Low and behold our wayward drummer returned briefly from the far-off frozen north to join us for some truly inspired gigs around Cabarete and Sosúa!
To say they were magical would be an understatement. I haven’t felt this inspired about music in years! David and Randy are not only a dream team rhythm section, but they also add some amazing harmonies to or Island-Rock-Tex-Mex-Caribbilly™ sound.
There is seriously rewarding chemistry between us that speaks of great things yet to come. https://www.reverbnation.com/bajatikitribe
Come see us this Tuesday, July 30, 2019, at Parada Tipica El Choco for the apertivo (free appetizers and dance session) from 5-7 pm.
A Note to Friends and Loved Ones from the Caribbean
For any of our fellow tropicalian denizens of the trop-rock and Parrothead circuits out there who may have wondered where we’d gotten off to in a “whatever happened to…?” sort of way, here’s a detailed account.
After spending nearly two years living in the Southwestern region of Louisiana on the East Texas border as a writer and online entrepreneur, we moved to the Dominican Republic.
The trop-rock scene of Punta Gorda Florida and even Key West had dried up. It had become increasingly difficult to land gigs as increasing numbers of karaoke-playback-acts grabbed up all the bookings. This development rendered the traditional troubadour with an acoustic guitar and a clutch of songs obsolete and suddenly anachronistic.
The last straw was when Melinda and I were strolling the nearby beach walk and heard a very full-sounding group up at the club that looked out over Charlotte Harbor bay. On closer inspection, the “group” turned out to be four characters singing harmonies to a karaoke backup accompaniment. I’d been trying for a long time to get a booking at that club and suddenly realized why I couldn’t get in.
I was playing my usual gig at TT’s Tiki Bar on Charlotte Harbor when I overheard some clown commenting about how acoustic guitar music: “sounds like ‘Unplugged’ from the ’90s.” As if playing the acoustic guitar would ever somehow be epochally-constrained or era-dependent.
Somehow this wannabe hipster thought that a voice accompanied by an acoustic guitar without the embellishment of karaoke-esque backing tracks was an ancient “outdated” form rather than a pure what you see is what you get minimalistic rendition. That did it for me. No self-respecting musician worth their weight in guzzled rum and lost weekends should ever have to suffer that level of techno-gadgetry-addled ignorance and lack of awareness!
A few other similar incidents sealed the deal. I was getting a lot of booking offers from out west. I decided to pursue those instead of trudging along fighting what had become an increasingly losing battle against technology and the corporate bottom line in Florida.
We bought an RV and hit the road west to Lake Charles, Louisiana. Perched on the border of East Texas, Lake Charles offered a good centrally-based location with New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and Lafayette out to the east and Beaumont, Kemah, Port Arthur, Port Neches, and Galveston, Texas to the southwest.
For a while, I was able to do quite well with bookings all around the region and even managed to form a highly talented band: Renn Loren & the Honky Tonk Surf Riders. I also booked frequently as a duo with my pedal steel player Johnny Briggs. There were many solo dates at trop-rock clubs in Beaumont and the Port Neches River. But little by little, we began to be pushed out by the sudden deluge of Cajun artists, bands, and music. Friends of friends who would only book their friends slowly edged us out. I decided to focus on journalistic writing and quit trying to fight for live music bookings.
My girlfriend Melinda (Irie Island Girl) and I had been living in Kershaw’s Cajun Village, an RV park out on the rural edge of Lake Charles, Louisiana. Owner Rodney is a nephew of the legendary musical Kershaw family: Sammy and Doug Kershaw.
Rodney with uncle Doug at Loggerheads, Lake Charles
When I moved into the camp, it gave him a great excuse to work on his accordion playing and singing. Rodney was pretty good at both.
Living there was much like one might imagine living in a gypsy caravan to be. The camp sits bounded by lush green trees, brush, bushes, and grasses. A tributary of the Calcasieu River ran along the western edge of the camp. The huge well-used dancehall auditorium sat 100 yards across a brilliantly green grass field at the southern end bordered by East Prien Lake Road. Chennault International Airport lay one and a half miles to the east. The sound of the bird chasing scattershot could be heard blasting out of the speakers in the darkness of the crack of dawn. The Mexican Gulf was 30-35 miles to our south as the crow flew. The wetlands and channels began much closer to us.
