Musician, Freak, Dayjobber, Etc.

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Hi happy blog readers. Thanks for tuning in.

I cut my recent fall Sierra fly-fishing trip short by a day so I could join my bandmates in The Abe Lincoln Story (www.abelincolnstory.com) for a gig at the Majestic Ventura Theater opening for indie-rock sensations Cake (www.cakemusic.com).

As much as I disliked the idea of one less day spent in the wonderful Sierras -- seeking beautiful, wild trout, all sunshine-day long -- the thought of playing a decent-sized gig most definitely appealed to my inner performer. So, I packed up my Sierra camp early last Tuesday, hit the road, landed home in Van Nuys sometime in the late morning hours, showered, grabbed an overnight bag, packed my guitars and amp, and hit the road to Ventura. Not much to report about the trip – the fifty or so miles breezed by against the backdrop of yet another gorgeous Southern California autumn afternoon.

Once in Ventura, I checked into a run-down-ish little hotel (Inn on the Beach) right on the beach, located smack-dab in the tourist-y section, which looked remarkably interchangeable with Venice or Santa Monica or El Segundo or Pismo Beach or a hundred other California beach cities. You know: burger joints with surf-themed decor, fish-n-chips places, “ye olde” taverns, gift shops, head shops, skateboarders, tourists, transients, Rastafarians, coke-whores, Dick Cheney, etc.

Just my style.

My room -- while quite basic and lacking air conditioning, and sporting an absolutely depressing late-1990’s shit-colored granite bathroom -- was nice in a boring way, but it did have a wacky “behind-glass” gas fireplace that turned on with a switch (it looked like a TV set):



It also had a great view of the beach, the breakers, and the coastline (with the awesome mountains north of Ojai rising like the Great Wall of California); here’s a shot of Acorn and Baby Boar, posing provocatively:



I went to one of the hotel-recommended burger joints within walking distance and took a really mediocre, Costco-quality burger and fries back to the beach, where I hung out and watched two intrepid surfers work the small (2’-4’) waves near a jetty. After the crappy burger, I went back up to my room -- the strains of the Beach Boys “In My Room” lamely playing in my head – and took a short, deep nap.

Before I knew it, it was 4:30PM -- time to head to the theater for soundcheck. The theater was just a couple of miles from the beach, and I found myself with a shiny new parking spot right behind Cake’s tour bus, very near the theater’s loading entrance –how nice for me. I brought my stuff in, stashed it in a corner, and went upstairs to the band dressing rooms, where someone had printed a sign on one of the doors that said “Abraham Lincoln” or some such silliness. Grabbing an ice-cold beer out of the beer bucket so thoughtfully supplied by the venue – yet curiously foregoing the Ralph’s “cheese and pepperoni” plate – I went down into the theater and checked out the incredibly beautiful art deco lighting fixtures and other excellent architectural details. Meanwhile, members of Cake were, apparently, working on some new arrangements, occupying the stage and running through – and tweaking – various musical bits. They sounded great, really unforced and natural, very musical.

After a while I ran into some of my fellow Abe’s, and we hung out – endlessly, it seemed – waiting for our moment to soundcheck. Cake, meanwhile, continued to work on musical ideas, and very soon the hour of 6:30PM was upon us. Doors opened at 7:00PM. We all wondered if we’d get a chance for a quick soundcheck. Luckily, Cake soon wrapped things up, and we found ourselves scrambling to set up our gear onstage. This took all of 10 minutes – setting up gear, getting microphones placed, etc. Meanwhile, I was loving life up there, noodling around on my guitar (probably irritating people in the process) and just DIGGING the sound of my amp in that big old room, through that big old PA system.

“How come my stuff never sounds like this in clubs?” I asked our drummer, Evan.

“Um, cause you suck?” he responded flatly.

I’ve gotta say, in all modesty, that I, personally, thought our little soundcheck sounded fucking great – better than Cake, even. Well, maybe not. Regardless, we rocked it hard, the house sound guys dialed us in, and after a few moments, we were done jamming and ready for the real thing. We all hit the dressing room again, hung out a bit, and several of us went off in different directions for dinner and/or drinks. The Burger From Hell sat, undigested, apparently, in my stomach, so I hung around the theater, watching people arrive, drinking beers, changing into stage clothes, bullshitting, etc.

