High Notes At Low Tide
The story behind this album goes a little something like this: I’m beachcombing my way south of Monterey toward Big Sur—wild ocean, spooky surf, especially to a Montana landlubber whose imagination is fueled for warp-ten hallucinogenic speed. Because I’ve just experienced three exhilarating days at the Monterey Cowboy Poetry & Music Festival where audiences celebrated, with great revel, the symphonic jump-’n’- kick lingo I live for, the a cappella rock-’n’-rowel jagged-on-the-right flying formations of words known as the poem. I likely shared the stage with maestro singer-songwriter-player-performers such as Ian Tyson, Tom Russell and Andrew Hardin, David Wilkie and Denise Withnell of Cowboy Celtic, Don Edwards, Rich O’Brien, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott or a dozen others of similar stature. Do you understand now why my spirit is rocketing? I’m a poet who has just rubbed melodious shoulders with kinfolk musicians! The morning after, I figured it all another reposado 100% pure blue agave dream, until I squinted into the mirror on the wall at the foot of the bed and came face-to-startling-face with Tom Waits! I shook my throbbin’ noggin, glanced again, and this time there’s Bruce Springsteen! Then Willie! Emmylou! Leonard Cohen! Lucinda Williams! John Prine! Haggard! Cash! Zevon! Van Zandt! Zappa! Eminem…WHOA!

Suddenly my phantasmagorical enchantment transmogrified to fright. I stumbled to the window, threw open the drapes and found myself—thank goodness for semi-sobriety—greeted by a glorious sunny morning over Monterey Bay.

Which brings me back to the story: I'm beachcombing in my cowboy boots when a pointed toe, gouging deeper than any huarache sandal, flip-flop, or Nike cross-trainer has ever before gouged, hooks the silver spout of—yup, you guessed it—a magic lamp. Having heard every genie joke ever told, I knew the drill. Heavens to Betsy! I proclaimed, as she appeared, all aria, alacrity, and ardor—pure virtuoso soul—out of the thick silvery billows of smoke. How Many? I impatiently asked. Only one, she apologized, offering up that old saw about the wish warehouse always running a skosh low come December. Good enough, I responded without a single pause for ponder, then let’s write songs together—record an album, turn this little world on to your otherworldly talents. She sang a sea chantey while she danced in the sand and then, against my wishes, pitched into the deep Pacific blue my only proof of this tale, the silver lamp, where Betsy Bell Hagar’s music had been hidden away for decades. [more]

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CD front cover, design by Aaron Hagar.

© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.