Under a Full Moon in Santa Fe

A first impression of Santa Fe is it’s part tourist trap, part bolthole for burnt out Californians, and home to a particular type of original New Mexican, the kind who spend September evenings getting drunk in the dry riverbed or might try and jump you as you walk home alone. But we’ll get to that.

The night begins with Olaf Breuning’s smoke show before Nite Jewel climbs up onto a small stage in the middle of the old farmers market to perform. After her, there’s the Handsome Family. They’re local heroes and everyone loves them. They belong here, right down to her hippie dress and his bushy whiskers.

What’s Santa Fe like, I ask a lady in the crowd.

“It’s the sort of place where women never wear high-heels and men never dance.”

Outside, Levis®have a tent of workers on display and some of the modified tools I’ll get to play with tomorrow when the train pushes out. The Instagram, medium format camera and the Instagram super-8. They’re both looking a bit worse for wear, but then so is everyone who’s been on this train ride from the beginning. Long nights, relentless moving and then those 5:01 happy hours and all the other happy hours in between.

THEESatisfaction are the best act of the night at the Santa Fe Railyard. Although I might just be saying that because I bailed before Cat Power came on. Come on, I could barely stand anymore. You try getting into the festival spirit when eight time zones have been yanked from under your feet.

On my way home, past the dry river-bed where couples aren’t only getting drunk they’re also having sex now, a crusty looking figure comes up to me and pulls me to the side.

“Don’t go down that road this minute,” he says. “There’s some boys on drugs and they’ll fuck with you. Look up. It’s a full moon. It brings all the goonies out.”

So we wait it out under an awning and true enough along come two boys swinging sticks and hitting cars and howling like wolves in pain. The crusty guy who saved me is called Seamas Navarro. He walks state to state selling a photocopied, stapled, book of poems. New Mexico is state number 28. Don’t feel bad for him, he makes as much as $100 a night when people are generous.

“How can I repay you?” I ask

“You could buy a copy of my poetry,” he says.

I am tapped out. I have a wallet full of euro, some Polish zlotys and German U-bahn tickets.

“How about I put you and your poetry in VICE instead?”

“Really? That would be awesome bro,” he says.

“No biggie Seamas. And good night.”

And though there are those

who will,

who will roll their eyes

and scoff at these words

that I pray.

And I do so pray

that beauty will touch their soul,

unlock the cage,

and free their spirit

from its shallow,

shallow grave.

To check out the rest of the collaborations and contributors, go to http://levi.com/makeourmark