Although the lots and roads were a blindingly bright white gravel, there was abundant greenery, flora, and patches, strips, and fields of grass around it all. The often pounding driving rains would disappear quickly, draining through the gravel. Even after the most torrential downpours, there would only be a few milky-white puddles left on the roads and gravel areas – small rivulets streaming away down drainage culverts about camp. Enough water remained in some of the drainage ditches that algae grew and tadpoles of various frogs developed. Water beetles helped the tadpoles keep a check on any wrigglers.
The terrain was flat as a billiard table, but the skies were ever-changing and often ablaze with orange, coral, pink, and other fiery hues. Many of the evening and morning skies were otherworldly in their sun-dappled beauty.
On many evenings there were gatherings around campfires with drinks and music flowing. I would strum my acoustic guitar and Rodney would join on his Cajun accordion. Everyone would sing or clap along into the early just after sunset hours of the evening.
We enjoyed our fellow campers. Many were having tough times. But they never seemed to lose their sense of humor in spite of it all, and I found that inspirational. Because of Rodney’s sense of humanity and generosity, there was an exceptional and unique feeling in the camp. One knew one was amongst friends. And Rodney himself was one of the best of them.
Rodney would frequently invite Melinda and I to the Cajun dances at the massive dancehall that was part of the camp. There was always a good band, tasty jambalaya, grilled chicken, and rice and beans – along with beer, coffee, and sodas. Sometimes there were crawfish feasts. It was an oddly unlikely combination of strange and fun. The Cajuns are a very clannish lot and tend to stick together. There was often the sensation of being on the outside looking in—while still somehow being a part of it. Rodney and his friends were warm and inclusive. It was always a kick to watch Rodney dance with the various ladies and take part in the multiple raffles.
Some of my fondest recollections of those times were when Melinda and I would meet Rodney out by a large old weathered, jeans-polished tree trunk. We would sit there on the silver-white log and eat the cheeseburgers we would sometimes buy for us all.
We’d talk about camp, Rod’s plans for it, the constant peaceful battle with the beavers and their dams, his work crews, disputes and histories of the other campers, my latest writing assignments, and music. Sometimes I would have my ukulele or guitar and strum a bit. But very rarely would I do that. By that time, I’d eased entirely and totally out of music to focus more exclusively on my then-new writing career.
And though Rodney thoroughly respected and honored that, I also knew that he thought I was somehow out of my mind for having quit music. I figured he was likely right about that and agreed to at least back him on guitar and vocals for any gigs that he may wish to do. So whenever Rodney played, I would back him up. I loved those East Texas gigs with Rodney.
One gig-free evening I went to the Blue Dog Cafe. Melinda and I were having some drinks, reveling in the cool of an early eve the first week of March. Brad Goins, the chief editor of Lagniappe Magazine, was also there having drinks with his wife, Nydia.
Goins had written a review of my album for the magazine.
Lagniappe is the most-read printed publication in the region. I noticed Brad was drinking something similar to my drink and decided to strike up a conversation. It quickly drifted to music. We got into a bracingly good discussion about all manner of pivotal rock, folk, and country artists: old and new.
Brad mentioned something about my having a seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of music. I asked if there was an opening for an obsessive music journalist at Lagniappe. He handed me his card and told me to give him a call or an email.
My pedal steel guitarist Johnny Briggs and I were playing the Blue Dog Cafe, Luna’s courtyard stage and in the main club itself. We also played out at an enjoyable restaurant and bar called Junction 171, a fun golf club cafe, and at Rita’s Landing on Big Lake out south of town. Additionally, we had a couple of gigs at the hardcore honky-tonk that was Mary’s Lounge. They were fun gigs, and we even had the band along at the golf club and a couple of other clubs. We played in Galveston too. We left the Blue Dog Cafe after a run-in over volume (which the house controlled) with the manager. It was sad because we had enjoyed playing there. It paid well and the crowds were large and appreciative.
