StroncaTour – Italy, March 2018

Delta Moon ate so much stroncatura pasta in Calabria the first two weeks of March that the Italian leg of our trip became called the StroncaTour. Stroncatura is a coarse, dark pasta originally made from the floor sweepings of the pasta factories and sold as food for animals. Human consumption was forbidden. But poor people ate stroncatura anyway, buying it cheaply under the counter and flavoring it with strong spices and anchovies. Once the upper classes caught on, stroncatura became popular and the factories cleaned up the ingredients. It’s a lot like the story of blues, jazz and rock-and-roll.

Without our agent and road manager in Calabria, Vincenzo Tropepe, the StroncaTour would not have been possible. With him it was pretty incredible. Enzo has friends everywhere in southern Italy, and now many of them have become our friends too. On past tours we’ve called such-and-such a dinner “the meal of the trip,” but this time we enjoyed so many wonderful meals served by so many wonderful people that the concept became meaningless. One Italian friend said, “I’ve been seeing more pictures of you on Facebook with food and wine than with musical instruments.”

Here’s a quick video of a rural traffic jam we encountered in an olive grove on our way to a memorable lunch prepared by the 80-year-old father of our friend Daniele Errico.

Of course we did play some shows — several in fact. Here is Enzo Tropepe’s account of the tour, translated (however poorly) from Italian:

The tour of the Delta Moon, now very well known in these parts, has been completed. This was perhaps the fifth time to see them around Calabria and, despite everything, the public loves them in visceral ways. These are the dates they played in Puglia and Calabria. The first date was at La Pecora Nera (Cassano Del Murge) with the legendary Pino Simone who arranged everything to perfection, as he usually does. The second at the Go West Saloon in Roccaforzata (TA), where our dearest Fabio welcomed us in a big way. The third date, returning to Calabria, we stopped in the wonderful Tropea. Even though our dear Bertè sang, “The winter sea is like a black and white movie seen on TV,” we can’t say that. Tropea is colorful in both summer and winter. On stage then at Albin’s Pub, a wonderful place managed by our fearless Albino Lorenzo.

Three days of rest were not bad at all, considering the fatigue accumulated even from the previous tour in Spain and then resting until Wednesday. The fourth gig saw them busy playing at the New Boston in Davoli Marina, where our bastion of music organized an almost-last-minute concert and therefore, thank you very much to Gray Renda with the great Bruno Delfino, Andrea Sabato and all the staff. Friday at La Sosta where the legendary Mimmo delighted us with his unmistakable sound on sax. Thanks to all the staff de La Sosta.

At the end, as they say, final with bang!!! The tour ended in a place where no definition could be the right one, a place where positive energy cuts with a knife and where all and I say everyone, they feel at home. At Il Frantoio delle Idee the band performed the last concert. What to say? I have no words!!! An infinite thank you to my dearest friend Alberto Conia who truly always keeps the flag flying high, together with the amazing Marina Rizzo… I love you. For me the most emotion was when, after inviting me to jam on stage, at some point Tom Gray passed me his wonderful Italia Modena guitar. At first I thought I had to play it, since it was in standard tuning, but instead, last but not least, Tom gave it to me, in front of everyone on stage. I’ll never find the right words to thank him, to him and to the rest of the band. What else to add? Nothing! I can’t wait to get them back. God bless you all guys!!! Miss you: Tom Gray, Mark Johnson, Franher Joseph, Paolo Xeres.

Thank you very much to those who allowed all this and who supported us with their presence, their love and their passion.

Delta Moon seconds those thanks. And, Enzo, we already miss you, too.

Delta Moon in Spain – Part 3

(Part Three of our adventures in Spain this February. Here are Parts One and Two.)

This week I learned something I already knew. Eleven shows in eleven days is too many. Especially when the offstage time is divided between short hours in a cold hotel bed and long hours in a van. At a pace of six on and one off — an ancient tradition codified in religion — it’s possible to roll along week after week. To tell the truth, I was shocked when I first saw the Spanish tour schedule. We’d played some big festivals last summer and our music has been spinning on the national Radio Three, so we’ve been gaining a following in Spain. How could I complain? I tried to make it a bragging point. Eleven shows in eleven days! Look at us!