Silly old me, I had just assumed from the get-go that we’d go over reasonably well with the Cake fans. It never occurred to me to think otherwise. Does that make me arrogant, stupid, or both? Backstage, bandleader Steve told a story of the Abe’s opening for Cake many years ago – early 90’s, if I’m to be fondled – down in San Diego, at the height of Cake’s popularity (they had a hit song at the time, how freaking cool!). Apparently, so the story goes, The Abe Lincoln Story was soundly booed off of the stage that time (shivers).

Of course, those were different times, and this was a completely different cast of characters, but, much like Robert Plant, oooh, it made me wonder.

On a scale of water to whisky, I had a buzz about the size of a Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill going on when it was time for us to hit the stage. One of the sound guys introduced the band, and, from then on out, it’s pretty much a fantastic blur, frankly.

We went through our forty-five minute set, rocking the house. The audience response was absolutely amazing. Incredible. Steve rocked that crowd so hard, it wasn’t even funny. During “Rock, Scissors, Paper”, he totally had ‘em in the palm of his hand – so to speak. Our horn section – the amazing tandem of Paul Litteral (look this cat up, he’s played with EVERYONE – the Stones!!!!) and Rial Gallagher – smoked. Without them, we’re just another goofy band, but with them, we’re altogether elsewhere. Deena – one half of the normal Abe’s Babes – was quite the focal point, shaking her beguiling money-maker and adding her flawless harmonies and hand-gestures (yes, hand gestures) to the show. The dudes loved her – and why not?

Me? I danced around like a fool on my big-ass side of the stage, afraid to look anyone in the crowd in the eye, for some reason. Perhaps the horror stories of the San Diego fiasco scared me off. Anyway, I don’t know if I sucked or not ‘cause I went into a kind of dream-state and just *played*. I think I may have brought the rock; I’m really not sure. I think I garnered some hoots and hollers on a couple of occasions; I remember being really happy with a guitar solo I improvised, that much I’m sure of.

As the set progressed, I got more and more loose, and suddenly I could look at people, make eye contact, connect a little bit, whatever. It was just fucking cool. I never wanted that set to end, I tell you, but, of course, after what felt like twenty lime-green seconds, we were over. Done. Ushered off-stage to some very-much appreciated applause.

In a very opening-band type scene, no curtains closed upon our exit, no fanfare, no “let’s hear it for THE ABE LINCOLN STORY!”, no nothing. We were left standing there to disassemble our rigs – too lowly and unsuccessful to have our own crew – in front of (some of) the watching crowd, at last revealed to be the low-life day-jobbing rockstar wannabe’s that we truly are. It was funny.

After stashing all of our musical junk off-stage, clearing the way for Cake, a few of us Abe’s – there were eight of us for this gig, two shy of our normal ten – went out into the theater to mingle, hang out, get pictures taken, talk, scope things out, you name it. It was cool. More than a few people said they dug us and that they found us “different”. That was fantastic, hearing that; I love being different, even if it means being the same.

Soon, Cake came out and their rabid fans were soon lost in the majesty and the pageantry of the band. I came away impressed – they were loose and tight at the same time, with interesting, sometimes politically skewed lyrics with a decidedly green bent. I dug ‘em, a lot. Their utility player – their Robbie Rist (www.robbierist.com), if you will – was a gentleman named Vince DiFiore, who simply kicked serious ass on trumpet, backing vocals, percussion and keys. Awesome musician. The whole band were really seasoned and everyone sounded and played fantastic. Check ‘em out of that’s your thing.

I ended up hanging out a bit after the show, doing this and that, and, eventually, went back to my hotel room by myself, only to have the worst-ever MacDonald’s Big Mac and fries, ever.

Seems I was having bad burger mojo in Ventura.

A great night’s sleep followed, with me getting up around ten the next morning and hanging out on the beach for a while before heading back to Los Angeles and my responsibilities. With my babycakes Nipper in Hawaii for the week, I was left a little lonely but very grateful for this experience. Thanks to Steve and The Abe’s for a great time. Now we’re off on a 3-city “tour” this Halloween, with plans to finish up our album early next year. Life is good.

Thanks for reading!