I had a lot of gigs out in East Texas: mainly in Kemah at Tom’s Smokehouse and another tiki bar, Tia Juanita’s Fish Camp and other clubs in Beaumont, and the Port Neches River Wheelhouse. Johnny and I played a few dates at Loggerheads with our band. We also played Rikenjaks Brew Pub. Both venues were Cajun hipster joints, and soon the inevitable local heroes of Cajun music edged us out. As such, gigs rapidly dried up.
A few weeks went by, and I suddenly found Brad’s card in a shirt pocket. I wrote an email asking if there was any writing I could do for him and Lagniappe. To my surprise and great pleasure, he had an idea he wanted to run by me. A day or two later, he wrote back with an offer that I write a column about the upcoming artists who were scheduled to play at the Golden Nugget casino. Of course, I was thrilled and started right away.
The column was called Big Name Spotlight. I wrote about Willie Nelson, Jewel, America, and interviewing Harry Wayne Casey: KC of the Sunshine Band for my first few columns. They were a hit with the readers, so I was signed up and went on to cover many other significant artists, town events, and human interest stories. I even got to do a cover story about Stephen Staples, the owner of the legendary vintage guitar shop in New Orleans.
I loved my writing job and was able to drop out of music entirely. Dropping out of music freed me to devote full focus to literary and journalistic writing – which I did with wildly fanatic enthusiasm.
Although I had officially quit music, I was still playing occasionally at our friend Susan’s Tia Juanita’s Fish Camp Restaurant. I also had sporadic bookings at Luna’s outdoor courtyard. One night it was around 105°F, and Johnny nearly passed out. His shirt, wringing wet with perspiration, was likely the only thing that saved him from doing so. I felt terrible for him.
Ah, those were the days.
A new mean spirited and divisive political climate had seized America, and the nation just became way too weird. I couldn’t stand all the division, hate, hostility, confusion, and chaos that only seemed to be increasing with each month.
Some odd racially-tinged moments and incidents were happening a little too often around town. I began to feel a ubiquitous Us vs. Them tension.
Even so, thanks to great friends and supporters such as Sunny Jim White, “Key West Chris” Rehm, Donny Brewer, and Jerry Diaz, I went on to play some very significant and prestigious events such as the Six String Songwriters Festival in New Orleans. Booked initially at Margaritaville, it ended up being held at the Tropical Isle club because Margaritaville’s lease had lapsed. Soon after, I was invited by Jerry Diaz to play the annual massively attended, highly coveted Meeting of the Minds Parrothead gathering in Key West.
I joined Jerry Diaz for a few more sit-in dates as well as a couple with Donnie Brewer at Port Neches River Wheelhouse (where I frequently played) and Austin, Texas.
I also made one last monumental recording with the massively legendary producer Bill Halverson at Yellow Dog Studios in Wimberley, Texas.
For the uninitiated: Bill Halverson is the producer behind the recordings of such stellar artists as Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young, America, Eric Clapton & Cream, Jimi Hendrix, Bill Withers, Stephen Stills, the Beach Boys, REO Speedwagon, Neil Young, Tom Jones, David Crosby, Roger McGuinn, Emmylou Harris, Dwight Yoakam, Albert King, Flaco Jimenez, Freddy Fender, Doug Sahm, Augie Meyers, Alvin Lee & Ten Years After, and the Texas Tornadoes. https://www.allmusic.com/artist/bill-halverson-mn0000765611/credits
Although primarily known for his work with roots-rock artists, Halverson also engineered albums by the cutting edge German avant-garde art-synth-rock pioneers Kraftwerk.
I’d first worked with Bill in Nashville back in 1991 or so when I was making the rounds of the major labels and recording studios in the “Music City” pitching songs and looking for a singer-songwriter/artist major-label contract. I’d caught the attention of the labels by way of a demo CD I’d recorded in Phoenix, Arizona—where I was then based.
CD demos weren’t standard or common in 1991, so mine was a prestigiously high-quality professional calling card with a renowned producer no less, and Nashville answered. The producer for my demo CD was the music industry legend and mogul Thomas “Snuff” Garrett.
Garrett helped launch Buddy Holly, founded Liberty Records, connected JJ Cale with Eric Clapton, set up Leon Russell, and produced some of the biggest hits of the ‘70s and ‘80s in pop and country music.
