Ice Castle Imaginings

Ice Castles. Photo: Mark FoxThis water, frozen yet shape shifting in time, transforms into anything you want it to be. It is dangerous, sensual, magical, psychedelic, opulent, gruesome, cold, hard, melting, warm. The longer you look, feel into it, the more it becomes.

I enter through the thick archway, shards of hanging icicles dangle over my head, glass glistening, calling me deeper into its mystery. It becomes a place where I lose myself for hours, watching the clouds sift over Buffalo Mountain and darken this man-made ice castle in Silverthorne, Colorado. Shadows shift among the nine towers of 20-foot ice columns, which will continue to grow throughout the season, until they stand 40 to 50 feet high by April, leaning into one another and forming tunnels through their deep turquoise colors. Until then, I witness streaks of thin cloud mist play in perpendicular shapes with upper icicles reaching to form ceilings — and eventually caves — and I look up to the icicle-dotted sky and spin around, until I’m dizzy with diamonds.

Then, I regain footing as my boots sink into the 2-3-inch depth of ice cubes as castle co-creator Brent Christensen explains how he and his crew manually pick or jackhammer the few inches of ice buildup throughout the castle’s walkways every day. Each night, as they enlarge the nine towers by funneling more water out of 90 sprinkler heads spouting out of PVC piping that measures about a mile in length as it coils through the acre-sized castle, the overspill freezes on the pathway. They chop the walls back 2-3 inches a day, but, eventually, the castle will become a matrix of tunnels without daylight shining through, so it will feel like you’re in the middle of a glacier, within a honeycomb of eight entrances and exits, surrounded by glossy, layered ice patterns feathered, flocked and daggered upon one another.

“It’s not to where you’ll get lost, but you may feel like it,” Christensen said.

Christensen and his partner, Ryan Davis, have never constructed a castle of this magnitude, but they’ve built two in their hometown of Midway, Utah (just on the backside of Deer Valley). Christensen began playing with the idea, building ice forts with his kids, a few years ago and he got hooked. He started with a wooden structure that became a springtime mess to clean up, which led him to PVC pipes.

On the outer edge of the Silverthorne castle lies an extensive “ice farm,” where employees harvest 3,000-5,000 icicles every 24 hours. Every night, they step into crampons, squeeze into the belly of the towers, climb icy “stairs” and meticulously place long, thick icicles, first horizontally, building structural hangers on which to hang vertical icicles. The horizontal ice pieces literally become scaffolding, able to support someone after about a day, Davis said. As water softly spouts out of the 90 sprinkler heads, it fuses with the horizontal and vertical icicles, creating strong tower walls, which eventually will morph into the ice-castle cave.

The castle opened Dec. 8, and as of mid-December, Christensen was working 12-16 hour days (or more accurately, nights, due to unseasonable warm weather), and his team had placed about 65,000 individually farmed icicles and used 2 million gallons of town water.

Ice Castles. Photo: Mark Fox

At night, 100 white lights, frozen in the towers, illuminate the natural colors within the formations. The thicker the ice, the more aquamarine the color. While the pure light brings a crispness to some of the columns, highlighting the swirls in long, thin posts, reminiscent of barbershop poles stripped of color, other configurations take on eerie, nether-world appearances: suddenly, it seems as though hoards of bloated jellyfish encapsulate the towers, their long tentacles hanging loosely down the 20-foot rises, and surrounding the perimeter of the “castle,” ghostly ships sit frozen, their masts dripping with icicles that threaten to unleash themselves in a fury if a stranger dares set foot upon this haunted territory. In the land of the living, two five-year-old boys stay up past their bedtime, wielding frozen swords they pilfered from the icicle farm.

I hear muffled voices in another passageway as I lean back against a wavy wall, surprised at how it feels like a muscular being, only more solid. I begin to rub my trapezius muscle against one of its protruding, icy spines as it penetrates my coat, relaxing my body.

As I listen to the droplets of water tinkle down windows of the caverns, it’s impossible to think this grand structure will sink into the ground. But I know nothing remains frozen in time, especially not a kaleidoscope of turquoise — a fantastical temporal world, living and evolving.

