Anchorage (Anguish), Alaska, The Bear Tooth Theatre, June 23

The guy sitting next to me on the outbound flight from Minneapolis asked if I was going to Alaska for pleasure or business. I said pleasure and then, feeling undeserving of such a great travel opportunity, quickly changed my mind. “Sounds like work to me,” he said. “No, it sounds like the pure joy of making music,” I said, adding (my guilt rising) “but somebody's got to do it.”

Roughly 10 hours later, eight souls and 27 pieces of luggage arrived in Anchorage. Our collective stomach told us it was feeding time. My first taste of Alaska after checking into the hotel was a 12 oz. King Salmon steak cooked on a cedar plank, a beer and a picture window view of Cook Inlet, the Anchorage Port to the right and the Alaskan Mountain range on the horizon. I felt like I had been caught in a lie.

Wes, our driver, tour guide and provisioner was the real thing: short in physical stature, long in hair, big in voice, a hippy smile in his eyes, full of stories, jokes, always giving the impression that he was enjoying the moment, a likable eccentric, a man of his time, a Homeroid.

Wes was from Homer, 250 miles from Anchorage along the Kenai Peninsula, and a proud member of the Homer Hemp Movement Committee. I have to mention him because he was a road angel, someone who is there for you whether you need him or not in faraway places. Thanks Wes. “Just doing my job,” he would say.

Mike and I rented bikes the next morning and rode along a paved coastal pathway for 20 miles on the forest bluffs overlooking the water. It was a big, blue sky day and the pathway was gorgeous lined with daisies with a new view of the inlet at every winding turn. I figured the harder I peddled the more Alaskan air I'd have to take in, the better I'd feel. Alaska Tourism should have a slogan that reads: “Come to Alaska and Breathe.” We stopped at the Earthquake Park where a kiosk informed visitors that on Good Friday, 1964, an earthquake measuring close to eight, originating offshore with the shifting of the tectonic plates, ripped along the inlet and piled into Anchorage causing massive devastation, rearranging the shoreline and, miraculously killing only nine people.

The midnight sun can be disorienting and the b-side, of course, is a long spell of darkness during the winter which the locals didn't seem to want to talk about. A young couple from Portland, Oregon, standing in line for last-minute seating at our sold out show were disappointed upon being told they'd have to stay in line until the show started at 10pm. The sun felt like 5pm, it was quarter to 10.

However, they might have waited longer if Pete hadn't called on Margo in her hotel room. She had slept through her wake up call. She told the audience that evening about how when Pete kicked the door down she looked out the window, panicked and yelled at him to help her pack for the flight she had to catch (the next morning!). Disoriented?

It was the first show after the break and we were pumped. The fans were great and deserved the show they got. I think there must be a higher law that says the audience gets back what it gives. We sensitive musician types just reflect the energy in the house. For the encore we played a hard rocking, up tempo version of I Saw Your Shoes, followed by Sweet Jane. It was a great pleasure, and I wasn't the only one who felt good about the show. I think the band is finally getting comfortable with the new guy, but not too comfortable.

Anchorage is an asphalt parking lot in the middle of some of the most gorgeous scenery on the planet. It's an unlikely place for a parking lot. It's as if they built the parking lot and then forget why. Most people just park here and then leave, but some stay.

After the show, behind the club, a few of us took a turn on Mike Allen's customized chopper bicycle. It had the seat that Mike and I thought we might invent after being probed for 20 miles on our coastal bike ride, very comfortable. The thing is we were spinning around in the parking lot at 1:00am under the midnight sun which looked like dusk.

Met an American cousin for the first time. He had been living here for a number of years. He “jams with his pen.” He drew impressions of our music -- song for song -- fluid images and patterns populated by fish and bird creatures that only those who dare to look can see. Where some families are genetically disposed towards violence, or idiocy, or academic brilliance, I think my family is prone towards jamming. We jam anyway we can, and that's a good thing, yes?

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Juneau, Alaska, Marlintini's Lounge, June 24

Juneau is the capitol of Alaska. Population: 80,000. It may also be a spaceship base. It is remote. It is protected by darkness most months of the year. It is protected by the US military bases throughout Alaska. It is protected buy its inaccessibility by land. And, if you've ever looked directly into the eyes of a Juneau fan after one of our shows, you'd believe there are aliens among us as well.

Picture a bush plane flying down a narrow valley. It banks to the right for optimum turning room and then makes a hard 180 degree turn to the left so that it is now flying up the valley and descending towards the runway. Now substitute that bush plane maneuver with the Air Alaska jet that we happened to be arriving on. “Welcome to Juneau! If the scenery doesn't take your breath away, the landing will.” Everyone here arrives by air or sea. You can't drive here.