Following a week that can only be described as hellish, Saturday morning found me traveling north up good old Highway 99 as the sun rose in the east, dispersing mists upon the farmlands and scattering birds about, their silhouettes dark against the morning sky. Relaxed and in a contemplative mood, I steered the compact rental car on a northward course while planning my trout strategy for the next few days. Outside my window, row after row of agricultural miracles stretched for miles in all directions, as far as the eye could see: tomorrow’s salad for today’s teens.

My destination was one of the “Fresno Lakes” high on the western slope of the mighty Sierra. The north fork of a significant river system feeds this particular lake – well, technically, reservoir – and my goal was to fish the river upstream from the inlet, having been dropped off by boat in the morning, then spending the following day fishing and camping to my heart’s content. The weather outlook called for clear sunny days and cold nights – perfect Sierra fall weather.

Since my plans had me going up-lake early the following morning, that left me all of Saturday afternoon to fish the tail-water section of this particular river. With my Cabela’s 7’6” Three Forks 3-wt rod in my hand – by the way, I have come to absolutely adore this rod, my first one, in fact, and now a trusted companion, having landed many dozens of fish over the past six months – I made my way down-river, picking up discarded styrofoam bait containers and empty “Eagle Claw” hook packets along the way.

Not a good sign, to say the least.

Realizing that I was to be plying heavily-fished waters -- and adjusting my expectations accordingly -- I set about upon my usual course of trying to dial-in what these fish might be eating this fine autumn day. Upon the stream, I saw craneflies, stonefly husks, a few mayflies, ants, and some black nymphs on rocks that looked similar to black-fly nymphs. I saw risers in quite a few locations, and I tried a variety of presentations to said risers, but with no luck. I chalked it up to these fish being jaded and continued to work my way downstream, skylarking, and utterly smitten with the beautiful blue sky, the gray granite domes, and the spectacular trees that surrounded me.

I soon came upon a deep granite gorge, one with a wicked series of deep pools right in the middle of the main section. From my perch on high, I could see fish, holding, in various and sundry locations. I snuck my way down the glacially-polished granite steps, closer to the pools, and settled in for a long afternoon of trying to figure out how to entice some of these fish into my net. A variety of “sure fire” presentations -- EHC’s, stimulators, streamers -- did absolutely nothing to attract the attention of these fish, and I resolved to work my way through my fly box – fly by freaking fly, if necessary – until I hit upon the magic combination.

It wasn’t really THAT long before I tied on a #16 black ant pattern. Now, at this point, I had never, ever caught anything on a black ant pattern, although I had heard many testimonials as to their consistent effectiveness upon feeding trout. In my experience, up to this point, I had found them to be useless. Until now, that is. From the very first cast, I began catching these smallish (8”-10”) fish; they attacked the ant pattern relentlessly, and, even after the setting sun left the pool in darkness – frankly, I was expecting the change in light to put the fish down temporarily until their eyesight adjusted accordingly – they continued to hit the ants, hard. Finally, successful rice made easy! I spent the better part of the next hour catching and releasing over a dozen fine, although small (at least by local standards), wild rainbow trout (sorry for the shadow):



Later that evening, I hooked up with LARiver, trading fish stories and enjoying a camp BBQ together. LARiver hit the sack early, exhausted after a long couple of days paddling his kayak, while I climbed high up a smooth granite slope to watch the half-moon setting in the west. To the strains of Crowded House’s “Temple of Low Men” album (well-crafted Beatle-esque melodic pop), I scanned the moonlit valley, my eyes occasionally drawn eastward into the heart of the wild, where a small wildfire had been burning for the past several days, the orange glow barely visible to the naked eye but there, nonetheless.

The next morning I found myself being transported via pontoon boat up-reservoir and dropped off at the inlet, alone, happy, and eager to explore. I made a quick hot breakfast, stashed my backpacking gear, gathered my fishing stuff together, packed some food and water, and headed upstream for a full day’s worth of fishing. Here’s the scene:



After hiking not more than a quarter mile or so, I came upon an absolutely HUGE pool – seriously, this pool was the size of two houses, featuring unreal emerald-green waters which were obviously DEEP. This is the kind of water where, as a fly fisherman, I just sigh and say “how in God’s name do I fish this?” I sat down near the water’s edge and thought about my best options. Without a sinking line, I ruled out using streamers – they’d just stay near the surface and probably wouldn’t be all that effective at that level. I ruled out using small dry flies, as the pool was so big I’d never, ever be able to see the fly out in the vast expanse of water. I decided to try a black (black appears most visible to fish in deep water, or so I have read) #18 caddis pupa nymph-and-indicator set-up using a few split shots to get the morsel down as deep as possible. For anyone here who’s ever tried to distance-cast a 14’ leader with an indicator, three split-shots, and a nymph attached, well, you know that tangles can happen instantly. Couple the cumbersome rig with a sometimes-fierce wind, and you have a recipe for disaster. After a handful of lame casts and two full-blown “tear it down and start again” tangles, I decided to try another approach.

