HIPNIC IV, Big Sur, CA – 5/4-6
HIPNIC was originally situated in the front yard of the Henry Miller Library in Big Sur, California—the festival now takes place down Route One, not far from Miller’s at The Fernwood Resort. In the glen of towering Redwood trees with a beautiful babbling brook running through the campground—the simple stage is adorned with a majestic breathtaking background of California wildlife. This year’s supermoon illuminated the evening portion of the show—and unlike last year, rain was non-existent. Rumors continue to flood in that this venue may have reached its capacity and a new locale is on the front burner—but, for the time being Fernwood has been a haven for Hips community and heaven for camping amongst friends.
In my world view you could draw a line from the fertile crescent of Mesopotamia, the birthplace of civilization (or, where the aliens first landed) nestled between the Tigre and Euphrates straight to Big Sur, California. Humanity marched westward shedding its skin like the primordial serpent of Amazonian lore, reinventing itself, rebirthing lost ideas only to lose them again—in a struggle for emancipation, freedom from oppression and reaching for the stars. When you hit the highlands of Big Sur, with toes curled around the 500 foot drop to aquamarine waves you’ve hit evolutions edge. On the ravenous ridge there is nothing left to do but contemplate the how’s, what’s and why’s of life in the 21st Century. Henry Miller found American consumerism contemptible—but I believe he would have approved of the low-impact nature of HIPNIC.
HIPNIC seems to cap at around 300 adults with a bevy of kids in tow—which is a perfect number of folks to wander around for three days without losing community spirit. Smiles at every corner, hugs and greetings from old friends all sharing Hips Helles and locals who wandered in—are what constitutes the core base of HIPNIC—and of course there’s The Mother Hips. Similar to the legacy of The Allman Brothers and Delanie & Bonnie & Friends—extended family now dominates the line-up of the anticipated annual event.
Tim Bluhm’s wife and go-to gal of the Bay Area music scene, Nicki Bluhm and her band the Gramblers, have an ever growing catalogue of songs that showcase Nicki’s exquisite soul sister voice. Also filling the bill on Saturday were Tim Bluhm and Jackie Greene who call themselves The Skinny Singers—and within this pairing the young mercurial Greene slices open the void with his full-throated bluesy approach and extremely tasty licks on guitar.
On Sunday the festival’s headliners were The Gramblers’ and Tim Bluhm’s incarnation as Brokedown in Bakersfield—which features the dusty cowboy boots and mutual love for Hank/Merle/Willie and Waylon that have informed The Mother Hips from the beginning. Pure country riffs infuse this particular grouping with large props going to Scott Law, a badass picker and welcome addition to the gathering.
And of course, there’s the duet of Tim and Nicki, a modern day June and Johnny Cash—whose onstage love and antics are only second fiddle to the devastating ballads the two churn forth. It was a game of who’s in whose band as members of other Hip aggregations wandered onstage for special guest sets.
A funny aside is that while I was Googling HIPNIC I came across “hypnic jerk” –that is defined as that moment when one awakes from a dream state with a sudden jolt. Apropos to the state of The Mother Hips in 2012—and I hate to be a jerk about it—it’s time for the world to wake up from their torrid nightmares and embrace the commonwealth of a band and family that lives on the edge and loves every moment of it.
Gramblers breakaway guitarist Dave Mulligan is releasing his first solo album (recorded at Tim Bluhm’s and Greene’s extremely busy Mission Bells Studio in the Bernal Heights area of S.F.), alongside upcoming new works by Nicki Bluhm, The Mother Hips and Jackie Greene—this is one family who is too busy to worry about sharing the limelight.
There is much to be said about the burgeoning franchises, but I digress.
As one fan put it, The Mother Hips are the sun and everyone else rotates around them. This musical world perspective still holds true—for the time being—but it’s a weird day that rises and as we all know flat-Earther’s were soon displaced by those with better technology. For example, Nicki Bluhm’s Van Sessions (on YouTube) are impromptu POV viral glimpses of the gal and the Gramblers doing covers of songs while driving on tour. The covers of Madonna, Patsy Cline and Bobby Darin are in the respectable 100s of thousands, but their version of Hall and Oates “I Can’t Go for That,” are in the plus million of hits—which is the largest audience for any of the Bluhm affiliates ventures. Although Tim Bluhm doesn’t appear in all Van Sessions, he certainly is in this one—which leaves me wondering. Is there blowback to The Mother Hips? Do these “side-projects” bring new fans to the source? And, will some unknown novelty factor propel Ms. Bluhm (or any of the extended family) beyond the gravitational pull of the Mother Hips?