INFO

Castle hours: Noon to 8 p.m. Monday through Thursday, noon to 9 p.m. Friday, 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. Saturday and noon to 7 p.m. Sunday

Admission: Adults $10, 12 and younger $7.50 (under 3, free), adult season pass, $30, family season pass $50 (includes 2 adults; add $10 for each child 18 and younger) www.icecastles.com

From the time Kimberly Nicoletti first stepped onto the frozen swamp in her backyard with double-bladed ice skates at age two, she has been fascinated with all things ice and snow, even though she abhors cold weather. As an ex-competitive skater, she doesn’t think the 1978 version of “Ice Castles” is cheesy and might just have to buy a bumpersticker that says, “I love ice castles” from the guys who have created this ice castle in Silverthorne. She lives and writes professionally in Summit County, Colo.

Greensky Bluegrass Becomes Bearish on the Green Room

Greensky Bluegrass
Greensky Bluegrass

Greensky Bluegrass brings all the grit and attitude of a whiskey-soaked card game to its bluegrass-spiked-with-rock-‘n’-roll sound. The Michigan crew has been carting its dobro, banjo, guitar, bass and mandolin around the country for 11 years and counting, but the guys didn’t get bearish on green rooms until a gig in Crested Butte.

Aside from the usual terror anyone would face driving over Red Mountain Pass in a van towing a trailer amidst a storm that dumped three feet of snow — the worst part being they survived but couldn’t ski it due to their demanding tour schedule — Greensky Bluegrass got an unexpected dose of Colorado’s wild nature once they reached their venue.

After a killer first set at The Eldo, the boys headed down to the ground-level green room “to do everything you think bands do at set break,” said dobro player Anders Beck.

Twenty minutes later, the band sauntered toward the door with beers and instruments in hand — none of which could immediately help them with what they encountered next.

Seems a black bear wanted in on the green-room action.

Banjo player Mike Bont was the first to open the door and realize he was “literally face to face with a very large black bear — who wanted to come in for tequila shots, I assume,” Beck said. “Though the bear looked about as freaked out as us at the moment, you’ve probably never seen Greensky Bluegrass move so quickly in one direction. Drinks spilled, instruments clanked together in strange dissonant harmonies and the door slammed shut — quickly.”

But the bear wasn’t shushed away easily; the boys had to conjure up a heap of noise, and to this day they’re pretty sure it was the banjo that ultimately made the curious bear scuttle down the river path so the musicians could head upstairs and continue the show.

“I don’t remember what we played that night, but I certainly remember that set break,” Beck said. “(It was) the biggest bear we had ever seen, and it was pretty damn scary.”

Kimberly Nicoletti hasn’t encountered a bear in her yard since 2004, but her otherwise intelligent American Eskimo ran up to the moose that frequented her yard this May. Needless to say, human intervention was required when the moose lowered its antlers in response to the barking dog, and she could’ve really used a banjo. While not busy protecting her two little dogs from moose and coyotes, Kimberly acts as the A&E editor at the Summit Daily News.

Life on the Road: Run-ins with Peace Officers and Real Mountain Cops

Not everyone can pull off “Fire on the Mountain,” be it in sound or action. Peace Officer learned its lesson from real mountain cops.

Not long after the hip-hop/reggae/dub crew formed in 2007, the artists stretched beyond their socially conscious vocab by playing with fire.

After a gig in Estes Park with a guest trumpet player, the Fort Collins-based crew proceeded to its comped resort suite. Around 3 a.m., they noticed the trumpet player and his young, loud pal had disappeared, something that relieved more than worried them — until the fire alarm went off.

“The player and his friend ran into our room with terrified looks on their faces, which were also covered in a gray powder,” said MC, guitarist and self-proclaimed nice guy Andy Kromarek.

Seems they set off the fire extinguisher, not thinking it would trigger an alarm (and apparently not considering consequences of the thick powder that would cover the entire hallway, either).

“Not a good scene,” nice-and-innocent guy said. “It looked like smoke in the air, and with the alarm going off and it being 3:30 or so, the other guests in the place were starting to freak out.”

What exactly does a cozy mountain retreat scene gone bad look like?

One scared-out-of-his-wits, fire-extinguisher-curious pal who erupts into tears and admits he’s only 17, so please, no one tell his mother — to which the Peace Officers replied, “We won’t, if you won’t tell her where you got the beer”.