On day eight I started to cough. On day nine it got worse and my nose started running. On the morning of day ten I bought some cough and cold medicine at a farmacia near the hotel in A Coruña. Pepe looked at the label later and confirmed it was the right stuff. But the medicine didn’t work right. At sound check that afternoon in Avilés, some of the others stripped down to T-shirts, but even with my coat zipped to the neck I was aching and shivering. I couldn’t feel my hands or feet. Back in the dressing room Franher lent me a pair of leather gloves.

This was the biggest audience of the tour, a sold-out show at the Factoria Cultural. I went on stage wearing a T-shirt, a shirt, a sweater and another heavy shirt over that, and never broke a sweat. I think it was good show, but I don’t remember much about it. Mark, Franher and Paolo played well, as always. I’ll confess to some sloppy moments, which seemed to strike from out of nowhere. It was a great crowd, and I gave them all I had. After the show there was nothing left. The others went with the promoter for a midnight dinner. I headed straight to bed and barely made it.

Our final show of the tour at El Zagal in Aldeamayor de San Martin was a lot of fun. I ditched the medicine and the cold came back with a vengeance, but I could deal with that. This was a free-admission show on a Sunday night, and the place was packed. We mixed it up with them pretty good. Spanish audiences are wonderful. They just don’t come any better.

Eleven shows in eleven days.

Photo (top) – Tito Fernández

Photo (Avilés): Ayto Avilés

Photo (bottom): Fran Cea

Delta Moon in Spain, 2018 – Part 2

(Part Two of our adventures in Spain this February. You can read Part One here.)

We saw Gibraltar the other day. As we drove along the expressway, not far outside Estepona, Pepe, our Spanish agent and road manager, pointed to a promontory on the the horizon and said, “Do you know what that is? That is England. That is part of England.”

The Rock of Gibraltar. The Pillars of Hercules. Site of the Neanderthals’ last stand. I got a kick out of seeing that.

Delta Moon’s Tuesday night show at Louie Louie in Estepona went well, even though we didn’t draw much of a crowd. The date had been booked on just a few days notice after our Granada show was cancelled, so it was impossible to promote properly. Still the people who did come, along with the club staff, were all smiles at the end of the night. Afterward at the hotel, I collapsed on the bed fully dressed and slept hard.

The next morning the Citroen van kept wanting to stall out when idling. Throughout the day the problem got worse and worse. When we pulled in front of La Alquitara in Béjar, after six hours travel, it died completely. We unloaded the luggage and gear, and somehow Pepe was able to coax the van back to life long enough to get it to a garage. The mechanic tried a few things before saying he would have to keep it for several days. Luckily, Pepe got a good price on renting a Peugeot van that was almost the same thing — more room for gear, a little less for people — and he met us back at the club in time for sound check.

We’d played Béjar twice before, the first time at same nightclub and then last summer at a big festival. Since the venue owner also owns a first class restaurant, the food has always been delicious. We played a strong show with an enthusiastic audience. It was a good night.

In our six-hour drive the next day, Mark, Franher and I worked on teaching Pepe to speak English as it is spoken in the American South. On our last tour he mastered some basic phrases like “fixing to”. Since then other American musicians have expanded his knowledge somewhat. We’ve been helping him to put it all together. Now he easily says things like, “I’m fixing to open a can of whup-ass on y’all.”

After what will likely stand as the best dinner of the tour, we played a fantastic gig at Sala Son in Cangas, on the Atlantic coast of Spain, just north of Portugal. Ten minutes before the scheduled show time there were maybe twenty people in the place. I despaired of drawing any kind of crowd. As often happens when a room is near empty, the promoter asked us to start a half hour later. By the time we walked on stage the room was packed and the air was electric. The band caught the energy from the audience and sent it right back, and then things got wilder and wilder. Delta Moon loves Spanish audiences, and we loved this one especially. The promoter told me it was the best concert he’d had in eight years. On the road you always take that sort of thing with a grain of salt, but I’ve got to say it was right up there for us, too.

