, who headed the Portland Oregon Visitors Association for 10 years until 2006, said Portland lacked a large promotional budget so it focused on impact.

“We were determined to find the niches that were really unique about Portland and tell them to the world,” he said.

“We didn’t try to make Portland something for everybody. We centered on what Portland’s authentic strengths are, what Portland is really good at.”

Now, about that rain:

It falls just once a year, from October to about May.

Mobile, Ala., gets three times, on average, more rain a year than Portland. But Portland has three times as many rainy days.

Wettest? Hardly. Rainiest? It’s up there.

Bring an umbrella.

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