Nothing but silence

I had a gig in the middle of nowhere over the weekend. It was an annual thing I do for a non-profit; I run a sound system (it's barely a system, really, quite tiny) for a string of poets and musicians who perform at an annual event. I'm not exagerating about the nowhere description; it's about five hours north of San Francisco, between Red Bluff and Shasta. You get off I5 at Red Bluff, scoot away from town, and head into a vast, volcanic landscape, surrounded by long, empty vistas, valleys of brown grass and mountains in the distance. Another thirty minutes and you finally arrive.

The gig went fine, long day, and I usually stay overnight, but I had the gear packed and ready to go by eight, and so I left as day entered dusk. That thirty-ish minute trip there and back to Red Bluff and I5 is a two lane road, and there might be, oh, two-dozen residences of varying sorts, from shacks to ranches, but it really is a Mars-like landscape, if Mars had scrub-bush, oak trees and seas of brown grass extending across its dreamscape. About half-way to Red Bluff, I did something that has become a tradition of sorts, in that I do it when the location and timing are right, and I never pass up the opportunity.

This so-called tradition started soemwhere deep in Michigan, deep into the night, when it's technically morning but still black, save for the brightness of stars shinning through a sky clear of smog, fog or ambient light.

I had worked a gig that night by myself, selling T-shirts at a Rockets show. The Rockets were a popular Michigan band, they had decent, semi-national hit tune, the name of which escapes me now, although if you ask me some other time I won't remember it then, either. It was one of those shows I worked when I was in-between working for the 'bigger bands'. Because even the successful bands of that day couldn't work eleven-and-a-half months of the year without hurting themselves, figuratively or litterally, in some way shape or form, so they would take time off and I would work tours for smaller, really good working bands, like Blue Oyster Cult and the Tubes. These were tours that occasionally hit a decent size venue, but generally landed at large clubs and small halls, ice arenas and festivals, anywhere from 1,000 to 5,000 seats. I did a lot of these with Gonzo, one of those great friends from high school that you end up spending a lot of time with, and then drift apart years later...because you spent so much time working together. I have to wonder if he remembers the same reality-as-hillarity we experienced working a Blue Oyster Cult gig in Presque Isle, Maine. As an aside, just check out where that is on the map, and then picture a Spinal Tap-like adventure in Maine's version of Mayberry.

The Rockets gig, though, that was one I did myself. I don't remember much about the gig -- this is, what, twenty-eight years ago -- but I remember driving the truck through a remote part of Michigan, in the darkdarkdark, and just pulling over to the side of the road, shutting off the engine and stepping onto the road. There were the crickets, and whatever other night creatures make all that natural noise out there, but there weren't any other sounds. None.

None.

Not the faint whoosh of a jet plane high somewhere above, not the similar kind of whoosh made by an approaching car or truck, unseen but coming up the road. Nothin'.

Now, due to the laws of physic and thermodynamics ("...good god, where the hell is he going with this?..."), there was the click and and creak of the just shut off truck ("...oh, okay..."), but after a few minutes, even those sounds stopped, and there was nothing, no sounds, none.

It was spiritual, truly.

It's the kind of experience that exists only in a few places and, even many of those places, it doesn't always last very long. I was out there, just looking up at the sky, just looking around, for about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. No one drove by, no one even came close. I climbed up into the truck and headed on down (or up) the road.

I have never passed up an opportunity to do that same kind of thing again, which is why I did it the other night in the middle of nowhere in the far north of California. It was a little different this time, though, because I was doing it at dusk instead of the delightful dead of night. I have stopped on this stretch of road, at about the same spot, many times (remember, this is an annual gig, and I do get up there for other occasions), but always at night. The last night stop I made was under a full moon, and that was a stunning experience in and of itself, but this time, with the fading but still there light, I could see all the miles and miles of distance, look back and see where I'd been, look forward and see where I was eventually headed. Since it was earlier than usual, I did have to contend with a couple of cars zooming past, but I had a good chunk of ten minutes there where it was just me, the creatures, the rolling grasslands and solitary oaks, majestic, long armed, thin fingered islands silhouetted against a gray and pink sky.

You need to do just this sort of thing, any chance you get. If you're not by yourself, you need to get a vow of silence from the person you're with, for the time you'll be outside. This is not an easy thing for Americans to accept - silence is awkward for many of us, and it can be a chore to not speak. Give it a few minutes though, in that beautiful stillness, and most of them will get it.

It's wonderful. Don't pass up the opportunity.

Peace.