Now I’m back at the hotel, with no heat and a list of nine passwords for nine wifi networks, none of which reach my room. Later I’ll try to post this from somewhere else.

(To be continued.)

Photo by Jose Antonio Serrano Sabate.

Delta Moon in Spain, 2018 – Part 1

I’m writing this in the back seat of a Citroen van, rolling along a Spanish highway through an ever-changing Krazy Kat landscape.

A week ago today we flew out of Atlanta, Mark and I changing planes in Toronto and Franher on a different route with a layover in New York. We reassembled at the Madrid airport, where we met our friend Paolo Xeres who had flown in from Italy to drum with us on this tour and Pepe Ferrández, our agent and road manager in Spain.

Delta Moon’s method of coping with jet lag in Europe is to stay awake after arriving and not sleep until bedtime that night. We wake the next morning rested and in sync with our new time zone. That’s the theory anyway. In Madrid it’s easy. We took a train downtown and headed straight to our favorite Madrid starting point, an old-school working-class tapas bar with a metal counter, a little way off the beaten tourist path. The guys there remembered us. We spent a pleasant afternoon, walking here and there, tasting this and that, and making some new Spanish friends, until it was time to catch the last train back to our hotel. A good start to the trip.

The first show was the next night in Zaragoza, a town we’d played twice before. Rock and Blues was a larger venue, with free admission. Half an hour before showtime I was afraid no one would show up. Fifteen minutes later the place was slammed. We gave the show everything we had, and it went over big. A Facebook review later called us a “blues hurricane” with a “barbaric nature”. Right!

Friday we drove to Barcelona, another favorite city. This was our third time at Rock Sound. Several people there told us they’d been to all three shows. We’ve never failed to have a great time there. In the morning we enjoyed paella for breakfast at a restaurant near La Sagrada Familia, the famous cathedral that’s been under construction since 1882 and is due to be completed in just a few more years. Then we piled back into the van and headed for the next town. Already we’d settled into the rhythm of the road.

Our venue in Monzón was a 400-year-old church converted to a modern concert hall. After our show the promoter invited us for a drink at a local bar. It seemed like half our audience was there. They were wonderful people and I enjoyed talking with them, but the room was smoky and loud and everyone was shouting. After finishing a beer I went outside and sat on a bench in the square opposite. A little while later Paolo emerged and joined me. There was a tree nearby with its branches cut short. Each limb ended in a scarred ball with one fresh shoot sticking up about six inches, like an upraised middle finger. “Look,” said Paolo. “It’s a fuck-you tree.”

Sunday we drove to Santander, an ancient city on the northern coast. Little Bobby was a small venue, perfect for a rainy Sunday evening when there was an important football game (but when in Spain is there not an important football game?). We played an early show, then walked through the wet, narrow streets of the old town to a nearby restaurant that stayed open to provide us an excellent meal in a back room.

We had time for only a few hours of sleep before hitting the road early to Seville, all the way across Spain, on the southern coast. We were dismayed to learn that morning that Tuesday’s show in Granada had been cancelled for reasons beyond our control or understanding. The promoter was able to fill the date by changing the venue to a nightclub in Estepona, a couple hours away, which was fine as far as that went. But we received many online “say-it-ain’t-so” messages from fans, some even sending photos of their tickets. I answered every one and did my best to get the word out, but it was an awkward situation. I hope that someday we can make it to Granada.

Sala X in Seville was a lot of fun. This was our first time in the city, but there were many familiar faces in the audience, people we knew from Madrid and Italy and as far away as Germany. It was good to see them all. We had a good crowd, and I hope we made some new fans and friends.

As I’m writing this we are pulling into Estepona, a wealthy enclave on the Mediterranean shore. The sea looks blue and lovely through the van window. I’m going to close the notebook now and put on my sunglasses.