One pissed-off mom of said 17-year-old in her pajamas (that’s all the description you want on this one) screaming she’s suing the resort because she tweaked her ankle in the mad rush to fresh mountain air,

One Honda with a trumpet in the back, squealing outta Estes as fast as it could, and

Just about every cop in Estes on site. (They may not have seen this much action since Stephen King insisted the second and more true-to-his book version of “The Shining” be filmed at the Stanley Hotel).

“At this point, things looked dire for the band, and with a few policemen striding toward us, we didn’t know what to expect,” Kromarek said. “Turns out they were amused by the whole thing — I guess Estes Park is generally a pretty boring place for a cop.” Still, the stickler cops wanted the name of the trumpet player. When the musicians claimed they didn’t know (“it was 4 a.m., and we were drunk, so that seemed like a good idea,” the MC said), the cops threatened them with paying for every guests’ hotel room — as well as the by-now-decidedly broken ankle in PJs. So they ratted their horn player out (once, not twice, for the Mountain Gazette world to read).

It seems cops come pre-cut with the urge to always get the last word in before letting young people loose; they are the smart-ass sages of safety. For me, it started at age 16 when I raced my neighbor-boy home (launching my parent’s Oldsmobile over a huge bump in the middle of a bridge, which resulted in a very large dent in the bottom of the gas tank). The cop who pulled me over left me with the resounding words: “Remember, a car is not a toy.” About a decade later, a Dillon, Colo., police officer pulled me over after I rolled through a stop sign (after, uh, speeding). When I told him I didn’t have my driver’s license on me because I was going skiing, he said, “Do you have your ski pass?” — to which I enthusiastically replied affirmatively and whipped it out, hoping it would give him the necessary clue he needed to confirm my nice-girl identity.

“You need a ski pass to ski, right?” he asked, looking me deeply in the eyes. I nodded. “Well, you need a driver’s license to drive.”

Needless to say, I missed that powder morning.

So what did the Estes Park cops leave the Peace Officers with?

“You know, you guys aren’t Led Zeppelin. You probably shouldn’t go around trashing hotels just yet.”

Though Westword magazine just nominated the crew the best hip-hop in Denver and Peace Officer is playing larger festivals like Soul Rebel Festival in Denver and venues like Boulder’s Fox Theater these days, they’re not singing, or playing with, Fire on the Mountain.

To catch Peace Officers, sans alarms, in the next two months, check out Star Bar in Park City, Utah Aug. 18 or Snake River Saloon in Keystone, Colo., Sept. 9-10. 

Kimberly Nicoletti is the entertainment editor for the Summit Daily News. She lives in Silverthorne, Colo. 

Rednecks Everywhere

These guys speak fluent redneck — the Honey Island Swamp Band.

Honey Island Swamp Band claims its Bayou Americana makes you smarter, thinner and better looking — but frontman Aaron Wilkinson also admits to being a fifth-generation North Florida redneck.

The musicians have traveled from their home base in New Orleans throughout the West to play in such fine establishments as The Goat Soup & Whiskey in Keystone and Whiskey Jacques in Ketchum, Idaho; this Fourth of July, the band, voted Best Roots Rock Artist in OffBeat’s 2010 Best of the Beat Awards, hits the Waterfront Blues Festival in Portland, Ore.

Wilkinson wasn’t sure what to expect when the band began touring Colorado’s mountain towns, even though now, after years of traveling, they’re all beginning to blur together, he said.

“First time I’d ever really seen mountains, so I was all wide-eyed and full of wonder,” Wilkinson said. “Guess I kind of had an idealistic vision of what it would be like, nature and all.”

About six years ago, he and his crew followed a Telluride-area local to “secret” hot springs back in the hills.

“The city slickers in the band were huffing pretty heavy,” he said about the hike, which was a piece a cake for the locals. “You’re not prepared for that thin air, and we don’t exactly lead the healthiest lifestyles anyway. But after about an hour and a half of stopping every 50 yards so that my 55-year-old emphysemic drummer didn’t keel over and die, we come upon the spot.”