I recorded with Bill at 16th Avenue Studios with 1991’s version of Nashville’s finest. Improbably, the studio was owned by my old high school friend Barry Sanders from my teenage years in California.
The Nashville period was an invaluable lesson about how the music business actually worked—or didn’t, and it laid the groundwork for a non-acrimonious uncontested conflict of interest contract dispute not long after.
My manager-publisher declined an offer from Malcolm Mimms, who was Garth Brooks’ production attorney at the time to buy three of my songs. It was to be a first-time songwriter’s contract which decreased the percentage of publishing rights over 12 years from 99 to 1 percent and that after halving my songwriter’s credit with a 50-50% songwriting credit being given to Brooks upon signing. I was okay with that but understood the problem of the publishing company’s interest in the deal. Nevertheless, I still wanted to make the deal.
The final straw to my management deal was when the same manager rejected a “hired gun” contract with the Eagles to play drums and sing lead and/or harmony vocals on a proposed “Hell Freezes Over” tour.
The story was that Henley and Frey had met skiing in Aspen and decided to get a reunion together with the band. Upon their return to the real world however Henley’s record company Geffen reminded Henley that he had a big hit album out that they were still working at radio. The reunion would have to wait.
My manager was contacted with a proposal that I sing the Henley leads up until such time as Henley was able to join the tour. I was to play drums and sing harmonies if needed when Henley was able to join.
The fact that my demo was produced by Snuff Garrett and that I was working with Bill Halverson and having my songs heard and considered by some pretty big names brought special attention. The fact that I could also play drums while singing lead or harmonies in any key and had a very Don Henley-like timbre to my vocals placed me in an even smaller field of competition.
There just were not many other prospects who were brought to Nashville via a Snuff Garrett-produced demo-CD featuring some of Nashville and LA’s finest musicians who could play drums while singing lead, sounding quite like Don Henely and hit any harmony.
The Nashville experience also resulted in my keeping contact with Bill and Richard through the years and working with other top producers and musicians on future projects including New Zealand’s Nicholas Abbott of Crowded House notoriety.
The sessions at Yellow Dog Studios were to be one beautiful and memorable quiet last hurrah.
Yellow Dog is out in the wild dry sage canyon and river-washed countryside thirty-eight miles southwest of Austin, Texas. There were herds of deer that would come right up to the wooden slat porch decking in the mornings and evenings.
We recorded five of my songs and lived in the studio. There was a lot of time to hang out and hear Bill’s wondrous stories and recollections of his mythologically legendary career. We even got Augie Meyers (https://www.allmusic.com/artist/augie-meyers-mn0000051380/biography) to come in and contribute some accordion, keyboards and sing some vocals on my songs. Both of these were significant, memorable highlights of those sessions. Bill said it was a great sign that Augie was inspired enough by the songs to sing some vocals.
We recorded five of my songs and lived in the studio. There was a lot of time to hang out and hear Bill’s wondrous stories and recollections of his mind-bogglingly legendary career. One cool afternoon Bill, Melinda, and I had a particularly enjoyable story session over some damn fine coffee in a local cafe.
We even got Augie Meyers (https://www.allmusic.com/artist/augie-meyers-mn0000051380/biography) to come in and contribute some accordion, keyboards and sing some vocals on my songs. Both of these were significant, memorable highlights of those sessions. Bill said it was a great sign that Augie was inspired enough by the songs to sing some vocals.
Augie had so much fun at the recording sessions that he agreed to let me rewrite lyrics for his huge Scandinavian hit song “Meet Me in Stockholm.” I rewrote it as “Meet Me in Key West.” I couldn’t raise any interest from any wretched record labels because the entire music industry had collapsed. Every aspect had devolved into something unrecognizable. From record labels and CD/album sales to radio airplay, it was a whole new world. And not a very profitable one at that. It seemed like a good time to call it a day for music and drift casually off into the sunset. No fanfare, no fuss: just over and out.
