Sometime in the mid-nineties, I drove up to Maine to play pedal steel for a bunch of New York songwriter friends at some festival or other. As I provided my license plate number and other information at the motel desk, I tried to smooth things over.
"It says New York, but I'm really from Massachusetts," I offered. As if to say: Don't mistake me for one of those invasive city folk who infest the Maine woods
this time of year – we're all New England bros here at this check-in desk."
Terrible move. The clerk looked up, and if he'd had a stogie in the corner of his mouth, this would have been the moment to remove it, and wave the soggy end in my face. "That's worse!" he growled. "Massachusetts? That doesn't win you any points around here!" and went back to filling out my paperwork.
Tomorrow, I head to Arvada, Colorado for my third year at the Rocky Mountain
Guitar Camp. There is, I now know, a long-standing tradition of Texans fleeing northwards in the summer – we swarm the hiking trails, seek out the iciest mountain streams, and of course, line up wherever boutique coffee and/or breakfast burritos are sold.
So I imagine coming clean to the Arvada locals about my point of origin would go over about as well as my New England cover story. But it probably doesn't matter, because I'll be spending most of the week hunched over my
trusty Collings OO2H, attempting to untangle the endless mysteries of fingerstyle guitar for the thirty or so attendees of this year's camp.
Which I love doing, and am really looking forward to, but as a public service, I will also point out that I will be playing a few shows in the area that week as well: