Tales From the Road – Scot Casey and Havilah Rand’s Desolation of America Road Trip - August 2012

Photo by S. Casey

Tales From the Road – Scot Casey and Havilah Rand’s Desolation of America Road Trip

August 2012


It was one of those experiences in your life that you look back upon with wonder and terror. I imagine Dante, having just emerged from the horrors of the Inferno, being possessed of the same thoughts. Or Marlow, drifting out of the Heart of Darkness, “the horror, the horror” an insane whisper repeating in his brain. And it all started out so innocent and beautiful…

A month or so ago, I was walking out of the Green Frog after my usual dinner of peanuts and Rainier. As I walked past the Redlight, Havilah Rand, recently returned from Thailand, hollered me down. We shared a bottle or two of excellent wine and that was where it all began: she was moving back from Austin to Bellingham, driving a truck full of her possessions. And seeing as I still had a garage full of books to move up to Bellingham, we decided to go in together on the truck rental and drive back together. And, here was the beauty of the plan; we would try to play shows together along the way. Something like beauty and the beast or the rose and the skull. We would play in truck stops and gas stations if we had to, filming it all with phones and an iPad. It all sounded so nice and easy and what could possibly go wrong - as so many things do after a couple of bottles of wine.

I flew down to Austin a few days before we were to leave, spending a few days saying goodbye to a city that had been my home for over 20 years. Our first show was on Thursday night at The Local (formerly The Texas Showdown and before that, the legendary punk club, Raul’s.) Havilah and I met earlier for dinner and several potent margaritas at Trudy’s. She started off the set at The Local and just blew everyone away – as I knew she would. Her set was polished and professional and full of laughter and lightness, the moon and the surf on a beautiful night. As I took the stage, I noticed a lot of familiar faces in the crowd – more than a few that I mention in some of my songs in a less than favorable light. It was good to be up in front of old friends and familiar faces from when I was a bartender there. However, I felt like I sang like a drunk in a midnight choir.

Afterwards, I was surprised when many of the people unfavorably mentioned in my songs came forward to say how happy that I put them in a song. A dozen or so shots of tequila sat on the bar for Havilah and I. Around shot six and some challenging conversation about music for graveyards, we found ourselves in route to the Texas State Cemetery, where we played an inebriated set on Arch Stanton’s grave. It was well attended by the living and the dead.

We left the next morning, insanely hung-over, irritable and probably still half drunk. My skin smelled like Tequila and bones. The truck was filled with books, guitars, and whatever had remained for each of us in Austin. The city was burning in 100-degree heat. The whole world seemed to be black and white with sharp razor like teeth that chewed into our eyes and made our brain ache with pain. We kept language to a minimum. I thought several times about just driving 90 mph straight into an embankment to just put myself out of the pain.

We stopped in Marble Falls at the Fuel Coffee House to get some coffee. Havilah’s name was there on the door for a show that got flooded out earlier in the month. The coffee was good. We grabbed our guitars and headed over to the main plaza with the imposing courthouse and clock tower. There was a small car show going on. We chose a spot under a shady pecan tree and played for about an hour, earning some extra gas money. It seemed a good omen and we were in much better spirits when we got back on the road. There seemed to be wildflowers everywhere and even the cows were smiling in the fields, horses waved at us as we drove by and bluebirds flew around the truck like dolphins. The world was suddenly a Technicolor dream and the highway was the yellow brick road leading home. For that brief period of time, we had hope.

Somewhere around Amarillo, something happened. Or rather, it didn’t happen. Nothing happened. Let me explain: we had been driving for over 12 hours, seeing all manner of landscape and interesting objects along the way. After Marble Falls, it almost became beautiful. Then, after Amarillo, it was as if the same view locked into place. We kept driving and driving and everything seemed the same. The same Rip Griffin gas station. The same Ramada Inn. The same McDonald’s. The same generic strip malls. Neither of us said anything to the other but by the time we pulled into the Ramada Inn in Pueblo, Colorado, we both sensed the weirdness.

We asked the manager – 22 years old, defeated, burned out eyes of a old man - if we could play a set “for our film” in the lobby. He told us it was against corporate policy to allow music in the lobby. He suggested the Applebee’s down the highway. At the Applebee’s we were also told that it was against company policy to allow live music. We decided to stay for a drink, take some miles off the road before tomorrow. But we were told that in honor of Veteran’s Day, no alcohol was being served. We asked where the Veteran’s might go to drink but only received a shrug as a reply. We headed back to the motel, full of spleen and venom.

The next morning we stopped at a Starbuck’s to have the worst cup of coffee we had ever had from what might have been the most blissfully ignorant and happy barista in the world. We told her we were filming a movie and would like to play a couple of songs in front, outside. She had to ask the manager. The manager, predictably, told us music was not allowed. We pulled into a gas station with fake cactus plants and tried to play a set at the pump while we were filling up. A speaker on top of the pump alerted us with a monotonic tone that if we did not stop playing music, they would call the police.

Back on the road, all suspicions were confirmed: the same view, the same types of cars, same corporate chain businesses. It was as if a Cult of Sameness had infected all of the United States. We kept trying to find one diner, one local restaurant, god, please god, a local bar, a musical venue. But there was nothing. It was all the same. Even the landscape seemed transformed into one long long road leading into the horizon, sky full of featureless clouds, all around us… aspects of the Waste Land.

Havilah and I started getting a little deranged. To pass the time we made podcasts on the worst things you have ever tasted, smelled, put in your mouth. (You may, if you care, listen to these at: http://soundcloud.com/scot-casey ) The phrases, “a dead dog’s butt” and “a prostitute at 4 in the morning” caused uncontrollable laughter. We listened to the Hunger Games, cracking up at particularly brutal passages, playing them over and over. Time and again we stopped to play music and were told it was against policy, not allowed, forbidden, illegal. Havilah was almost arrested at a rest stop outside of Cheyenne, Wyoming for refusing to cease and desist while performing.

Everything became a horrible desolation for us. A hell of sameness and no music. Then, after nearly 40 hours of driving through this we pulled into Bellingham. Home. Finally. We drove down State Street: Shakedown, Honey Moon, Redlight, Green Frog. Music everywhere. We stopped at Cap’s. O Sweet Nectar of Life! Tequila, beer and popcorn never tasted so good.

Later, we walked to Railroad and Holly and played a few songs each to an appreciative crowd and two cops on bicycles. So damn happy to have escaped the Horror of Sameness, the Desolation of America and back to a city with local identity, eccentricity and beautiful insanity.


Originally published in What's Up!

12 Questions from What's Up Magazine: Scot Casey - May 2012

12 Questions from What's Up Magazine: Scot Casey

May 2012


Tell us a lot about yourself? What’s your background?

Don’t figure there is a whole lot to tell. Born in Austin, Texas. 1962. Raised around a blink and you miss it place called Little Hope, intersection of Farm Roads 154 and 312. Spent a fair number of years learning to fish on Caddo Lake and Boney Sands before I headed back to Austin to spend about 10 years studying osteological legerdemain and epistemological cetology at the University. Worked for many years in bookstores, Europa, Desert Books, Apollinaire’s, before finally trying to own one called FringeWare – which ended up being a beautiful work of performance art, a Temporary Autonomous Zone that lasted for 3 years before flaming out. I then headed out to the Chama River Canyon in New Mexico and spent six months or so at a Monastery arguing with God and contemplating the mystery of the Bone. Deciding I wasn’t yet suited to be a monk I wandered back to Austin and got a job at the legendary Hole in the Wall, becoming involved in the local music scene. Then, burned out from all the cocaine and tequila, I moved a block up the street to work as a bartender at the Texas Showdown. When the Showdown closed, I found myself at loose ends and, after a time living in bad houses on the wrong side of town, decided it might be time to make a move before I ended up either in jail or dead.

What three words do you think best describes your personality? Why?

I am often accused of being humorous, funny in my tastes like cannibals eating a clown, so I imagine that might be apt. Then there are those that just seem to find me a bit peculiar, something like a skull in the rose garden. Mostly I think I am a fairly affable individual who doesn’t have to work too hard to feel friendly towards most of the other beings in the world. So there: humorous, peculiar and friendly.

What is the biggest difference between playing music now and playing music 25
years ago?

Here’s how I see it: when I was younger and playing open mikes in Austin and small clubs in Dallas, I would see these guys about my age wearing broken fedoras and tattered jackets, shoes that had no shine, and they would stand on stage and try to act like old blues men or ex-junky jazz musicians. Weary with the world and their voices false with pretended roughness. And they would try so hard to not be trying so hard. But it was inauthentic. Too clean. As obvious as a sheep in wolves clothing. I never wanted that. Never wanted to fake having lived any sort of hard life with music. 25 years later, after having lived up and lived down, I understand that playing music is one of the crucial things that make my life worth living. 25 years ago, music was a hobby, something I did to pass the time. These days, music is like breathing or the pulse of blood over my bones. I am with the German that said, without music, life would be a mistake.

What is the oddest job you’ve ever held? How long did you hold it and why?

I have had a lot of odd jobs. Pulled weeds in the desert for monks. Managed a book festival for Laura Bush. Taught high school students about suicide. But the one that seems to surprise most people is that I was a high school football coach for seven years. I played the game all my life. Used to love it. Now I couldn’t tell you who won the Super Bowl.

What initially brought you to Bellingham? Why have you stayed?

I was burned out and a few feet off of rock bottom in Austin when my sister, who had moved up here years before, offered me a room in her basement to stay in for free. I came up here to finish the biography of Charles “Bonesy” Jones – which I wanted to write in scrimshaw on a whale’s skull. After several months of inquiries, I realized it would take more time than I thought to find the right skull, so I started looking for a job. To my great fortune, I was hired at the Black Drop Coffeehouse. Within a year, there was an opportunity to become an owner – which I jumped at. Everything has been golden since. Never found a place with nicer people who, mostly, seem to tolerate my periodic performances and enjoy the coffee I make for them.

Would you rather have the ability to speak to animals or to trees?

Animals all the way. Trees would be too strange. Being able to talk to a dog would be endless laughter. And being able to talk to a whale or an elephant seems like it would be a very holy thing – also with a lot of laughter.

When was the last time you drew a picture? What was it of?

A few weeks ago, I drew a portrait of a model posing at Modsock during Art Walk. I drew her “inner self,” which was, of course, a skeleton with a radiant skull mediating upon the broken bone of being. I think it is still up on the wall over there.

What part of the United States would you most like to visit and why?

Chama River Valley. New Mexico. Home of the Monastery of Christ in the Desert. Crucible of the Penitientes. Burial place of Charles “Bonesy” Jones. I consider it my spiritual home in the sense that everything I know about God and the Devil was uncovered there.

What musician, living, would you most like to share a sandwich with?

If I could share a corned beef sandwich on rye with Leonard Cohen, I’d feel pretty good about that.

You recently turned 50, what was the first thought that popped into your head when
you woke up? What was the last one?

More like an explosion of first thoughts: that I was a lucky man, that everything was so beautiful, that I was the happiest man alive, that I just wanted to laugh until my skull caught fire.

Last thought: pray that my bones might still be able to dance tomorrow.

If given the opportunity, would you be mayor of Bellingham? If so, what laws would
you immediately pass?

Mayor? Sure. Be happy to. Three laws: 

1. No development around lakes, watersheds or areas of natural beauty.
2. No businesses of any kind that produce, import or export anything that is toxic to the environment.
3. No bad coffee.

What’s next for Scot Casey?

At the end of June, I have a show at the Honey Moon that pairs music with an 8 course dinner plus mead drinks. I expect there will be several dishes that feature bones: BBQ ribs, turkey legs and such. I am also working with Honeybee Press to get a small letterpress chapbook out something later in the summer. Also, what I initially came up here for: to finish the biography about the beautiful life and violent death of Charles “Bonesy” Jones – and to continue to work with the Jones estate to publish his artwork. And always, always, to help to keep the Black Drop shining bright and beautiful.

The Good Time Girls Present: An Old West Variety Show - Blue Horse Gallery - Friday, February 17th, 2012

The Good Time Girls Present: An Old West Variety Show - Blue Horse Gallery

Friday, February 17th, 2012

Count on the irrepressible Good Time Girls, Marissa McGrath and Sara Holodnick, to stage a variety show in the manner it might have been performed in an Old Western town. Regardless of whether or not they are talking about brothels, serial killers or Bellingham's Historical Identity, the Good Time Girls consistently manage to educate and entertain in best ways possible.

The tables at the Blue Horse are littered with cards and gold coins. An old piano sways drunkenly just off stage. After a short welcoming introduction by Sara and Marissa, the evening gets off to a nice start with a beautiful woman singing a jazzy song about all the clothes her man bought her before he abandoned her. As the song progresses, off goes the clothes down to a tasteful peignoir. Everybody seemed to stop talking around then.

Next up Liz Jennings performed a dramatic reading of a Robert Service poem. “O haggard, haunted, hidden One / What see you in the dying year?” Absolutely beautiful. Following her is a haunting fiddle piece by Eric Chabot that seems to transform all the lights to lambent flame and fill the outer dark with a lonely apprehension. It put a stillness in the room that lent considerable authenticity to the notion that you might actually be sitting in an Old West Saloon. Then the beautiful, bountiful Dirty Bird Cabaret appeared out the wings like a flamboyance of flamingos, taking over the Blue Horse, frolicking amidst the crowd and shaking it all over the stage. After that, what more could anyone do that take a quick break.

Liz Jennings returned to humorously explain melodrama with ample crowd participation. She had the crowd in the palm of her hand. Marvin kept up a beautiful sonic atmosphere on the piano working through several ragtime pieces with grace and ease. At one point, a drunk man, a Gen. S. Casey, from backwoods East Texas stumbled on to the stage and attempted to recite a tedious poem by Charles "Bonesy" Jones about moral luck and stricken jack rabbits. Thankfully, he was shot and kicked off stage by one of the Good Time Girls.

The Dirty Birds seemed to appear from nowhere at regular intervals, lighting the crowd on fire and being generally appropriately inappropriate. After Eric Chabot returned to the stage and played another sublime piece, Anneka Morgan took the stage to sing an opera piece that had Arthur, the owner of the Blue Horse, considering making one night of the week an opera night. Anneka’s singing was terribly beautiful and happily sad, executed with elegant talent. Marvin’s accompaniment was subtle and perfect. The evening seemed to gather around the moment, time fading, as a beautiful woman poured out her soul through a song on a stage some Old Western town.







A History of God's Bones: Scot Casey, Robert Lashley, Jess Manley – Honey Moon - November 10, 2011

A History of God's Bones: Scot Casey, Robert Lashley, Jess Manley – Honey Moon

November 10, 2011

Full house at the Honey Moon. There seems to be a fair amount of anticipation for this show. The possibility of something new, different, a bit more confrontational than the usual entertainment. Personally, I am somewhat skeptical. The ponderous title of the show, A History of God’s Bones, is not promising. Visions of street-corner preachers haranguing the masses, of god-intoxicated monks wandering lost in the desert, rantings of insane mystics echoing down the asylum halls. I figure to make it through the first set then cut out.

Opening is Lance Jordan. You have most likely seen Lance wailing Rusty Cage in front of the Shoe late at night. He comes out of the gate roaring, singing loud and working up a raw scream. Soundgarden and Alice in Chains get their due. His sound is much tighter than the last time I saw him.

Scot Casey, who is responsible for the evening then comes up and welcomes everyone, introduces the poet, Robert Lashley, who is set to read a few poems before and after each set. Lashley is well known around town and the state as an outstanding poet and performer of the Word. He does not disappoint. His first poem, “Burying brother sisters bones in the church lawn,” converts any unbelievers in the crowd. You can sense that he almost wants to sing his language as he speaks, something of the Rhapsode here, beautiful and strange. His third poem, "To the gang member who made me give him head in the Al Davies parking lot" brought on the shivering awareness of something genius.

Casey then turns on a film, which plays through the entire performance. It is called “Begotten.” Directed by E. Elias Merhige. It is a stark black and white film, almost abstract in its imagery. The first scene graphically shows a hooded god disemboweling himself with a straight razor. Over this Casey is playing a minor key instrumental piece. To the side is Jess Manley, who is creating sublimely beautiful ambient soundscapes as he sits at a table full of multi-effects processors, black boxes and a variety of pedals and mini-cassette players. As the film and music increase in intensity, a woman in the crowd shouts out that the film is disturbing her and demands that it be turned off. Casey replies that he cannot do that and keeps playing with a sort of demented and uncaring smile. Meanwhile, the manager of the Honey Moon informs the woman that this is a venue for artistic freedom and that the woman is free to leave anytime. The woman and her table depart. A song later, another table departs. I decide to stay until the end.

Casey’s songs, mostly roughly hewn blues based creatures punctuated with a strange slap technique, are difficult and odd. I keep wanting to enjoy them and then he throws in a line about how he wants to “step out of his skin and dance on top of his grave” or “sing with the devil to the song to god’s pain” and he loses me. With each new song my sense of frustration with him grows. Is it too much to ask for a simple and beautiful song? He is clearly capable. Instead, we are assaulted by increasingly bizarre and violent imagery: more bones, more skulls, the death of god, desert roads and honey caves, nails driven through hands, shotguns in mouths ( “blood on the tiles and some toothless smiles”). All of this with an extremely confrontational film behind him. Jesus! Is it too much to ask for a simple evening of entertainment anymore? Have we reached the point in the culture where all of the horror and terror of the “death of god” has to be violently pounded into our brains through, of all things, a poorly played acoustic guitar, a broken voiced singer and a violent theological film? I don’t know the answer. And I am not sure that Casey does either. Towards the end, he played a song with the sound of a troubled woman crying and screaming that she had lost her mind, over and over. Casey sang along with her and adding, “God won’t leave me alone.” Clearly. The problem here is to whether or not we need to be witness to this. A better artist would have found a way to create something of beauty and grace. Instead, what we have to endure are the god haunted rantings of an unhinged (arguably insane) mind put to raw and rough music that is best left for the darker corners of the Appalachian hill country. Perhaps all those who left were right. Maybe we all should have left with them.