Blood leads Blood / Ice Burns Body / Seperation in Humans
    How is it that the tongue of a singer can become so fat from the buffet line that it forgets how to sing? That the arm of high school baseball pitcher can become weak with the passing of days? That this Nebraskan boy who moved to Utah to pursue a life of nursing, religion and hope morphed, through circumstance, into a singing, questioning, searching family man with no hands in the hospital or medical field?
And how is it that this said singer can so quickly forget the heartache that is customary with every coming tour, every traveling escapade? Am I that forgetful? Does it sting to the point that the mind chooses to push it from its memory?
I boarded the plane headed to Helsinki with a light heart (probably due to the fact that Finland (and Sweden (mustnât forget Sweden)) has birthed some of my favorite human beings on the planet) and a heavy mind (due to the fact that I would miss the moment of many events that involve my loving heart beats). Oliver and Millie were asleep when I kissed their foreheads, sitting strapped to childrenâs chairs that had been firmly anchored to the seatbelts of our car. They looked like angels, celestial guardians of the pure emotion that seems to slip from my insides the longer I am alive. Can it be bottled? Maintained? Groomed? BOUGHT even? (god forbid).
As if in a dream, the billion pound piece of aerodynamic metal bounced from the surface of our planet, spitting me and the other participants, in what some might call a âfunny experimentâ, into the atmosphere, pretending that it should be accepted as RULE of TRUTH (the act of flying), oh! but we all know itâs a matter of time before the MAGIC GOLDEN BIRD comes back down to the surface. I just feel fortunate that our fate was that of a smooth landing, proof of a well-trained pilot and his / her steady hands (Oh, the terrible thought of the alternative).
We arrived safely to Finland, embracing our family of years, at this point. The reunion with Mika, Ninni, Helmi, Jari, Anne, Laura, Mikko, and all of the other WONDERSOME human beings that we have had the pleasure of knowing was like returning home after dying, a reincarnation of oneâs slightly absent / missing soul, rejuvenated and now beaming with the power of a light that could burst the core of your being into bolts.
The shows were met with such acceptance that my mind raised the question of âwhy there, not here?â An answer, I have not.
FRIENDS PLAY MUSICS TOGETHER in JUTTUTUPA
From Helsinki we flew to Sweden to embrace BjĂśrn and take his radically equipped Sprinter van across the Swedish lands in pursuit of a MUSICAL connection in four locations. At the airport, we met up with Timmy The Teeth and my little brother, Colby, who just so happened to have broken his wrist three weeks prior, forcing him to take a leave of absence from his day-to-day job and allowing him to travel with the boys and I across Sweden.
All was right in my mind / world (close to it anyhow).
We drove immediately to Falkenberg, which was a good distance. We met up with Benjamin, who, because of financial restrictions, took the place of our beloved Isaac, the bad boy of bass. Our new Finnish friend quickly hopped inside our hearts and van, making his way across the country in a musical âchoo-choo trainâ.
Our last stop in Sweden was in a town called Avesta. Seemingly quaint and low key, this town, and her accompanying musical experience, that we will never forget, made quite the impact on our memories. The show was inside of a teepee that was located at what appeared to be a hotel / resort-style location. The welcoming was amazing by these kind kind people / friends and we sang and danced into the night. Nothing was spared, no bar to destroy, no building to burn, merely a line to line to line to line conduit. Me to You to Him to Her and on and on. I could have sung all night that night but âthe travelers must catch their flightâ I whispered. We left Avesta and Sweden with a VERY lightly rehearsed version of an old Everly Brothers song, âBye Bye Loveâ
Which then sent us to a hazy, foggy and seemingly long drive (yes, immediately after the said show) to Stockholm where we would head to Ăkäslompolo, Finland to play the Yllas Jazz & Blues Festival. We arrived at the airport hotel at 3:37 am, the bus to the airport left at 5:30am.
Time for sleep.
The aircraft, miraculously arrived safely to a small airport outside of Ăkäslompolo, where our friend and racecar driver Jari was patiently waiting. With licorice in hand and smile on face we embraced. âIt is too good to see you again.â He said.
No heart? No life!
Jari raced us (Evan, Colby (my brother) and I) to the festival where we were scheduled to play in one hour. We pulled up, dragged our frigid frames and frozen guitars onto stage, tuned and started singingâŚ
âBack when I was 18, life gave me nothing but a sweet sweet kissâŚâ
The room was silent, the search for a human touch and feel was tangible.
I felt at home, I felt uplifted and inspired.
We had come to connect, we had arrived to sing.
They had come to reflect, and arrived to feel.
âWeâre winningâŚâ Evan remarked.