(To be continued.)

Photo by Cristina DeVille Photography.

Tasting Blood and Seeing Stars

We have only eight copies left of Delta Moon’s CD Black Cat Oil. I’ve talked with Steven Goff, the head of Red Parlor Records, our American label for that 2012 release, and we’re not going to press any more. Of course, the album will live on in digital form, through downloads and streaming.

I’m glad it’s finally selling out. The reviews were good, but not everyone was a fan of Black Cat Oil. The band experimented with some different recording techniques, looking for a darker sound. When we turned in the album, Steven Goff thought it was way too dark, yet to his credit he still put it out. Even Mark Johnson said, “You’ve got to admit, your songwriting changed after you had cancer.”

Well, perhaps it did. That sort of thing will leave a mark. In October 2009 I came off an extraordinarily miserable flight from Copenhagen to Atlanta and went straight into the hospital to undergo emergency surgery for colon cancer. Just a few weeks later I was back on stage, sitting on a stool and wearing a plastic bag. Within a year I was able to get rid of both. Then the cancer came back. I checked into the hospital for a total colectomy the same day my friend Charles Wolff went into hospice with pancreatic cancer. The last thing he said to me was, “I hope I see you again.” Not long after that, twenty pounds lighter and with a belly full of staples, I played “I’ll Fly Away” on a dulcimer at Charles’s memorial service.

That was the time of Black Cat Oil. Maybe the songs did come out dark, although I tried to pack into the lyrics every ray of hope and sunshine I could clutch at. It’s an album of fighting, not whining —but of sometimes “tasting blood and seeing stars.”

Last summer at the Kitchener Blues Festival in Ontario I met a woman with her head wrapped in a kerchief. She was going through chemotherapy for breast cancer.  She told me that one thing that had helped her get through the experience was listening to Delta Moon’s Black Cat Oil. She said, “There’s something about that album that really speaks to me.”

I said, “You know, I was on chemo when I wrote a lot of those songs.”

“I can believe that,” she said. “Thank you for doing it.”

And that’s what it’s all about, right there. A musician’s life has many rewards, not all of them financial. We make our music and send it out into the world and rarely know how it may touch the lives of others. But every now and then, when we do hear back, it is both fulfilling and humbling.

Christmas Time in New Orleans

Hi Everyone,

Mark here. Although I usually let my guitar do my talking, I wanted to tell you about a song I wrote that Delta Moon has just recorded and released. It’s called “Christmas Time in New Orleans”.

The song was inspired by a trip I took with my wife many years ago to New Orleans. It was really cold and actually snowed on Christmas Eve. We house-sat all weekend In The French Quarter for a woman who ran the Congo Square Stage at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. I remember sitting around a wood burning stove trying to stay warm, listening to WWOZ on the radio and looking up at all these photos of famous musicians on the walls. We went to parties and shows with friends all weekend wearing Mardi Gras masks.  It was snowing and all the oaks in City Park twinkled with thousands of Christmas lights. Christmas time in New Orleans.

It’s our first recording with Adam Goodhue on drums, a man who knows a thang or two about New Orleans drumming!

An early holiday gift. I hope you like it.


Artwork by Susan Archie.

“Christmas Time in New Orleans” recording session photo by Adam Goodhue.


One Week in Canada

Thursday, July 10 – Having driven from Atlanta to Toledo, Ohio, the day before, with all the right papers and the right answers we crossed the border at Windsor with no trouble at all. The London Music Club in London, Ontario, is a venue Delta Moon has played a few times now. We have a good following there. We saw lots of familiar, friendly faces and a few new ones too. Thanks to Brian Mortimer and Karma Productions for booking another great show. Zack Albetta, on drums with us this week, did an outstanding job. After the show it was smiles all around.

Later Mark, Franher and I walked downtown to find a snack. We blundered right into a family of skunks clawing through some garbage bags on the sidewalk. They never looked up, but we fled across the street in panic. At a bar that we were able to find just minutes before closing, we asked the bartender if skunks were common there. She said, “They’re pretty popular.” I said in Atlanta we had raccoons and possums. She said, “We have raccoons. We have possums, too, but they’re not as popular.”