I remembered reading something about the old adage “big fly, big fish”, and how this particular author had talked about hooking flies together (ie. running the hook-point of one fly through the eye of another fly, “daisy-chaining” them together into one large creation). I decided to give it a try, so I hooked together a #8 orange stimulator and a #6 grasshopper. I tried to tack on a #10 EHC as the “head” but I couldn’t get the hook-point of the #8 orange stimulator through the eye of the EHC. It looked pretty weird but what the hell -- stranger things have taken fish before, right?

I cast the unlikely conglomeration out into the Atlantic Ocean and placed the fly right in the foam-seam just on my side of the central current. As I watched the weird creation – which I could see plain as day, in case you were wondering – float down the seam, suddenly BAM! Something hit the nearby surface hard and I reared back and tried to set the hook – into thin air, apparently. Either I had missed the strike, or the fish had rejected the fly at the very last moment, breaking the surface but not touching my offering. However, I was insanely, outrageously encouraged, so I cast the MegaHopper(tm) out into the wild currents again, hoping for more love, more affection.

Love came to town.

Another SPLOSH, another strike-set, and, this time, I had a fish on. Knowing full well my propensity for losing fish which exceed the 12”-range, I took extra care to get the fish on the reel as soon as possible, and, then, to let her take line when needed via the drag, all the while keeping the rod tip in the best position for maintaining line integrity. I mean, I really thought about it as it was happening, rather than just instinctively reacting. Wow, this was fun! This fish stayed deep, head shaking like crazy, making strong into-the-current-then-out-again dashes, but I held my ground and, eventually, landed her, a nice 15”+ brown trout (note the subtle parr marks, the first I’ve seen on a brown):



Unfortunately, love didn’t come back to town any time soon; the MegaHopper(tm) didn’t draw so much as a single strike after I threw another fifty “looked-good-to-me” drifts. Hmm. Back to square one.

I decided to head upstream and tackle the Atlantic Ocean again on my way out. Meanwhile, there were lots of smaller runs, pockets, and pools to be fished, and I went about my morning doing just that, with varying degrees of success. Eventually, I came to a confluence that looked wonderfully fishy, so I rock-hopped the main stream and proceeded up the side-canyon:



Unfortunately for me, an increasingly difficult series of small cliffs kept me from passing more than an eighth of a mile or so up-canyon; the previous day, LARiver -- mountain goat that he is -- was able to make it further up the canyon, telling tales of fantastic pools and of giant fish being broken off. As hard as I tried to find a safe way up and over the cliffs, I was unable to do so. Better safe than sorry, as they say.

I sat on a smooth ledge in the warm sunshine and looked carefully at the granite bowls in front of me: creations of the stream, carved into the living rock itself, frothy, foaming cauldrons which, I imagined, teemed with fish. I decided to drop a streamer into one of these granite bowls to see what I could find. Sitting cross-legged on a small ledge about four feet above one of the bowls, I tied on an absurd #6 white shad imitation – one I’d purchased earlier this summer for my Lake Mead trip and used subsequently with encouraging results – and dropped it into the cauldron, let it drift, and strip-retrieved it up-current. To my surprise, I had a strike. I tried the same presentation once more, and, like that, I had a small (10”) gorgeous wild trout in hand:



Getting up to move to another granite bowl, I noticed what appeared to be a very nice fish holding in a fantastic little pocket where a flat, upright boulder created a perfect pool where the fish would sit facing into the current, awaiting drifting food. Such was the angle of the flow that the fish appeared to be facing cross-stream, away from me. She had no idea I was there, sitting four feet above her on the ledge. Quietly and carefully, I dropped the shad imitation several feet up-current from the holding fish, let it drift into the pocket, and watched in amazement as she struck the fly. Missing the strike, I spooked the fish into hiding under the protective upright flat rock. Unbelievably, she came out of her hiding place after just a few moments, and allowed me to drift the shad imitation in front of her another dozen times, but she was no longer having any of that. She ignored my offering and continued to hold steady, just a few feet below me.