I was relatively content and resigned to my gypsy caravan writer’s life living on the bright green grassy tree-lined banks of a tributary of the ubiquitous Calcasieu River in Rodney’s village. Even though the camp was in the countryside, it was also just around the corner from everything we could need. From 7-layer burritos, electronics, and chemical portable toilet solutions, cat treats and camp chairs to running shoes, Russell Dri Power t-shirts, and inflatable kayaks: it was all within a mile of camp. There was Home Depot, Petsmart, Lowes, all kinds of clothing and electronic shops, Academy Sports + Outdoors, and Walmart. There were also all kinds of fast food places from Taco Bell to Sonic and some great Mexican restaurants right around the corner as well.
Wetlands, shipping channels, and ultimately, the Mexican Gulf were nearby.
We were situated conveniently at the edge of the wild wetlands, shipping channels, canals, and quite close to the Mexican Gulf itself. Irie Island Girl and I would often paddle our kayak around the shipping channels and other waterways. We’d ride with the dolphins, explore sandbars and islands, and chat with people on the large boats and ships from our kayak bobbing below on the swirling tide-driven waters. We would also ride our bikes around the quiet back roads taking in the lush green of the land: the ever-changing skyscapes adding a welcome dimension to the flatness. The biggest downside was the occasional terrible tornado-packing thunderstorms that charged through the region more often than one would wish.
Kershaw’s Cajun Village was ideally situated and located for our lifestyle.
We took a long trip out to Central California, where I connected with a local reggae-rock band and played a few gigs. Irie Island Girl and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves there. And there would have been a possibility to get something going both with my pedal steel-playing pal Johnny Briggs and the band. Johnny and I could play club gigs with the backing band and as a duo at the vineyard gigs which were excellent jobs and even supported by radio broadcasts. The organizers had kindly offered to include us in the lineups whenever we wished to join in.
We were also considering a move to either Albuquerque or Santa Fe, New Mexico. There was a lot of opportunity for my brand of music in Central California, New Mexico, and Arizona. There were highly receptive crowds and radio support from some refreshingly good stations. Mexico would have been more of a retirement situation. But at least semi-retirement was beginning to appeal. And there was the added issue of the costs of living to be considered.
Central California is relatively unaffordable. Even to camp there in an RV park costs more than a thousand dollars per month. Over $1200/month to park an RV. Add vehicle insurance, health insurance, and food, and it’s unaffordable. At the very least it’s inferior value for one’s buck.
New Mexico was more affordable and near to Colorado. But Arizona was the most affordable of all as I have a friend who has a remote desert RV park for $200/month. That was extremely appealing and very feasible.
We had narrowed our destinations down to the desert wilds of Arizona or the Sea of Cortez in Mexico. We were leaning towards and favoring the move to Mexico. There’s a trop-rock scene in San Carlos on the shores of the Sea of Cortez, and I have a bass and guitar playing friend living in Puerto Vallarta.
I pictured us in our RV with me writing for various periodicals or even launching an expat newspaper and playing whatever occasional gigs I might be able to pick up in the cantinas around the area. Melinda would likely continue with the online company work she was doing.
Ultimately the vision I had was one of myself disappearing anticlimactically into a cocktail-blurred and misted oblivion of tropical sunsets at tiki bars. I would be strumming an instrument or pounding out some halfway meaningful prose on a keyboard.
Melinda and I had begun packing and storing all unnecessary things away readying the RV for the trip. We decided on Arizona first. From that base, I could easily play New Mexico and California. From Arizona, it was also an easy drive down to check out San Carlos. I figured we could spend some time in Arizona – a few years or so and then move on down to San Carlos as our ultimate destination. If the lack of beach life got to be too unbearable in Arizona, we could just head out for San Carlos sooner than later.
The only downside to San Carlos was that with all the American expat development, prices – including rent had risen. From all my continued and combined traveling, I have found that rising prices and their correspondingly elevating costs of living are a universal problem for most of the world’s hapless inhabitants.
Suddenly out of the blue, amidst our packing, an old acquaintance from the trop-rock circuit named Brian contacted me. He contacted me after discovering that I was behind the programming and supplying the music of his favorite trop-rock radio station.
He found this out the hard way.
Brian had built his bar & grill; the deal was that the radio station would be part of it. The radio station he was working with initially backed out of the proposed relocation and left him stranded.
So Brian asked if I would help him get it all back on track at his club in the Dominican Republic.