Friday, July 11 – We had breakfast at the Covent Garden Market in London, a large indoor market with booths containing restaurants, fruits and vegetables, a bakery, a butcher, dessert shops and lots more. Mark and Franher got Thai, Zack bought a Greek pastry and I hit the New Delhi Deli. We reconvened to eat together at a table by the coffee shop and then dispersed to stock up with provisions for the road. Every city should have a market like this.

Angelyn Smolders, the co-owner who booked us in Paddy Flaherty’s in Sarnia, is a force of nature and a dear friend of Delta Moon. She and the staff of the club went out of their way to make us feel at home. They had planned an outdoor show, but a purple sky and a tornado warning forced us inside. We remembered with dread a tiny shoebox stage, but they had enlarged it and put in a new PA too. This was a fun night.

Saturday, July 12 – We played four shows in two days at the Kitchener Blues Festival. The first was the biggest, on the Clock Tower Stage in Victoria Park. The festival had shut down the night before for the tornado warning, though someone told us the actual tornado was 300 kilometers away. At any rate, by Saturday evening everybody was ready to rock, and even more so at our second show of the night in the remodeled bar of the Walper Hotel. “This place is too clean now,” a woman told me. “You need to swamp it up.” There was no stage and the people were right in our faces, even throwing their arms around us and yelling in our ears while we were playing. Spilled beer might have contributed to the swampiness, but that all got mopped up pretty quickly. The evening ended with a conga line snaking through the venue as we shook and banged percussion and our friend Dave Tree Man blatted away on his tuba. Kudos to our limo driver, Alan, who got us from place to place on time and in one piece.

Sunday, July 13 – We had a 3:00 show at the Boathouse, sharing the stage with the Tarbox Ramblers. I have listened to Michael Tarbox’s records for many years, and he was familiar with Delta Moon, but we had never met until 15 minutes before our show together. We swapped songs back and forth, as rhythm section members took turns on and off stage. I missed Franher’s bass backing vocals on a few songs, but other than that the show was big fun. Good things happen when all the musicians are on the same wavelength. Our second show was on the same stage later that night, when we followed a powerful set by our Atlanta buddy Michelle Malone to close out the festival. Our friends Rob Deyman and Silvia Dee from the Water Street Band joined us on guitar and accordion for a few songs. They sounded fantastic, and I love that Silvia’s shoes always match her accordion. It was a good ending for a great festival.

Monday, July 14 – We had a wonderful time in Canada. Now back to the madness.

We felt the tension immediately as we drove up to the US border. We’d never before seen border agents going through the trunk of every car. We have re-entered the US many times and thought we knew how to prepare and give the right answers. I never expected the agent at our gate to raise his voice and bark at me. He slapped a sticker on our windshield and told me to drive over to the building. There were so many people being questioned that we had to wait a long time just to get into the waiting room. The border agents seemed overworked and frazzled. The people in the red plastic chairs were stressed and miserable. When a small girl followed her father into the room, beaming, it was as if clouds had parted. I realized it was the first time in two hours I had seen anyone smile. Over all this, from a frame on the wall, our President glowered with knit brows and chin thrust out, as if to say, “You’re fired.” From America!

The border agents have an important job to do. I respect that and respect them for doing it. But Delta Moon has visited ten different countries so far this year, and the only place we’ve been treated rudely and made to feel like criminals was our own native land.

Finally, after the agents and their dog had searched our van, they determined there was no reason to deny us entry or to send us to jail. They released us into the wilds of Detroit.

At a gas station in Ohio we heard an employee brazenly use to N-word to a cop in pointing out some kids who had littered in the parking lot. We didn’t stick around.

It was after 4:00 in the morning by the time we reached Atlanta, with Franher at the wheel.

I said, “Good job, Franher.”

Franher said, “Good job, everybody.”

(Photos by Zack Albetta.)


