New Orleans, where I made my final stand. Music on Frenchman Street; Midsummer Mardi Gras; private, costumed karaoke with Kunal and his nerologist buddies from Tulane.
Do the Mormons allow photography inside Temple Square? Yes.
Did I capture my footage covertly, anyway? You bet I did
A “weirdo” Pat and I met at the Oregon Brewer’s Festival; performers at the last Friday street festival.
The first half, sights and sounds of Boston’s Freedom Trail; the second half, experimental filmology up over and around the twirlie-whirl.
Pike Place Market provides a smorgasbord for the senses. The smells of boiled and stewed seafood, Spanish and Asian specialties, and flowers, herbs and spices drift through the long hallways. Pink salmon and red grouper sit on ice before a crowd of international visitors while neon lights shine overhead. Patrons run their fingers through fruit stands where peddlers push peach slices in front of you, in the shops people rifle through shelves of old signs and records and hold hand-made statues and trinkets up in contemplation. Some raise spoonfulls of ciapporo–an Italian seafood stew with a tomato broth–while others chew on croissants and skewered meats.
But the sounds of the market make Seattle ring like no other city. Besides overhearing conversations in a litany of languages, you’ll encounter skilled street musicians entertaining the steady stream of market goers and watching their guitar cases fill with dollar bills.
An old man in boots, a leather vest, and a wide-brimmed hat plays guitar and sings about New Orleans in a voice like Louis Armstrong’s. Four young men with mandolins and acoustic guitars play an eerie Americana with an off-balance beat, arresting shoppers with their pleading rhythms. A cellist contorts herself around her instrument as she pulls a long vibrato tone.
In this video, see the jangly piano man who wheels his workplace into position each day and uses his visibility for polemics. Around the corner at the Seattle Museum of Art, a large black shadow bangs down a hammer ad infinitum. I heard the echo of a mournful accordion for two days before sniffing out the sound. The antic accordionist rewards my efforts with a look back into the camera.
You’ll probably want to turn the volume down before playing this–lots of wind up there.
Hiking to Scenic Point at 7,500 feet overlooking the Continental Divide, afraid the wind would blow me off the mountain but exhilerated by the view; a friend I met on the train and in the hostel; views from the red bus tour along Going-to-the-Sun Road; the mesmerizing flow of water.
I’m not a Marlins fan, but it seems fitting that the team from Florida throttled the Cubs and delivered a traditionally frustrating loss on my first time to Wrigley Field. Also, Ronnie and I went looking for the cyclist bar the night before and were in for a surprise.
On July 6, our good friend Toft Willingham, producer, engineer, and lead singer of Spiritual Rez, happened to play a solo acoustic set at the Liberty Hotel in Boston, which is a converted prison. We sat in the courtyard in the cool, breezy, sunny Boston afternoon and drank beers brewed in Nantucket and ate oysters plucked from Nantucket Bay while Toft sang for the crowd. Here’s a sampling of the afternoon.
Check out the crowd pan at 2:08. My apologies to Ian “Meat” Miller, drummer of Spiritual Rez, for the belly zoom at 2:22.
Those are my folks at the start there. Keep your eyes on those colonists and their canon blast at 2:09. That fire truck going back the other way at 2:53 is the real deal, followed closely by my brother head banging to the local rock band and more general mayhem.