The plan was for me to program, format, and manage the proposed Paradise 102 FM radio station in Sosúa. I was to receive food, drinks, lodging, and all the income generated from sponsors.
The proposal ideally suited our plans for a move. That it was outside of the US was a significant plus. I had a bit of hesitation about Brian, however. I had the feeling that he could become a problem quickly. I didn’t feel he was dependable. Mostly, I felt that his hard-right conservative midwestern viewpoints and brash boastfulness might ultimately become too much to deal with. But I knew that our success in the DR would not be entirely dependent on the radio station job. We were independent with online jobs. I was still writing, and Melinda had an excellent job with Car Dash back then.
I saw the DR as a perfect backdrop and environment to develop and further my writing career. My philosophy was to view Brian’s offer as a catalyst rather than a reality. It was a perfect motivation and opportunity to spur us on and enable us to move.
We sure didn’t expect it all to fall apart as quickly as it did though! We headed down to the town of Sosúa on the north coast of the Dominican Republic on August 11, 2017.
Brian kept on putting off his arrival with a flurry of varying excuses. But at the same time, he kept asking us to find lodgings using his “friends'” rental agencies. So we were getting very mixed messages. It sounded as if he was definitely on his way, but the dates and plans kept changing—moving farther into the future.
I went to check the club out and ended up getting the whole story from the realtor who leased the property and the other business owner on the property. I knew then that life had found other things for Brian to do. He wasn’t coming. So I began making arrangements for more permanent long term dwellings. It became clear that the locals didn’t appreciate the brutish lout’s loudly expressed politics or drama. So it wouldn’t have been all that favorable to have been associated with him after all. Fate did us a favor.
To keep the costs down, I had booked our first week in an unairconditioned apartment at the Mary Rose Hotel. You might think that mid-August in the Caribbean would be pretty unbearable without AC. And you might typically be right about that – especially at night. But amazingly, we had just left Southwestern Louisiana bordering East Texas where temperatures were in the 100’s F and with humidity levels consistently above 90%. Relatively then, Sosua was fine.
Mary Rose was cozy and friendly. There was a fantastic outdoor lounge on the second floor where we worked on all our correspondence and other laptop chores. The breezes were beautifully refreshing. At night the winds would ease up. The humidity wasn’t too high the temps were in the lower 80sF and with the ceiling fans on and windows wide open it wasn’t all that bad.
What was bad was that we now needed to find independent lodgings and bear the full costs and expenses of our new Caribbean island lives ourselves. Suddenly we would need to come up with at least $500-$800 extra dollars each month. Not only were we abruptly hit with the additional expenses; we were also down $1500-$2000/month of income that would have come from the radio job.
One of the reasons I had booked the Mary Rose condos was that they offered long term rentals, which I thought might come in handy just in case. And now, four days after having arrived in a whole new Spanish-speaking world with two cats and a dog, it was “just in case” time.
We couldn’t have ended up in a better location. Our long-term quarters would be the Trade Winds. The aptly named Trade Winds sit on a hill at the eastern edge of town on the highway leading to the windsurfing hotspot of Cabarete to the east and coming in from the airport and Puerto Plata to the west. The wind-cooled condos are 150 yards up the hill from the Super Pola supermarket and the magnificent Nelson’s Bistro Lounge just across the street diagonally from Super Pola.
And then there’s George’s Oasis Bar, 70 feet on up the hill to the north and across the road from our front door. We also have a small colmado (local market) another 50 feet up the road from George’s, where we stock up on beer, wine, rum, coconut sodas, cheese, sausages, water, and other staples and treats.
Local ladies bring fresh fruits and avocados to our door daily via large baskets borne on their heads.
With our prime location, we don’t need a car. We take taxis or buses if we need to go far.
Crushingly, I’d lost my writing gig at Lagniappe. The owners found it too much trouble to navigate all the steps in the online banking necessary to get my payments to me. Oh well, I had a great run at Lagniappe Magazine. It was an incredible experience and an excellent opportunity to develop some interviewing and researching techniques as well as writing chops.
I will forever be indebted and grateful to Brad Goins for having given me that golden opportunity which has placed me squarely on my path as a professional writer. So a great thanks go out to Brad, his wife Nydia, Bob, and Greg too.