Lake Como to Luxembourg

(This is Part Three of the journal of this summer’s European tour. Here are Part One and Part Two.)

July 25 – Today was our only real day off this whole tour — no travel, no show. I spent most of the day exploring the eastern side of Lake Como. It’s a beautiful place, with mostly local residents there and not too many tourists. A commuter railroad connects the little towns and stretches on to Milan. In Bellano I visited a waterfall called L’Orrido, or The Horrid, and climbed a hillside high above the town. Here are a couple of my tourist photos:

Mark told me about an iPhone app called Health that measures how many steps you’ve taken, how many flights you’ve climbed and how far you’ve walked in a day. That night mine showed 70 flights. But Mark, who got up early to take an extra hike, logged nearly 100.

July 26 – The Blues River Festival was held in a pasture near the Adda River. In the best Italian tradition, the food was given as much importance as the music. There was a large tent set up with tables where everyone could have dinner and visit with each other. A big kitchen area off to one side, behind a counter, was the scene of lots of activity and laughter. Once it got dark everyone moved to the stage area and the band played. After our show we drove back to Lake Como. I slept all the way.

July 27 – I met more Americans in one evening in Bellagio than in the whole rest of the tour. Paolo had described Bellagio in Blues as “a busking festival”, and, sure enough, there were solo and duo acts performing here and there throughout the town, on the narrow streets full of gift shops, perfumeries and art galleries. We set up and played on the cobblestones near the ferry dock. There was some dancing in the street, but mostly the audience sat and listened. The ones who listened hardest, we learned after the show, turned out to be other musicians who had come down to hear us after their street-corner sets had ended.

July 28 – Our flight from Milan to Luxembourg was on time and without incident. Thank you, EasyJet. A Blues’N Jazz Rallye shuttle picked us up and brought us to our hotel, where we were to play an informal set in the courtyard to open the festival, starting, we had been told, at 8:00. When we arrived the stage crew was ready and waiting. Even though it was only 7:00 I got the feeling we were late. After dropping our bags in the rooms, we set up and played. Later I saw on a printed schedule that a solo act was billed to perform from 6:00 to 8:00. I’d met the guy and even rode down the elevator with him. But he must have been going for a walk in town, because he never turned up at the stage. Anyway, everything worked out fine. We ignored the clock and played until it felt like time to finish, and then we ended it.

At one point a woman walked down front and shouted, “Play some blues!” We obliged with a few Mississippi and Chicago songs — creditable versions, I thought — but when I looked over she and her friend were gone. I tried not to let it get to me that an expensively dressed European woman, sipping white wine in the courtyard of a five-star hotel in one of the wealthiest cities in the world, should play blues police to a band that in its time has played some of the rattiest holes known to man. But I shouldn’t judge. She may have visited those holes, too.

July 29 – Luxembourg City is over a thousand years old, built on the site of ancient Roman fortifications. The central city, where our hotel was, stands on the edge of a cliff. The old city, where the venue was — someone told us it was originally the workers quarter — is in a deep canyon below. To get from one to the other, you can drive the long way around or just walk a few blocks and ride a large public elevator. The elevator gives a better view.

That night we had a full venue and a good show. I wanted to see some of the band that came on after us — their singer had a silver-sparkle, triple-pickup Danelectro guitar and invited me to sit in — but at this point we were starving. Mark, Franher, Paolo and I made our way to the musician dining area near the foot of the lift and checked our instruments in the “left equipment” tent. A friend of ours, Meena Cryle from Austria, was performing on a stage nearby, and after dinner we were able to catch her last song. Then we rode the lift back to the hotel for a few short hours of sleep before our 4:30 AM lobby call to catch a ride to the airport and start the long journey home.


La Strada

(Part Two of our adventures in Europe this summer. You can read Part One here.)

July 18 – A cousin once told me, “I love being places, but I hate to travel.” Often, in the interest of getting places fast, the sense of being anywhere at all gets sucked out of traveling. But not always. Occasionally we see spectacular moments, as when last spring after taking off from Catania, Sicily, we flew almost directly over Mount Etna, an active volcano with a column of smoke trailing off into the distance. Most of the passengers paid no attention.

