Taneeah, or: That Haunted California Feeling
A Place Where No One Can Find Me, Episode 3
Friends,
A little housekeeping, just a touch, before getting to the main event. My 10th Annual shows at One Longfellow Square in Portland, Maine, are coming right up on Friday, August 8th and Saturday, August 9th, and I’d love it if you were there. I suspect I’ll probably play a whole lot of songs from the new Hiss record, that feels like the right place to do it. These are always special, intimate shows, and we’ll have these beautiful prints designed by my friend Cody Hudson for sale. See you in Vacationland! Get your tickets HERE.
OK, the main event today is the third episode of my imaginary A Place Where No One Can Find Me radio show. This episode is called Taneeah, or: That Haunted California Feeling, and it was once played on Aquarium Drunkard. I like this piece of imaginary radio; I like the writing, and I like the music, and it’s basically true. A bunch of names have been changed, but yeah, it’s pretty much all true.
It’s Tuesday, currently about noon EST. Maybe this will be a good companion for you, wherever you may be. Wherever Taneeah may be.
If you like this, please share it, and tell a friend about it. I think that’s how we make it all work.
There are some kids drinking from a keg of Redhook around a bonfire at the edge of a cold forest near saltwater. It is evening and torn ribbons of fog drift through the treetops that stand black and mysterious as witches against a pink and fading sky. It smells of eucalyptus and wild sage and crude oil. There is ice plant on the hillsides that slope down to the beach. We must walk through the forest to join these people, some of whom we know but not well. A snake crosses our path with singular intention and we become careful, watchful, and excited, as though it's some kind of sign. The snake is scarlet, with thick bands of black and white, a California King Snake three feet long. We've been through this forest before, once in the previous spring to watch the Monarch butterflies pass through on their southern migration. They were so abundant and carefree that morning that they landed on our outstretched fingers like domesticated parakeets. They no longer visit this place.
I remember hearing music down at the edge of the water but I don't remember how it was played. Did somebody bring a boom box? The sound was lonely and sardonic and emotionally torqued. I'm now thinking the chords may have been diminished. “King Solomon's Marbles.” “Gold Soundz.” This music sounded to me like a Zen koan, a verse that, if you could unlock just a piece of it, just a measure, might give you a NEW way to live. It sounded like music made by night people, and I badly wanted to understand it.