The land that lay directly behind me as I painted this distant view
from a lonely rolling ridge on California’s central coast belongs
to none other than Neil Young, and having learned this I couldn’t help but
recall a recording I’d recently heard of him singing the old Woody Guthrie
tune This Land is Your Land:
As I was walkin’, I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said “no trespassing”
But on the other side, it didn’t say nothin’
That side was made for you and me
I’d be lying if I said that last line didn’t have me tempted to wander
right off for an afternoon stroll through his private ranch, just for the
poetry of it. But I’m pretty sure Mr. Young viewed those lines as nothing
more than a noble sentiment to be sung, and not exactly as his own
personal property trespassing policy. And I’m also certain that if I were
caught wandering around on his ranch, nobody but me alone would have
thought it was all that witty to cite that song as my justification.
And besides, I was here with a specific purpose. I was brought up to
this lonely ridge to paint the sweeping view of this ranch, and it was
far more beautiful looking toward the coast than back over at Neil’s bald
hills anyway.
I had learned it was Neil Young’s property from the guy who drove me
up and dropped me off up here. He’s spent a lot of time on this property
and knows everyone pretty well.
—
So of course he knows the caretaker of the cattle on this ranch, the
same cattle that we had to slowly navigate through just after the
second gate, and he also knows that this caretaker is a real… let’s just say
handful. On our way down one hill, we see the cattleman coming up the dirt
road in a cloud of anger and we pull aside to let him pass and he’s yelling
and spitting as us, red in the face, because a water truck is coming up
behind him and I guess he’s afraid we’ll just plow into it blindly instead
of pulling over like we had just done for him and he’s also yelling about
some loose cattle, and I’m thinking, yeah they all seem pretty loose, just
hanging around, chomping grass… Who ties up their cattle anyway? Aren’t
they always loose?
I’m no cowboy so I know that any thoughts that run through my head
about cattle management are completely bunk, so I keep my mouth shut, but
in all seriousness we had been careful to close every gate behind us as
we went along, which is probably exactly what he thinks we didn’t do. Our
Ford 350 was the same plain silver as his, but in his alternate reality I
think it may have been covered with sloppy hand-painted rainbows and
driven by the hippies he’s been angry about for 50 years now. And everyone
knows that hippies never close the damn gates.
But that’s all beside the point since we had permission from the actual
owner of this ranch to carry out this art mission anyway. Still, it seems
that everything my driver says makes this guy angrier so we decide to say
nothing and wait for the water truck to pass.
—
We sat there for a long time. Long enough to hear my driver’s story
about the time he carried an 8 foot life-size crucifix up the hill
in the spring mud when his truck wouldn’t go any further and dug a hole
on the most prominent peak and stood the crucifix there overlooking the
ranch for the owners to find on their own sweet time.
He was put up to that task by some friends that knew the owners were
grossed out by the goriness of the catholic crucifix. When the owners
finally found it and were sufficiently grossed out by it, they had him
carry the cross back down the hill and put it under the covers in the bed
of some friends who were out of town whom they suspected of the original
prank, now repranking the prank if you will.
And this poor guy gets stuck carrying the crucifix everywhere he goes!
Not today, though. Today it’s just me in the truck, and even if I carry the
cross and believe in Christ’s sacrifice in my heart, I am not some grossly
carved replica of the bloody event itself. I am just a painter driven by
love… and right now being literally driven around by this crazy crosscarrying
pickup driver that is driving just fine all over these beautiful
hills, thank you very much red-faced cattle man.
We wonder how long this water truck will take and start to wonder
if it could be a real long time so we drive slowly down the road and sure
enough after one bend there she comes around the corner and we pull off
nice and easy and let her pass. Smiles and waves. All nice and easy like it
ought to be on the back hills of a beautiful California cattle ranch near
sunset. Order restored.
—
But only for a moment, because now my cross-carrying driver is
out of smokes and says that he and the others are gonna need more
tonight, so off we go to the market down the hill. My barefoot truckdriving
friend has left his wallet and shoes behind on the ranch and since
it’s just me and him in the truck we hold an informal election and I am
nominated to go in and buy the smokes. Since I have shoes. And a wallet.
So I head into the market in search of smokes for the captain of this
truck, except the market is a bar, with a live band playing a Neil Young
tune out front and it reminds me that right now, at this very moment,
the owners of the ranch and hills and cattle we’d just left behind were
currently hosting live bands all day in the valley beneath the ridge
where I had been painting. Did I mention that part yet?
I was here for a music festival I’ve been an artful part of for a few
years running. I couldn’t hear a single bit of music from up the hill where
I was painting though, so this market/bar music was ironically the best
bit of live music I’d heard all day. This little cover band served up a fine
cinematic soundtrack as I walked into the bar and right back out again
since they didn’t sell any tobacco at all.
—
Good for them. But bad for us because that meant my new pal would
need to drive us all the way to the next town up the country road
for his smokes.