In Palencia, Spain, we arose early (for us) and drove a few hours to the Madrid airport, only to find our flight had been delayed. Through the day we watched the screens announce one departure time after another. At one point we had actually lined up to board when the PA announced that our gate had changed. Everyone walked together, maintaining the line, to the new gate.

Delta Moon had purchased seven seats, four for the musicians and three for the guitars. On European flights, where we can’t put guitars in the overhead, it’s cheaper and safer to buy extra seats than to check our instruments underneath.

After arriving in Milan, we drove to Paolo’s hometown on the east shore of Lake Como. Paolo called ahead to make sure the lady at the hotel would wait up for us and that a restaurant would stay open. The day ended with pasta and salad and red wine al fresco by the lakeside. After thirteen hours travel, who could complain?

July 19 – We drove around Lake Como to Tremezzina, on the west — or more touristy — side, for an outdoor gig on the water between a bar and a small art gallery. This was a beautiful spot, and we had a perfect night for it. My borrowed amplifier fell silent halfway through the set, but we plugged my guitar direct into the PA and carried on. The tone was pretty well dialed in before it hit the amp — important when using unfamiliar equipment on the road — and apparently nobody could tell much difference. Paolo’s brother Marco, who has played bass with Mark and me before, was there, along with several other friends and Xeres family members. It felt good to be back in Italy.

July 20 – Piazza Garibaldi in Sondrio is a huge open square in the center of town. When we arrived they had a festival-size stage and PA set up, with lines of red plastic chairs out front. During the show we had plenty of dancers — all under the age of eight. The adults sat in the chairs or stood off to the side. After the show one of the organizers told us, “This was an amazing response tonight, the best we’ve had.” I said, “What do you mean?” He said, “They didn’t leave. Usually people listen to one or two songs and wander off. This audience stayed in their seats.” You take your victories where you find them.

July 21 – We had a long drive into the Alps and through the Mont Blanc tunnel to Saint-Julien-en-Genevois, France, for the Festival Guitare en Scène. There were two adjacent stages, one with a covered area for the audience and one open, and shows alternated from one stage to the other. Ours was the open area, and during our sound check it started to rain. We rolled with a revised schedule and didn’t go on until nearly two hours after the advertised time.

When Amy MacDonald finished her set before a packed crowd in the covered arena, the audience started streaming out. The stage manager told me, “Make some noise with your guitar so people will know there’s something going on over here.” I started noodling, and, sure enough, the wet field started to fill with expectant faces. By the third song we had a good-sized crowd — and an enthusiastic one. Later, after we finished making photos and signing CDs, we walked into the beer tent and were greeted with a protracted standing ovation from the staff. Our crowning moment.

July 22 – Back to Italy and the town of Baveno, on Lake Maggiore, for our part of the Amenoblues Festival. The promoter, Roberto Neri, told us this was the fifth time he had presented Delta Moon. Later we wondered whether that meant he really liked us or if he’d reached his limit. We hope the former. The last time we played Baveno, a few years ago, it poured down rain. Tonight the same thing happened. Still much of the crowd stayed with us.

The other act on the bill was Alejandro Escovedo, whose set we greatly enjoyed. Mark had met him before. In fact, Alejandro once gave Mark a ride home from Eddie’s Attic on his tour bus. Alejandro and his Italian band, aside from being great musicians, are very likable people.

July 23 – Once again we traveled the same road, the third day in a row, this time back to Courmayeur on the Italian shoulder of Mont Blanc, to play on a bill with our friend from Aosta, Max Arrigo. (Max and his band are coming to America later this month.) The venue was small but had a good vibe, and toward the end the crowd got up and things got a little wild. A dog got excited and jumped on the stage with us. After the show Max pulled out a metal Dobro, and we passed it around for a singalong session at the bar. A good ending for this five-day stretch.

(To be continued.)