A Night In The Life

This is a memoir I wrote after a New Year’s Eve gig in 1998. I was ensconced in Dutch Harbor, Alaska at the time, playing in a duo five hours a night, six nights a week at the Grand Aleutian Hotel. Known to the locals as “Unalaska”, we were in Dutch Harbor for three months, and it remains one of my favorite gigs in terms of pure adventure. 

By way of background: Dutch Harbor is the largest fishing port in the US, and one of the largest on the planet… an oasis for bald eagles but an otherwise bare and isolated rock, the last habitable island located near the western end of the Aleutian chain. During “the A season” (January through March), intrepid fishermen from all over the world travel there to make mountains of cash doing some of the most dangerous work there is (The discovery Channel’s Deadliest Catch is filmed there).

These crazy/courageous souls battle the worst the Bering Sea can throw at them for 3-4 weeks at a time, working shifts around the clock until the boat’s hold is full of fish, then steam into Dutch Harbor for a few days of R&R while the boat unloads its treasure and prepares for the next voyage. Take it from me, these men are the baddest of bad-asses, and when they finally make shore with their pockets full of money, they’re looking to party!

A Night in the Life
January 1, 1999

The cold winds of Alaska danced cheerfully against the parka drawn tightly around my head as my friend and I were riding in the back of a pickup truck, crossing what’s simply called “the bridge to the other side”. It was 4:30 in the morning, but here in Dutch Harbor the sun would not be rising for another six hours—the night was young.

We had just left The Elbow Room, widely reputed to be the rowdiest bar in America. My companion had earlier handed me his axe, and had gone on to blow *such* fine harp that night! And I had strapped on his beautiful Jackson electric, chugged a healthy shot of whiskey, and within the tight confines of the stage, closed my eyes and looked toward Heaven for some juice.

I wailed away, eventually finding those small, invisible places on the neck where the inner voice of a guitar hides. The feel of those six strings against my calloused fingers (as familiar as the face I see in the mirror every day)—another language I have the honor of speaking. A flash of funk, a well-amped bit of musical erudition, hours slip away, and before we know it — it’s over.

The lights blink off and on and off and on again, and the bouncer bellows the hour. The crowded, boisterous room of locals and fishermen come up to slap the musicians on the back (kissing the pretty lead singer), and filter out into the night, crunching through the snow to their cabins, trailers and hotel rooms lining the waters of Margaret’s Bay, howling and throwing snowballs at the moon.

My friend and I were smoking cigars, kicked back behind the cab of the pickup to avoid the wind as we motored back to our hotel. We sat in silence for a mile or so, each of us watching the night sky turn above us as the truck navigated the quiet streets. “It all comes from there”, I murmured to myself, gazing into the pure black and sparkle of the Alaskan night. Finally, my companion turned to me with a big grin, and said:

“Is this a great life, or what?”

And this is why we play guitar.