TOM MCFARLAND TRAVELUN1 WITH THE BLUES by Lynn Darroch 10 Clinton St. Quarterly t i lA fh e n I was W fifteen years old, I was in a music store and heard somebody playing the guitar. I went back to the booth, but there was nobody there. I could still hear it, though, and I realized it was in my head.... It was me playing the guitar when I matured.... So I’ve always aimed for that sound, I’ve dreamed my guitar playing. And I’ve reached it, but only once in a while, on some nights.... I’ll be playing someplace, the music will be just right, the audience just right, the band just right, and everything comes together: there’s no past, no future, everything’s just right now. That feeling of complete oneness with your instrument and your band and the audience is a moment to live for. But you can’t call on it, can’t say, “I’d like to feel that way right now.” So if the only way I can get it is by going out and playing night clubs all the time, then I’ll keep on doing it.” On a recent August afternoon, Tom and I sat over his kitchen table, drinking Budweiser, smoking Pail Malls, and talking about our hopes and dreams, both past and present. He and his family have just moved back to the Portland area after five years in the Richmond, California ghetto, where the living Conditions and opportunities for his kids had become too limited, and where he had established a reputation and gained enough national exposure to allow him to
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