Jackie Greene with the Mother Hips
Personally, I don’t care what it takes to get The Mother Hips on the larger stage. With two stunning documentaries available, a hardbound book of photographs of the Hips by the infamous Jay Blakesberg, and a Sierra Nevada beer named after the band—it seems, by any fan’s account, that TV appearances, worldwide tours, the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine and movie soundtracks should be within reach. But it’s proven to be more elusive than just this fan’s late night dreaming. Perhaps, and this is what I believe, The Mother Hips, are America’s greatest secret because of their dogged determinism to not fit in. They have been too busy mining the shaft they found many years ago, harvesting diamonds and other assorted gems, both precious and semi-precious. One day, the world will catch up with this assertion—in the meantime you can only take my word for it.
For the current state of the band, front men Tim Bluhm and Greg Loiacono are craftsmen who have honed a more than impressive catalogue of songs that have lost none of their carb-loaded springboard action since their early CSU dorm days. Bluhm garners much of the press which underscores how crucial Loiacono is to The Mother Hips. I believe it is Loiacono’s even keeled nature that has kept the band afloat through the dry years, and is at the helm when rocks appear in the turbulent waters that border the Ocean of Fame.
Over the years these two have honed a songwriting excellence that is on par with such penultimate songwriting teams as Cesar Rosas/David Hildago, Lennon/McCartney, Jerry Leiber/Mike Stoller and Burt Bacharach/Hal David—adding to the (hidden) treasure trove of classic American music. Loiacono’s steely gaze guides the band from the sideline, and when he gets a chance to shine on songs like “Young Charles Ives” from 2009’s finely chiseled Pacific Dust —the passion can be heard above the monumental groove that crescendos throughout the song like a tsunami crashing into a church.
And if Loiacono is the man behind the man, then drummer John Hofer is the man behind it all, literally. Since joining the band a decade ago Hofer has brought a steady hand—clearly in it for the long run. A drummer’s drummer, Hofer adds inspired flourish to the mainstay—a cool gent driving the core to the furthest point of dissolution then returning to the steady heartbeat that makes the band tick.
It was only a year ago at HIPNIC III that bassist Scott Carter Thunes had a music stand in front of him with the wind and rain turning sheets of notated paper into worthless fluttering debris. His hilarious blog tells insider stories of his time as a Frank Zappa henchman for eight years and the deep longing (if you look beyond the scathing sarcasm) to reconnect with that golden period. Now back in the maw of the Zappa Plays Zappa tour alongside Dweezil, this year’s performance at the HIPNIC, especially on Friday night’s concert, was a jaw dropper, a doozy and an eye-opener to the power and depth of Thune’s skill set. Thune’s thundering bass dominated the show with rock star poses and incredible bass bombs that he unloaded like a man possessed—Thunes is a revelation. He’s a hired hand, a professional ringer—and, if you look at the cover of the ebullient Hips album Shootout —Thunes would be the one doing the shooting, not the one being shot.
And this seems to be the kick in the jaw that The Mother Hips needs right now. The songs are gems, Tim and Greg have never sounded finer and stalwart John Hofer keeps everything steady with a backbeat that is crucial to the Hips machine. Greg and Tim are the heart and soul of The Mother Hips, this cannot be ignored, but they need a fully functioning band to make the monster move—breath alone cannot awake this sleepy-eyed Golem.
Originally, Chico, California based, but now denizens of the world, The Mother Hips have led the way for over two decades influencing bands as diverse as the Infamous Stringdusters (who in a recent interview referred to The Mother Hips as legends and rock stars) to country turbo-charged Waylon Speed. Their recent 20th Anniversary weekend in Chico was a Mother Hip’s wet dream. Bicycle tours led by seminal Hips fan Molly Tuttle—visited all the Hips origin highlights and former crash pad houses with surprise appearances by members of the band and multiple kegs of beer which created a living diorama combining past and present.
On a personal note—I’m a longtime contributor to Jambands.com and an even longer fan of The Mother Hips. Back in 1996 I contributed a healthy swath of Northern California bands to Dean Budnick’s book Jam Bands: North America’s Hottest Groups and amongst them was The Mother Hips. Having come off 500 Dead shows, I knew that The Mother Hips were not a “jamband” per se, but rugged individualists who were pursuing a new sound, carving virgin territory and claiming spaces that were to become musical landmarks—a mixture of John Muir and The Grateful Dead—troubadours for a new era, a time that is still being defined, revolutionized and understood.
DNA is a stand-up comic living in Santa Cruz, CA.
