The Pacific Northwest continues to rock me. I do my best to rock them back.
Mike McGonigal, above, who is beloved to me, DJed the gig, spinning Gospel, tweaky hip-hop, and other rocking and apocryphal shit. The man is a master.
Look. I’m never leaving the Jupiter Hotel, here in Portland, where I stayed last night. The Doug Fir where Handsome Dan and I played is in the Jupiter Hotel. The grilled cheese with impossibly good thick-cut bacon that I devoured with tomato soup? Yes, the Doug Fir as well. The joint is cheap and cheerful–a converted motel–but impeccably fresh in its design.
I think my next tour will be a two-week stand here; if they want to see me play, they can fly to Oregon. And I’ll wake up every day in my chic room, with the breeze and the smell of the pine trees wafting in, and those astounding Oregon clouds–what is it with the clouds in this part of the country? So beautiful, like, Wagnerian or something–visible through the gauzy curtain.