That line I dropped at the end of my South Dakota missive about “setting up for the next adventure,” was not an empty promise. In fact, I’d contemplated skipping going home to Port Townsend at all, because two days after getting there, I knew I’d be hopping on another plane (this one operated by Alaska Airlines) to head out to Colorado for a week of camping up along the St Vrain River.

Rocky Mountain Song School was a thing I’d done once before, in 2018, at the urging of my more hardcore Palo Alto music friends. I wasn’t actually writing songs back then – I was having a go at being a (prose) fiction writer. But the idea of spending a week 1) camping 2) on the Colorado Front Range 3) with a couple of hundred wildly creative musicians had undeniable appeal. Days were spent butterflying between tents on the Planet Bluegrass campus, sitting in on Vance Gilbert teaching performance, Ron Browning giving voice lessons, Bonnie Hayes dishing how to build a melodic groove, and Steve Seskin throwing a keen eye on “The Curse of the 2nd Verse.” There were practical workshops, too – pumping up your social media presence, how to get booked as an opening act, and how to actually run an out-of-your-minivan west coast tour. 

Evenings were spent around one of half a dozen little illuminated song circles scattered around the campground, swapping stories and songs, layering on harmonies when we could, and in general marveling at the natural and spiritual beauty that surrounded us all.

Oh, and after dinner there was the Open Stage where, sorted by lottery, anyone who wanted to got to get up in front of the whole gang – newbies and seasoned, Grammy-decked pros alike – to perform one song. One song. Not that you could have found a more supportive audience anywhere on the planet. Some folks played something from their latest album; for others, it was their actual first time ever on stage.

Wait – where was I going with this?

Oh yeah – a few days after South Dakota, I needed to be in Colorado, so I was tempted to just skip the trip home and head straight south. Ish. But there were logistical problems: some stuff I needed to deal with on the farm, sooner rather than later. And a day after Song School ended, I absolutely had to be back for my little showcase at the Port Gamble Maritime Folk Festival. I did mention that a song of mine had won second in the Port Gamble Festival Contest, didn’t I? Well, the main perk for that was getting to share the stage with the likes of Hank Cramer and actually perform that song. No way in Hades I was going to miss that opportunity (here’s a link to the performance). So the safe bet was to get my beloved little plane back home while I had a few days to spare, and do the Colorado excursion as a paying passenger.

Which I did.

And oh, man, what artistic and musical bliss and camaraderie. I guess I’ve already told you what Song School is about, so I won’t dump more of that on you. But this time around, when I had been writing songs, it all connected and energized me like a live wire. I signed up for every chance of one-on-one coaching I could get.

Bonnie Hayes caught me and another attendee bemoaning the fact that her coaching slots somehow filled the moment the signup sheet materialized, sidled on over and looked us in the eyes: “You need a couple of slots?” We nodded so fast I think I might still be a bit whiplashed. “I think I can make some more time – whatcha doing around 4:00?” The joy of jamming with Bonnie Hayes as she dismantles and helps you rebuild your latest song? Priceless. And I got half an hour of intense – and I mean intense – stand-up-in-front-of-the-whole class literally hands-on coaching from performance-whisperer Amy Speace. Sat down at the end feeling like I’d been rolfed and wrung out. But also feeling like, for the first time, I understood how to actually perform a song in public.

And there was music and more music just everywhere. Working out harmonies with John Linn, Rabbi Joe and Maggie. Trying new tunes out over breakfast with the irrepressibly delightful and inspiring Francie, her daughter Mariah and husband Mike. Overhearing and leaning into bluegrass from the next tent over, or some sort of vocal percussion down the way. It all flowed through us like the river we had camped beside. Wading into the water with everyone at the end of it all, singing three part gospel, felt like the proper final ritual for this musical baptism. It was like reconnecting with, and being welcomed back into a long-lost tribe.

It’s been a little hard to get my feet back on the ground ever since. Sure, part of that is because somewhere between Colorado and the Port Gamble Maritime Festival I picked up a dose of everybody’s favorite pandemic. But also now, back at the farm (and fully recovered, as far as I can tell), I’m recognizing so many types of bonds I’ve been missing. I want more.

Amy Speace shows us how it’s done.