Situated at the bottom of a rocky bluff, it was gorgeous, just as advertised. Only problem: It wasn’t so secret; a rather portly man soaked in the pool with his cluster of kids — and at least a case of empty, crushed Busch cans beside him.

“He had on this bright red bandanna and a pair of those heinous reflective Oakley Blades,” Wilkinson said. “He’s all, ‘Come on in and join us,’ and we probably would have, given what we went through to get there.”

Just as the band was about to join the pool party, a train appeared on the ridge across the river, and the 6’6” man stood up, hollering and flipping off the train.

“Turns out, he’s butt-ass naked,” Wilkinson said. “Proud of it too. With his kids right there in the pool with him. Giving that train all he’s got and all God ever gave him.

“Needless to say, we didn’t join him, but then and there I realized something: Florida, Louisiana, Colorado — there are rednecks everywhere in this world, God bless ’em.”

Kimberly Nicoletti is the entertainment editor for the Summit Daily News. She lives in Silverthorne, Colo.

Hip-Hop Grandma Doles Out Sex Advice

Being the road-traveling warrior he is, MURS, who’s played Breckenridge and other mountain towns this season, thought he had seen it all — until he met Denver’s hip-hop mom a few years ago.

MURS

He showed up for a gig, only to hear minutes later, “MURS — Your mom’s here, and she brought food.” He ignored it, sayin’ his mama was in South Central, but the announcements continued. “Someone’s mom is here.” Finally, the band checked it out, only to find a short, white, middle-aged grandmother who had stormed onto the tour bus, homemade pecan pie in hand.

“I’m the hip-hop mom,” she proclaimed. “I just thought I’d bring you some food, made with fresh herbs I cut from my garden.”

“I was so nervous to eat the food — I was thinking, ‘Who are you? Who does this? Are you gonna poison us?’ but I was so hungry, and it was so good,” MURS said.

And the encounter didn’t end with an innocent piece of pie. A few months later, she barged backstage at the Fillmore to lecture MURS, De La Soul and a couple other hip-hop artists on some different pieces of pie.

“I know you guys have no idea how to [have sex] — you think just because you have big penises you know how to [have sex],” she said.

After clearly getting the boys’ attention, she hit ’em with a freestyle rap.

“It just flowed out of her,” MURS said. “She just emasculated the black male.”

Apparently, she was just revving up.

“It went over the top; there was some descriptions,” MURS said. “But she said she was only trying to help the women of Colorado we’re gonna sleep with.”

Taking a turn into detainment

After touring Western mountain towns, MURS headed back east, but took a wrong turn into Canada, by way of a Niagara Falls detour. MURS had invited a friend on the road trip and let him drive, with a firm instruction: “Do not cross the border. I have horror stories about crossing the border.” Despite the warning, his friend accidentally took the bridge of no return. As he made a U-turn, America’s finest Border Patrol stood, waiting to greet them. Patrol didn’t care about the band getting lost; they immediately pulled all eight people out of the van, pairing them up with one armed guard per person.

Apparently, responding to the request to fill out required paperwork with, “I don’t have to fill out shit because I didn’t go anywhere” doesn’t go a long way with border cops. They detained the men for three hours. Actually, the guys may have gotten away with the smart-ass remark, if the cops hadn’t found a ski mask and fake gun when they started searching the van. Seems the DJ thought the props made a funny skit on stage — but not so much on the border. From there, it got worse:

“One of the guys on the road with us was a felon, so he wasn’t allowed to cross into Canada. (The patrol) searched the van and asked if there’s weed in there,” MURS said, “And he said, ‘Of course there’s weed, and I’m the felon with the weed.’”

As MURS tells it, the cops finally let them go, saying, “Just get the fuck out of here.” Luckily, patrol never discovered the machete stashed near the side of the van; they probably wouldn’t have bought the story that MURS was just trying to be a good citizen. But, it’s true: During a break at their previous gig, they found a machete next to a beer in the back alley.

“We threw the beer out, but we didn’t think it was smart to let a guy who was drinking go around with a machete,” MURS said.

Naw, it’s a much more solid plan to transport the machete across the border.

Kimberly Nicoletti is the entertainment editor for the Summit Daily News. She lives in Silverthorne, Colo.

Mayor McCheese, and mountain culture, missing

Leftover Salmon sans Mayor McCheese.

