Dorian Michael, guitarist (73)

(Sorry, I did not exercise good storytelling skills here: the actual subject of this post comes to the fore about halfway down. Skip past the landscape scenery and you'll get to Dorian.)

Today we ventured out of our county—which it feels like we haven't really done in years (Santa Cruz and Santa Clara counties don't count, never mind Portugal, France, Ecuador, Canada, and Madagascar . . .)—to visit some friends we literally haven't seen in years, since well before the pandemic, Dorian and Michelle. They very recently moved from Atascadero to Morro Bay on the coast, and before the recent rains we set a date for a visit, because without a date it might not happen. Happily, the skies cleared in the nick of time. So this morning, off we set on the two-and-a-half-hour drive.

The Salinas Valley was so beautiful, wreathed in mists, occasionally with a thick fog enshrouding us, then opening up to sunshine and vibrant green hillsides or acres of undulating vineyards. Some fields are still underwater, and the Salinas River is high—but no longer looking to leap its banks. I sorely wanted to stop and take photos, but we had Morro Bay to get to. The photo here, by Vern Fisher, sort of begins to suggest what we drove through.

At our destination, the four of us immediately went out for an excellent breakfast at Frankie & Lola's Front Street Cafe. I had fried green tomato eggs Benedict, with grits and a Creole hollandaise—super yummy. Then we walked over to the Rock and checked out the beach, which the other day had vanished, Dorian said, under huge breakers. Today it was more or less back to normal. (This is an aerial view looking back down the beach toward the Rock.)

And then we returned to their house, where we continued catching up. Eventually, somehow—perhaps because of the dozen-plus guitars that are scattered around the place—Dorian started regaling us with stories of individual guitar purchases. He is a very amusing storyteller. And that led to a brief demo, in his garage (it's where the correct amp was), of a couple of said guitars. Here he is playing a Gibson he was especially pleased to have acquired:

As he put it, touch it soft, and it sings; touch it hard, and it growls. 

Dorian, if it isn't obvious, is a professional musician. He teaches. He plays gigs locally in Atascadero, Pismo Beach, Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo, either solo or with one of several groups, doing finger-style acoustic or electric jazz, rock 'n' roll, or, his favorite, blues. He tours occasionally, solo acoustic, as well.

Here are a few videos. I know him especially from his solo finger-style guitar; here are "The Way We Dance" and "Sycamore Creek" (the title tracks on two of his three solo CDs):

Sometimes he sings (which he tends to apologize for, but he has fun); here he is with "Walking the Dog":

Here he is playing his National guitar and "What You Get for Your Trouble":

Here he is with his blues band the Cinders and "Reconsider Baby":

If only we lived closer, we'd go hear Dorian often when he's playing his local venues. We do have a half dozen of his albums, and I do listen to them often and know them well.

I've known Dorian for well over forty years: I met him at a gig at a club on Pico and Sepulveda in LA. It is always a great delight to get together with him and hear his stories and irascible opinions, and experience his Armenian fierceheartedness. We promised that we won't leave getting together for years next time.