It was still early when we arrived, a clear day with a temperature of 65 F, and so we opted for a tour with Ethan, the promoter, before checking in. He took us to a glacier 15 minutes outside of town. It was huge, extending 30 miles back up into the mountains. From the look out, a quarter mile from the receding edge, the edge (which occasionally breaks off and falls into the glacial lake) appeared to be 20 to 30 feet tall. Ethan, who moved here as a kid, said these ice towers were more like 200 feet tall. Perspective is so much easier when everything around you is built to human scale. Ethan also pointed out that in the last 30 years this glacier has melted at an accelerated rate due the global warming, not a great moment for us global warmers, but just a blink of the eye in the lifetime of a glacier.

Most of the folks I met were not from here. They were just visiting and decided to stay. They like the isolation, but are extremely happy the rare time a band like the Junkies comes to town.

The venue was a low ceiling bar and a smoker. As seems to be the pattern where there is no assigned seating, the hard core fans get in early and stake out their rightful place at the front of the stage. These are the people who know how to listen to a Junkie show, who are aware that we can get quiet, if not downright moody. They provide us with an oasis of calm around the stage, a sort of bulwark against the noisy rabble on the periphery of the room.

One of the highlights of the Juneau show was Pete's jazzy style of drumming on the groovy jamming songs like Dragging Hooks. But the ultimate highlight for me was when Margo re-established her need for a little respect (if not for herself, then for the band and the fans who wanted to listen), which puts her in a class head and shoulders above most singers, including many of the so called “divas,” who will wail for anyone.

We were going into the acoustic section of the set, which is essentially “a moment with Margo Timmins,” when Margo asked for quite and explained that it is so much easier to make these songs work when the room is cooperative.

When that didn't seem to have any effect on the rabble on the periphery, she explained that their cooperation for “just three short songs” would show respect for those who want to listen.

When that didn't work she explained that this would be a sort of intimate/interactive part of the evening: “You give us your attention and we'll give you the best darn acoustic section that we can, and then we'll rock, okay?

When that didn't work she said: “Let me make it clear what I'm asking. I would like you to SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

A great cheer, this time from the front of the house, and then silence. Alaska had been warned. I was proud of my little sister, the road warrior.

Three songs later – Angel Mine, You're Missing and Floorboard Blues – we were rocking again and the bar was doing a brisk business.

Back to the hotel. 9:30am wake up call. On to Fairbanks.

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Fairbanks, Alaska, The Blue Loon, June 25

“I think we've come too far north.”

--Alan Anton, bassist, Cowboy Junkies, upon being told that there is no downtown in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Our visit to Fairbanks was brief. We landed at 5:00pm. We were on stage by 9:00pm, and back at the airport the next morning by 8:30am.

It was a great pleasure to play for the crowd at the Blue Loon. No finer a bunch of party animals could possibly be found anywhere north of that god forsaken latitude.

The Blue Loon was a cross between Fort Apache, a backwoods cooking shack and a hippy commune. It was surrounded on one side by a dusty parking lot and a stockade

enclosure on the other side where the covered stage was set up. Inside was a bar and a dance floor with a glitter ball inside. I got a really true sense of the spirit of the place by reading the slogans on the T-shirts in the concession stand: “DON'T SMOKE (bad) POT,” or “Taste My Nuts” (advertising a roasted nut concession in Fairbanks), or “Eat My Poo and Die” (not sure what they were advertising). And, of course, there were all sorts of slogans to do with wives, mothers, sisters, girlfriends and cats.

There were all sorts of characters in that enclosure, or should I say there was a lot of character at the Blue Loon. University of Alaska students, smoke jumpers, hippies, guys wearing Mohawks, stunningly beautiful mountain women who could snap you like a twig and an old man who looked like Dick Cheney. They exuded a frontier style of self confidence. They were comfortable in their own skin. And regardless of the shape and location of their tattoos they all seemed to be vibing together, all except Dick.

The only people missing were the bikers. Something tells me they would have been welcome and would have fit in very well.

It was a great night for Junkie music - the vibe was good. It didn't matter (except to Dick) if the show was on the loose and wild side, which made it a joy to play. All was forgiven as long as we gave her. They treated us well at the Blue Loon and I will not forget them.

Fairbanks is the tree house high in a corner of your backyard where the neighbors can't see what goes on. It was built by someone else, for someone else, long before you moved in. It's real woodsy, but it's not for everyone, especially the elderly and the lame of heart and soul, because it's difficult to get up here.

I hope we get back to Alaska. There's magic here, and the air is good.