Leftover Salmon’s iconic Mayor McCheese has been missing since the new millennium went double digits: The 40-pound, three-foot-tall plastic figure disappeared on New Year’s Eve 2009/10 when Colorado’s self-described “Polyethnic Cajun Slamgrass” musicians played at The Ogden in Denver.

Since the early 1990s, LOS toured with the McDonald’s playground figure, originally liberated from a Denver chain in the 1980s and granted custodial care to Leftover Salmon when a friend moved from Crested Butte. Audiences would work the cheeseburger head up to orbital warp speeds as its sesame-seed bun surfed mountain crowds far and wide.

Leftover Salmon fans regularly “stole” the Mayor, then returned it once they had their way with it — and the band had its way with the pranksters.

After one woman posed with the head — riding it naked — the musicians photocopied her picture with the caption, “Have you seen this cheeseburger?” and hung it on every telephone poll within a half-mile radius of their gig. (Luckily, she had the good sense to put a bag over her own head before straddling the infamous noggin).

Another gig gag in Washington led to a ransom note demanding 500 pounds of feed corn for the wide-grinning mascot. The corn worshippers ceremoniously returned the Mayor in full splendor, with a 30-piece marching band ushering him in. Little did the bar owner know that Leftover Salmon members made good on their end by passing out plentiful corn feed to the crowd, who expected the Mayor’s return that night. As the marching band came in, corn began a flyin’.

“It looked like a beehive for the next half hour in the room,” said Leftover Salmon front man Vince Herman. “We never played that venue again. They were a little pissed.”

The Mayor’s latest disappearance is perhaps symbolic of the changes Herman sees in mountain towns altogether: the vanishing of true ski-bum traditions.

“The early 1990s made a festering ski culture in Crested Butte,” Herman says as he recalls a 1990 boisterous gig at the Eldorado. “People were psyched to be on the mountain, the town was fun and cheap, and people slam danced. The faster the bluegrass, people went nuts because of what the ski towns were in the 1990s … they were really connected to each other; club owners were really tight, as the locals were. If we were starting the band today, I don’t think we could have that strong physical response. Now the mountains are populated by a different kind of ski bum. They have to have more jobs, they can’t buy a house — ski corporations are mainstream and not allowing the delicious divergence that once was … there’s a little less personality being brewed out there. We’re all becoming a little more white bread.”

And though Leftover Salmon hasn’t received ransom or any communication from the Mayor McCheese kidnappers, and the musicians “fear the worst” for their cheesy friend, Herman still maintains hope, for both the Mayor and ski town culture.

“I think the rowdiness of ski towns is ready to happen again because of the fall of the real estate market,” he said. “Mountain towns are where young people went to retire, and I think they can be again.”

River rats and ski bums alike can catch Leftover Salmon, most likely sans McCheese, June 12 at State Bridge near Bond, Colo. The band is playing at the Grand Re-opening party of the New State Bridge Amphitheatre (which officially opens May 28), after a fire destroyed the property in 2007.

Kimberly Nicoletti is the entertainment editor for the Summit Daily News. She lives in Silverthorne, CO.

Life on the Mountain Music Road

Sharone Digitale

High-altitude sexification
The music world is full of stories about band members always getting laid — the allure of the fantasy has compelled many a young teen to pick up a guitar and spend hours strumming strings, only to later end up stroking his own instrument alone in his bedroom. But even musicians face sticky situations with the world of sexual magnetism; sometimes when they’re desperate for it — and feeling pretty confident –— they don’t get it, and other times, when they don’t want it, it comes on just a little too strong.

Sharone Digitale, an electro-pop, trip-hop group that dubs its sound as “baby makin’ music,” wasn’t so keen on the sex scene in its hometown of Nashville, Tenn.

Yes, I know, Life on the Mountain Music Road focuses on the strange and weird in high-elevation towns, but the (very loose) tie-in is, Sharone Digitale just rolled through Vail and Breckenridge on a national tour, and the artists were relieved to come home without any crazy stories for a change.

Writer Sharon Lang prides herself on penning music akin to rose petals strewn upon silky bedroom sheets that make listeners feel smooth, extravagant and sexy. But one night, her sound got a little too luscious for her to handle.