The show ended as quickly as it had started and we were off. I felt lighter, quicker and hinged on the hope that the night would be like the day. I was radically wrong in the hope.
After dinner Colby and I, with our stealth friend and driver, Jari headed to the festivalâs night show. It was âThe filthy sixâ to play and a Finnish band, Miljoonasade. As the band began to play we were offered a floor that seemed to beckon us, ask our names, and demand a movement of feet. I became lost, disoriented and elated. I had once been a child, careless, free of stigma and expectation, ignorant to social status and body image. There have been moments since those years that I have been able to catch a glimpse of the boy / child that I once was. This magical night was just that. I moved to a rhythm that I had forgotten, a call that I was unaware would become a stranger, a shadow, a memory. That movement of ones body so unpredictable and unaware was addictive, we couldnât stop (wouldnât). Then the music stopped, the lights on. It was a quick walk back. It was late. We slept.
The next day was our final show in Ăkäslompolo. Illka, the man behind the curtain that has brought us to Yllas twice had set up a show for us at his pub, Sylva Pyy, and we were to be the second to last band of the festival. We were just happy to be a part of the experience and it felt almost like robbery that we would be able to sing twice.
That morning, at breakfast, we saw Illka.
âGood morning, boys. Would you like to do Sauna tonight, before your gig?
â..YES! of course.â Evan quickly responded.
âGood. It will be hole in the ice tonight. See you then.â
Hole in the ice? What the HEAVEN is âhole in the iceâ My mind began to race through the possible ways of dying for thin man such as myself, and after some time I arrived at the thought that one of the worst ways to end your existence would be to freeze to death. And what else could happen, but that, if dipping ones self into a hole in the ice?
This seemed absolutely insane / mad / destructive even.
On we went.
We arrived at the small house that appeared as a cottage to the unaware. Outside of the house, stretching about 50 feet was a iced over wooden bridge that led to a staircase, these stairs led the walker into a black hold of icy liquid. It appeared that this house / cottage was a form of torturing something / someone, for what else could such a bridge be used for. It was a plank to walk, to water, to death.
We entered the house, and as the custom goes, removed our clothes and entered the 125-degree sauna room with 9 other participants in the âhole in the iceâ adventure. As we all sat there, 14 of us, naked, staring at the steaming stove that fed the sauna with heat, you could feel the anxiety rise.
âAs it is Finnish custom to Sauna, so is to drink shitty VODKA while in sauna!â a large naked man said raising a glass bottle of what I could only assume was sight / nerve destroying liquid that eased the mind / heart of anyone that was to jump into a hole in the ice.
The faces began to calm as the bottle was passed around the hot room. You could feel the tension dropping, until it happened, three of them, stood and left the sauna and walked to the plank, and then three more, and then it was us, our turn to walk the plank. I forced my body up and out of the sauna. I opened the door, the sub-zero air hit me with force of a falling pine tree, needles to my skin, system confusion.
As the man before me walked himself into the icy water I ran, quickly, through my recent experiences. I had a good one, life that is, if this WAS the end, then I was ok.
Take me, you dark demon of earth, you icy hand of doom, I am yours.
I walked down the ladder and plunged my body into the hole in the ice. The sensation was unlike anything I had ever felt. Maybe itâs like dying, maybe itâs like heaven, maybe itâs like both. It canât be described as painful, or pleasant, but maybe the word is âAWARINGâ.
After leaving the water I walked the icy trail back to the house, outside I stood and stared at the sky, letting whatever indescribable feeling paralyze my thought and mind, sending me into the universe that exists ONLY there, only then, that moment, LIVING it, BEING it, and it was PERFECT.
Three more times we entered sauna, cooked our bodies and returned to the black hole of water. We bid our adieus to the group of gents that were there with us and felt a strange kinship to all those that had survived. We then headed to Sylva Pyy, where we would play our final show of the tour.
The crowd was seated and the stage was small, my body and mind seemed to misplace everything that it had memorized up until that point. The sauna and hole in the ice was racing, albeit slowly, through my periphery, but my hands and mouth couldnât find the right combination to begin singing, truly, a feeling I had never experienced. The show was to start and the sound guy gave us the thumbs up. I looked at Evan, as a child looks to its mother after rising from a night tremor. The show began. The show ended. The only evidence I have of playing that night is a recording of a song that Jari made and sent to me days after arriving back to the United States. I hardly recall exact events from the rest of the evening. Everything seems to fall into a cabinet of red and orange clouds, small faces, dancing, words, phrases, laughter, all will peak up over the hazy top, but sink quickly back into the fog and settle inside of the stormâs eye.
What a journey we are on.
OH! What a trip it is.
Joshua