We rolled through a valley where the old Hippies went to become new
Hippies. Nobody is a real Hippie anymore it seems. “Hippie” is either
just a dirty word now, or else it’s a pedestal on which lives some Greco-
American nature god who can do no wrong but doesn’t actually exist beside
us in flesh and blood. It’s like calling someone a Christian. You know…
“real Christians this” and “real Hippies that.” I love Christian Hippies.
I know a guy whose whole deal is making Christian Hippie tie-dye
t-shirts and quotes Jerry Garcia lyrics as cryptic gospel passages all day
long. He’d love this valley. Full of old broken down vans that the Merry
Pranksters once called their homes, back when there were real Hippies and
real Christians all over the place seeking truth like it mattered.
Speaking of truth, my guide wasn’t sure of the truth of this but
he’s heard that the last grizzly bear in California was killed in this
very valley. We both sorta wonder quietly at that and mumble along
incoherently… mostly because this road just kept going.
And going.
And going.
It eventually gets pretty quiet for a while and we finally arrive at
a country market, where they do indeed sell cigarettes and so I return
victorious this time and even though it’s only two packs my driver pal
seems satisfied as we contemplate checking out the old bar next door. Says
he knows a lot of the regulars there. I’m thinking of the music festival
that I’m missing right now, but I say nothing, because this is where I am
here and now. And If I’m about to roll into this bar with this guy then
I want to be all in cause I’m just along for life’s ride and it’s out of my
hands anyway and did I mention I’d been up since 4 in the morning?
We crank our necks in deep concentration and consideration as we
turn around and my driver pal, fresh-lit cigarette happily dangling,
steps on the gas and decisively leaves the market and bar behind us and
we continue on while discussing the merits of a good drinking hole where
people like to be. I guess we were looking for people we knew, some excuse
to derail our night. Stranger things have happened but not here and not
now.
—
We drive back uneventfully and return the truck. It wasn’t ours.
We borrowed it from one of the musicians who’s helped organize
this music festival for the last fifteen years. Yes, the same music festival
that I’ve been very unintentionally avoiding all day. He told me during
a sound check that morning that I could borrow the truck to drive up to
the ridge myself, but I would’ve surely ended up lost in the hills with all
the loose cattle, or getting caught driving around lost on Neil Young’s
land (which is also my land, and also your land by the way) so I was glad my
cross-carrying driver overheard the conversation and stepped up to the
plate.
Like I said earlier, the driver knows everyone. He and the musician
go way back also. He’s helped tear this old truck apart and rebuild it with
the musician multiple times. The musician is a genius electrical engineer
and he was married last year in a small ceremony up on the hill where the
crucifix once stood.
God bless their marriage.
His wife can sing and play Led Zeppelin’s Ramble On like nobody’s
business, so they’ll always have that going for them. When I first became
part of this festival years ago, I heard these two playing music by the
fireside after the bands were done on the main stage, and a little part
of my soul ascended with the smoke and melodies into the night sky and I
will forever be looking for it whenever there is fire and music near each
other. This could be taken wrongly I suppose but I think I just see these
two beautiful people as fire and music personified and I love them both
even though I hardly know either of them and I truly wish the best for
their lives together.
—
But here and now the night is coming on and my work on the ridge
is done, and the finished painting is stowed safely in my van.
Although I’m no longer avoiding the live music here in the valley, I am,
however, currently avoiding my third peanut butter and jelly sandwich of
the day and instead eating two slabs of steak from an old friend’s cooler
while the final band takes the stage in a whirl of light and intentional
discomfort.
A man born of Irish and African roots confronts the audience. He sings
of the illegal love from which he was born. He’s got the voice of a hundred
street preachers and a band to back him up that makes music entirely out
of electric velvet.
Soon enough this Prince from Oakland settles down and the usual crew
of musicians makes their way to the firepit and continues into the night.
There’s a lot of folks lingering to listen, so me and my old friend and
his lady sneak under a hammock and lay in the cool evening grass to get a
glimpse and hear the music continue on its own softer pace.
And guess who is there?
That’s right, my driver pal is there and belting out some of the
sweetest lines and tunes you’ll ever hear including one about his
grandma’s passing that had me holding back tears. She was a real
Christian, and maybe a real Hippie too. Not sure, but I know she prayed for
him, that’s for sure.
Before I know it the three of us in the grass have moved on up to the
hammock together, just enjoying music and a bit of huddled warmth like
all the loose cattle are probably doing up on the hill right now, sans the
music. It’s cold out here.
Thankfully when my friends retired for the night they left me their
blanket and I went horizontal proper on that hammock and fell asleep to
the best sounds on earth. I hope my snoring at least kept the beat for the
music as it rambled on until morning.
—
And all this madness and love is why I’m here and why this painting
happened at all. The folks who own the ranch where this festival
has happened for the last 15 years are selling the property and all the
musicians rallied and hired me to come paint the scene as a gift to the
ranch owners who have opened their land to the music, and the crazy nuts
that play it, for all these years.
It was an honor and a joy and I don’t know what else to say.
So I’ll say nothing more.