After a Nashville show, an apparent swinger couple told the band members that their music “made them so horny that they just wanted to smoke bowls and make out with us the whole time. Us, meaning, they wanted to basically take the whole band back to their place and ‘sexify’ us, as they so gracefully put it,” Lang said. “It was quite a hysterical moment in which we had to respectfully decline the offer, but it nonetheless added some interesting zing to the evening!”

Afro-Zep

If only that happened to Afro-Zep
Afro-Zep drummer Marshall Greenhouse never got so lucky — in fact, quite the opposite, especially when he first played in Breckenridge (at the dark underbelly on Main Street formerly known as Sherpa & Yeti’s) 10 years ago with his Chicago collective of musicians who mash Led Zep classics with the grooves of Afrobeat and Afropop.

Greenhouse claims he’s “not really that coordinated (although somehow drumming comes easy to me),” so when he decided to try snowboarding the day of the show, it “ended in obvious results,” namely, three front flips through slushy snow, resulting in a separated shoulder.

“That night, the band played a pretty awful acoustic set, while I sat at the bar on tons of Vicodin and took advantage of the discounted booze,” Greenhouse said.

Though he doesn’t remember much more about the trip, one painful image remains burned in his mind: Being Unable to take his clothes off himself. He said, “Luckily Chris’ girlfriend at the time had a bunch of really hot friends that came on tour with us.”

“I remember going in a hot tub later that night thinking I was going to get lucky with this girl I met in Frisco the night before, but when I asked her to pull my pants off to get in, she kinda stayed far away from me the rest of the night.”

And in the end, he says never learned his lesson. This time around in Breckenridge, he’s snowboarding in-between his Breck and Vail shows.

“I’m gonna beat the mountain this time,” he said.

No word on how he’s gonna get laid, but I bet Lang has some silky sounds he can slip into his Afro-Zep beats.

Next issue: Leftover Salmon’s Vince Herman muses on ski towns and bums of the past — and pleas to get Mayor McCheese back, for god’s sake!

Life on the Mountain Music Road

Playing chicken
Split Lip Rayfield, a “thrash-grass trio,” quickly learned that taking a live bantam hen from their farm in Kansas to mountain-town gigs ranging from Vail and Steamboat Springs to Jackson Hole and Utah resorts wasn’t such a good idea after all.

They originally thought the chicken might drum up T-shirt and CD sales during their aggressive acoustic bluegrass gigs. It sounded logical: Take a hen from mom’s farm, place it on a grid with hundreds of numbers, install chicken wire around the contraption, and sell tickets so fans could bet on which number the chicken would shit. Call it “chicken-drop bingo,” and it’s just like Cow-pie Bingo or Hillbilly Bingo — though we’ve never heard of cows or hillbillies cooped up on a number grid, with people watching and waiting for them to dump a big one.

“We were looking for something fun for the crowd,” said banjo player Eric Mardif. “But some people have never seen a live chicken before, and they’d freak out and want to touch it … people just wanted to constantly fuck with the chicken, like a kid banging on the glass of a fish tank.”

Luckily for Henrietta the hen, the boys in the band felt quite protective of her, but their compassion wasn’t the only reason they returned her to mom’s farm.

After carting her around in their van for two weeks, they discovered chickens are messy: They smell up a van much worse than touring musicians do (which is saying a mouthful), and they kick their water and woodchips all over the place (unlike the musicians, who normally just spill their beer on the van floor).

“It was fun, but traveling with a live chicken sucks,” Mardif said.

BINGO!

A Blue Ribbon night
Bay-area rapper Lyrics Born is used to crazy incidents in mountain towns; his signature funk sound, which, with his new album leans toward a more ’80s vibe, has brought him coast to coast, with plenty of high-elevation stops in-between, including Breckenridge, Durango, Telluride, Steamboat Springs, Vail and Flagstaff just last month.

“I don’t know if it’s the cold or the people who come up to party — maybe it’s so cold everybody tries to get excited to stay warm,” he said of the peculiarities he regularly experiences during mountain shows.

But one particular gig in Montana really sticks with him. He was playing for a Pabst Blue Ribbon-sponsored event — a beer he thinks is the “worst in the world.” Apparently, the hip-hop fans weren’t too attached to their brews either. Lyrics Born’s concert turned into a scene out of “Animal House.”