Undaunted, I tied on a fairly large stonefly nymph (a #8 or so) and let it free-drift right in front of her nose. Once again, she struck at my offering and, for the moment, I had her hooked. Getting up from the rock to play the fish, I allowed some slack to develop in the line and, with a shake of her head, she threw my offering, rejecting me for a second time. Damn these eyes -- again!

“Okay, time for some serious business”, I told myself. I thought that perhaps my perch on the ledge was not quite the optimum place to fight this sizeable beauty, so I snuck down off and inched right down to water-level, about five feet away from the still-holding fish (this baby was damn-near impossible to spook, luckily for me). I drifted the stonefly nymph in front of her nose again and again, but this quick study refused my offerings time after time.

From my new vantage point, I tied on one of my #8 orange stimulators and let it drift over the fish. She rose to the fly, inspected it, and rejected it outright. Subsequent drifts were met with the same result. Switching flies, I tied on a #10 EHC, let it drift, and, again, was met with the same result. Damn. This fish was going all selective on me, I figured. What to do?

It occurred to me that I hadn’t drifted anything dark-colored over the fish, so I tied on my new favorite fly, the black ant hero from the day before. She would have nothing to do with the ant; she didn’t even bother giving it a good looking over. Poking through my dry fly box, I selected a shiny new #16 black gnat pattern that I’d purchased at a local fly shop on the drive in the day before. Crouching low to avoid a ferocious breeze, I made several clumsy attempts to place the fly in her drift-line, but my offering kept being blown to my left, well out of her range. However, I soon got a good cast in, and I watched -- holding my breath – as the fly drifted towards my prize.

As the fly drifted – drag free! -- towards the holding fish, she immediately turned toward it, then unhesitatingly dashed upward and simply inhaled the fly; at the exact same moment, I reared back, set the hook, and the fight was on! She gave me one hell of a workout, but, since the pocket was so small, she really didn’t have anywhere to go, and I managed to muscle her into my net fairly quickly; here she is, all sixteen wild inches (per the Measure Net):



I can safely say that I have never, ever worked so hard, or so thoroughly, for a fish before; landing her and snapping her photograph were very gratifying moments, and a sort of inner calm washed over me. A smile appeared, and didn’t leave my face for hours.

With the black gnat still tied on – and after double-checking my knots after that last fight – I let the fly drift down another run in the same general vicinity and, sure as Susan, drew another strike, and soon landed another similar-sized ‘bow (sorry for the blurred image, my hands were shaking):



In another pool, the black gnat struck again, this time fooling a fine German brown that came crashing out of nowhere:



I have to mention a solid 17” rainbow trout which I landed via the black gnat – she was, hands down, the most beautiful wild fish I have ever, ever laid eyes upon. This beauty was the color of sweet cream butter and strawberries, with parr marks the size of silver dollars and more speckles than a desert night sky. Unreal. While I was furiously trying to extract my camera from one of my vest pockets, I dipped my net a bit and this beautiful, strong fish simply zoomed away, into the emerald depths, crumbling my desire to photograph her for posterity. I’ll tell you this: my mental photograph of this incredible fish will live with me until the day I die, or the day I catch her again, whichever comes first.

Later that afternoon, I stumbled, by accident, upon a REAL fisher relishing it’s catch of the day:



Can anyone identify this snake?

Later that afternoon, on my way back to camp, passing the giant pool one last time, I cast my new favorite fly (the black gnat, of course) out onto the vast waters and drew yet another fine fish, a 16”-range brown trout who was kind enough to pose with me for a photo:



All in all, it was the best day of fly fishing I have ever experienced.

That night, under starry skies, with the company of the small, glowing wildfire to the east to keep me company, I made my own little campfire, had a well-deserved shot of Southern Comfort, and fixed myself a nice hot meal before hitting the hay for some well-earned sleep.

Unfortunately, I had to be back in town for a gig the following night, so, reluctantly, I boarded the pontoon boat the next morning, bound for civilization and all that goes along with it – the good and the bad. However, my memories of this trip will smolder like a wildfire in my heart for the remainder of my days...and I vow to return again next year for more.