Summertime Thing Recap

Where was I? Back to Summertime Thing…

I picked up some trivia over the weekend. Apparently, the outdoor stage at the Rio Nido Roadhouse at various times has played host to Duke Ellington, the Beach Boys, and the Grateful Dead, among others. Not on the same bill (imagine that); but yeah, at one time they all graced that warped plywood stage. In the case of the Beach Boys, it was in 1963. The place has history! Plus a swimming pool with a cranky lifeguard, towering redwoods, and not a single Porta Potty. Hiding in plain sight, just a couple hours north of the City.

I don’t know exactly where I’m going here; maybe a kind of recap. But before I go any further, this is a good time for me to give a shoutout to Daniel Strickland, who’s really the brains behind this whole Summertime Thing endeavor. He had the vision, and to be fair, he’s done most of the heavy lifting to make it happen.

* * *

Presently, Stephie and I are back home in the City. I’m sitting here chilling with a warm laptop on my knees, on the morning after our second annual (can we call it annual? Sure, why not?) Hoedown. Like I said, by all accounts it was a rousing success. Or as we used to say in the mosh pit days, a good time was had by all, and no one got hurt. Music, food, friends, family… all that and a weekend soaking up the restorative qualities of the Russian River. I’m not feeling half bad.

Can I say everybody brought it?

This year we opted for one stage. Maybe the two-stage thing was too much of a good thing. Up first was Jason Morgan, aka Harold Ray, and his band East Side Dynamite. They went on at two in the afternoon, when it was approaching 90 degrees (32 C). Jason was in a full suit and tie, working the stage, sweating like the bastard child of Tom Jones and Roy Head.

Jason Morgan aka Harold Ray. Photo: Chuck Prophet

Aside from being an unhinged performer, Jason has a gift for finding a song. He should’ve been an A&R guy for Stax or Malaco or something. When he digs through the crates, Jason’s got lightning in his fingers. He can find that haystack in the needle. Really. His show is always covers, yet I hardly recognize any of them. When it comes to ’60s soul stompers, I consider myself pretty hard to stump. There’s always at least one astonishingly cool deep cut in his set that tears me up.

This was the case on Saturday when I chased Jason down and asked him what that “Let’s Get Together” song was. Turns out it’s Little Milton, who Jason told me is not to be confused with Little Steven, Little Richard, or Rich Little for that matter! (Apologies to Lil Mike, Little Roger and the Goosebumps, and any other Little I left out.) The lyrics go:

When we were together, oh baby
I treated you so bad
I don’t blame you for leaving me, darling
Cause I made you feel so sad

But I heard it through the grapevine
That your new love was cheating on you
What’s so bad about it, what’s so bad about it, baby
He’s treating you twice as bad as I used to do

Now I know this is an awful thing for me to say
But I’m glad that he’s treating you this way
But, while he’s gone?
Let’s get together

He’s doing you wrong
Let’s get together
While you’re alone
Let’s get back together

And let me love you one more time

And you can check it out here:

Next up, the Kellys.

Kelly McFarling played a great set. Sophisticated songs. Strong JJ Cale game, or “Vajayjay Cale,” if you will. (Her words, not mine). I was admiring Kelly’s wide-brimmed powder blue hat, too.

Kelley Stoltz was hilarious and cool enough to accommodate a couple of my requests (“Underwater’s Where the Action Is” is a stone cold classic around here), plus he brought his family along. Wifey Allyson Baker subbing on guitar was an added bonus. Allyson also DJed between sets.

Dion and Allyson. Photo: Kelley Stoltz

The sure-handed Rusty Miller was on drums. I’d introduced Rusty to my mother earlier, and had told him I wouldn’t mind if he talked me up a little bit. I know she remains pretty unimpressed by my bullshit. I exaggerate to make a point, but sometimes I think she thinks I’m a pot dealer or something.

Earlier Stephie and I enjoyed some quiet time with Allyson and Kelley down on the banks of the river. Allyson and Kelley brought their three-year-old daughter Dion, who apparently had never seen either of her parents perform. So when baby Dion looked up at the stage at Mom bending notes on her polka-dot Telecaster in cut-off denim hot pants, and Dad singing into a Vocoder, she had a look that said, “What the hell? What is my dad doing with a Vocoder? Does he think he’s Neil Young? Somebody call Child Protective Services!!”

The Mission Express played a tight ninety and change. It was so great to play some of those songs I haven’t played in what seems like ages… and to hear Stephie’s voice in my monitor. The vibe was perfect when Dave Alvin and his Third Mind played after the sun went down behind those towering redwoods.

We had some vendors on hand too. The Record Mill from Forestville had a booth, so people could get their retail on. In an effort to thin out my herd, I brought a few crates from my personal library, and priced them to move. It was kind of interesting to see people walking around with my records under their arms. I was like, “Hey, that’s my copy of Some Girls!” It’s OK—I have duplicates.

Denise Campanaro from BellRinger Vintage threw up a vintage clothing shop right there, and brought quite the array of floral print shirts to liven up any scene. Kelley referred to it as the James Gandolfini section.

* * *

There’s a kind of urban exodus going on in the Bay Area these days, similar to when people in NYC moved to the Hudson Valley. I’ve had a few friends from the City relocate to Guerneville. Maybe driven by the promise of actually owning a home? Or some kind of pandemic-inspired migration? Or people simply priced out of the cool gray city? A few years back, Stephie and I drove around that area, looking at pads. We actually had a realtor help us. We had this crazy idea that we might leave the city. (What were we thinking?! I know, I know, we weren’t thinking!!)

It may look completely serene, but it’s dicey up there if you ask this urban apartment dweller. For one, the Russian River is known to rise, which lends a kind of John Lee Hooker Southern Gothic edge to the whole place. Guerneville has a history of major floods, as evidenced by the warped plywood stage held together by rusty nails, chewing gum, and termite turds. What’s more, if you look around, you’ll notice most of the houses in Guerneville are built on stilts. Shit is weird up there. But oddly enough, in a good way too. The locals roll with it.

I noticed the power outlets on the stage were at eye-level, which I’m assuming makes them less likely to end up underwater. Or maybe the electricians had us aging rockers in mind; at my age, any opportunity to avoid bending over helps me keep those sciatica wolves from my door.

Oh, and if that’s not enough harm’s way for you, in Guerneville there’s always the threat of fires too. In fact, a couple years back, the entire town of Guerneville had to be completely evacuated. Meanwhile, here we are in 2025, and the planet shows no signs of cooling. Mother Nature is pissed. In the words of Martha and the Vandellas, there really is “Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide.”

But for now it remains pretty stunning up there.

Onwards!

-CP

P.S. The Cumbia Shoes have summer dates, starting with Minneapolis tomorrow night. Hope to see you out there.