“The crowd started chanting with the song I was playing, and suddenly everybody started throwing PBRs all over each other,” he said. “All I saw were these red, white and blue cans, and they only were one size: big and cheap,” he said. “It was so much fun because it was so wild.”

The only downside:
“But it was disgusting,” he said. “My shoes (forever) smelled like PBR.” Stale PBR, that is.

Life on the Mountain Music Road

Drunken encounters of the psychedelic kind

It’s no newsfl ash that musicians put up with their share of drunken patrons. But it gets a little trippy when hallucinogens are involved.

Springdale Quartet, a band out of Boulder, overlays its upbeat funk with progressive rock. It’s no surprise the outfi t attracts people seeking God via acid as it plays the likes of Breckenridge’s three20south, Steamboat’s Old Town Pub and Avon’s Agave. Organ grinder Chase Terzian coined the term “Junkblock” to describe the band’s jazz, funk, blues and rock infusion, inspired by musicians ranging from Medeski, Martin & Wood and Jimi Hendrix to The New Mastersounds and Phish.

A few months ago, the band played at Mishawaka Amphitheatre, north of Fort Collins, and a gentleman who initially looked as though he may or may not have been of the psychedelic persuasion decided to crash the stage.

“He started meditating while we played, which in itself is cool, but it got a little scary,” vocalist Jordan Roos said.

What began as an eyes-closed, facetoward- the-sky, held-hands-in-prayer vertical stance turned into a horizontal nightmare for the spiritual stage-seeker.

“As security managed to make their way through and get him, all hell broke loose,” Roos recalls. “The next thing I remember was this kid on the ground with security on top of him, with Good Gravy’s mandolin (a very delicate instrument) below them. There was a signifi – cant struggle, and the kid was eventually handcuffed (just with zip ties) and passed from on stage down to the crowd below. I am pretty sure the people below who were being handed the kid did not have a good hold, and the kid went face fi rst into the ground with his hands tied behind his back. We later found out the kid had eaten a ton of acid.”

Will work for hookah

It’s happening everywhere: Writers are giving their prose away for dimes on Amazon, actors are busing more tables and musicians are turning into hookah whores.

Brittany Shane realizes we’re in a recession, which might explain why she performed at the Juggling Gypsy in North Carolina during her summer tour in exchange for something that just went up in smoke. That’s right: She actually agreed to sing for one hookah and three fl avors. (After all, how could she resist such tantalizing fl avors as Circus Madness, Body Massage and Sex with a Hippie?)

Shane, who introduces herself as a singer-songwriter like she’s in an old Western — squinting her eyes from the bright sun and looking as though she’s about to jump back onto her dusty horse after a long day of fi ghting cowboy crime — began playing her catchy rock, pop and alt-country tunes throughout the nation last year. Her storytelling and strong vocals smack of Stevie Nicks and Sheryl Crow. Though she’s played the big cities, from Chicago to Austin and Memphis, she’s seen her fair share of that treasured form of barter our mountain towns are so famous for (you know, help a buddy move, get a bag of weed; trade a quartz crystal (or a couple Percocet) for a sandwich). But in her mountainous journeys for gigs in Coeur d’Alene and Sandpoint, Idaho, to Whitefi sh, Mont.; Breckenridge and Carbondale, Colo.; and Santa Fe, N.M., she never encountered such a smokin’ deal.

The hookah bar owner, who happens to look like Ron Jeremy, was completely stoned, so the band members only saw him once before they took the stage.

“He went into his office, which was filled with smoke, and never came back out. It looked like he stepped into another dimension, or into the doorway that Kelly LeBrock stepped out of in the ’80s movie ‘Weird Science,’” Shane said.

After the set, the band gathered ’round for its free hookah to celebrate with a few flavored puffs.

“We couldn’t decide if this was cool and different or just plain dumb,” Shane said. “I just wanted the owner to open his door and walk out as Kelly LeBrock.”

Life on the Mountain Music Road continues in future issues with unbeckoned nudity, middle-aged hip-hop moms doling out unbidden sex advice, stupid mountain ascents and more.