So, much to my avid dismay, I began playing live music gigs again for supplemental income. I continued to write and submit to various publications and landed a few bits and pieces here and there. Surprisingly the music bookings rolled in. My live performances took off. Before long I was making decent money strumming my ukulele and howling in tiki huts on the beach.
At the same time, I continued to write—pursuing every, any, and all publication opportunities I could uncover.
Effort and persistence finally paid off when the national English-speaking newspaper Dominican Today hired me on a part-time basis to edit, fix, correct, and even rewrite articles.
After a few months, I pitched a weekly Saturday column to the owners of Dominican Today. To my great surprise and amazement, they liked the idea!
These developments have been a profoundly significant windfall for me – not just financially but as a writer. I am once again a published professional writer, and that is no easy feat in 2019!
A significant development also happened on the musical front. A longtime producer friend in Norway launched a new record label and signed me on as a songwriter and English lyrics consultant. So again, this job only requires that I write, which is ideal for me.
So here I am, living the life of a writer, songwriter, and part-time singer of songs on the north coast of Hispaniola in the Heart of the Caribbean. More or less, that’s right where I wanted to be at this time and place in my life.
Ultimately I would have preferred to live in Hawaii the land of my origin. But as we all know: it’s too expensive if one does not already have an in there and my Hawaiian relatives have all moved away from Hawaii or died.
And while Hispaniola may not be Hawaii (namely, it lacks Hawaiians and Hawaiian music), it’s not too bad either. It’s a big island; over twice the size of all the Hawaiian Islands combined. With its fascinating and colorful history, there is much to see and do. I do not claim this island as home so much as I appreciate the loan. For me, it’s a borrowed island. Even so, there is a part of my ancestry, which seems to belong here somehow. The rum is memorably tasty, and the environment stimulates and is conducive to creativity: albeit at a relaxed pace. Dominicans observe “Island Time” which suits me just fine.
By culture, mindset, heart, soul, and disposition, I am an Islander. Hawaii will always be home, my island. But Hispaniola is a gracious, enigmatic, dynamic, and beautiful host. There are many times here when the temperature, humidity, trades, lighting, skies, and colors are just right; that I feel I could still be in Hawaii.
There are never really any things that I miss. It’s people: friends and loved ones far away that one misses most.
It’s all kind of hard to believe. I often have to repeat it to myself every time I look around wholly blown away by the splendid surrealistic beauty of this tropical island world. Talk about living the dream! I live the life of a writer and acoustic troubadour in the heart of the Caribbean with a beautiful, adventurous companion by my side.
Life is good today.
P.S. In the time that has passed since I began writing this story, there has been a lot of negatively-charged news and media coverage regarding the deaths of American tourists in the D.R.
Local expatriate communities living in the D.R. have not experienced these events with anywhere near the same level of threat, danger or drama as has been suggested by U.S. media.
As one may determine from the comments section, there are a few people out there who seem a little too willing to harshly criticize countries other than their own. There appears to be a perceptible personal grudge contained in the words and attitudes of many such persons. Put quite clearly: we expatriates who live in the D.R. feel no heightened or elevated sense of threat or danger concerning the spate of recent American tourist deaths. Strangely enough, the phenomenon seems to have ended. There have been no new reports of any mysterious sudden deaths of American tourists for over three weeks now.
It also needs to be said that there have been 28 Canadian tourist deaths so far in 2019. But the Canadians did not get hysterical about it nor were they provoked to do so by their press corp.
In very recent news I’ve been picked up by the Carribean Post a Montreal-based publication that serves the entire Caribbean region and the greater world via the Internet at https://thecaribbeanpost.com/?s=Renn+Loren
Tonight I’m off to join my new Baja Tiki Tribe band for a few sets of our Island-Rock-Tex-Mex-Caribbilly™ at Gordito’s Fresh Mex in the surf town of Cabarete 15 minutes to the east. https://www.reverbnation.com/bajatikitribe
The Baja Tiki Tribe coming soon to a cantina, palapa hut or taco tiki hut near you!
Aloha, and stay thirsty my friends!
DR tour setup. Renn, David, and our full sound rig – instruments included – packed on David’s bike.