CHRIS KOZA

From Saguaros to Snowfall

2/1/2012: Rogue Valley

El Centro: 77 degrees. Yuma: 78 degrees.

The dream of San Diego faded with every rotation of the tires on the Town and Country. Leaving the ocean behind is like giving back the finest gift to a giver who already has everything. We maintained a solid 79 mph through California and the desert en route to Phoenix, where we were set to play that night.

“The Rhythm Room,” written in a jolly script on a big sign planted near the street adjacent to an empty parking lot identified a building that otherwise looked vacant. We rapped on the door and waited for signs of life, which only took a few moments.

Inside, the venue was pretty classic. 8x10 black and white head shots of blues singers from another generation lined the walls. We set up our gear and after soundcheck, I chatted with the handful of friends and their friends trickling in while the rest of the band left to get tacos. The opener had canceled the day before so we were the only act. We could have used some local support, but we performed the best we knew how for the folks that made the trip.

Phoenix: 72 degrees. Tuba City: 44 degrees. Moab 40 degrees. Grand Junction: 34 degrees.

The next morning, we rose early to catch the saddest continental breakfast I’ve ever seen: six bagels, two chocolate muffins, and half a pot of room temperature coffee. Out of sheer negligence, this defeats the Capri Suns and Pop Tarts we once experienced. Yes, they were serious.

We bolted from Phoenix, covering nearly 575 miles and a 40 degree temperature difference. We drove through Arizona, past the Grand Canyon and Four Corners; some of the better flying saucer sighting spots in the southwest. Utah was a vast wilderness. When we finally arrived in Grand Junction we drove straight to the venue, discovering an open blues jam going on until 10:15pm. We were the 10:30pm show, billed on their dry-erase board as “Rouge Valley Blues.” The misspelling as “Rouge” is common enough, but the “Blues” tacked on the end… All you can do is laugh.

One thing I try hard never to do is judge anything about a pending performance in advance. Whether it’s an ornate theater or a husk with a makeshift stage. I don’t make assumptions based on the sign out front, the marquee, the bouncer, the clientele, the beer prices, the staff, or the other bands playing. The way I see it, I am a guest in someone else’s home, and I want to do right. We ended up having a jolly old time that night, and although we didn’t play blues, we powered through a double-long set, aided by a generous bartender, and afterwards met several unique, forthcoming, and good-humored folks.

The container of ibuprofen was in hot demand the next morning. We called in for late check out and treaded gingerly once on the road, keeping volumes and speed lower than on other days. Heading towards Denver, the temperature continued to fall, hovering around 36 degrees once we emerged from the winding, snow-speckled Rocky Mountains. We sat down in a coffee shop near the venue and were promptly warned by a young lap-topper there, that we were on the verge of a major storm-front. 12-24 inches of snow by the next morning. For all of the good-weather luck we’d cashed in on during this tour, our luck was soon to change.

From 7pm-midnight, Denver went from zero to nearly a foot of snow. Needless to say, this did not improve the attendance at the show. Text messages vibrated my phone, with apologies that the weather was too severe to navigate. Legislature and all schools and universities would be canceled the next day. But we would wake early to dig out the van, spin our wheels, and push on to make our final stops.

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