It's 40 degrees in the middle of March under a windy gray sky, and as noon passes by I can't help but think about how warm it is.

Portland is coming out of hibernation. Elsewhere in the country 45 degrees is cold, is freezing, is take-that-extra-coat-out-of-storage frigid, but in Portland this slate-colored day is the beginning of spring. I bike to Deering Oaks Park to meet Darrell and Jon and marvel at the sheer number of people who were deep inside Parkside apartments just days ago.

People are on the move.

The plan is to film Darrell Foster playing in the back of his Volkswagen van. We kicked around the idea of filming indoors, some warm fuzzy gas-heated practice space, but that isn't where Darrell plays. Darrell practices in his van, so that's where we're going to film Darrell playing.

By the time Darrell's van rolls into the park the wind is picking up and the temperature is dropping, and the first thing I think when I see the old boxy Vanagon is, “The heat in that thing can't possibly work.” Also known as the Transporter, the Caravelle, and the T25, the Vanagon looks like a refrigerator box on rollerskate wheels. For some reason you wouldn't expect it to move like a regular vehicle – maybe more like a buggy or a matchbox car – but the van slides along smooth-as-you-please, despite the fact that it's leaking coolant and transmission fluid.

Darrell rolls down his window and sticks his head out. “Come on,” he says, “we're going up to the East End.”

I slide open the door and climb inside. The van's interior is spacious, comfortable, and warm. Tibetan freedom flags hang from the ceiling. There's a set of wind chimes next to the door. Darrell's guitar case is on the floor. I have trouble getting the door closed – “You really have to slam it,” advises Darrell – but I finally shut it and we're off.

We are on the move.

Darrell is dwarfed by the seat of the van. He's a skinny guy, but tall, with arms and legs that stretch on and on and long hair to match. I'd say scarecrow in a leather jacket, but there isn't anything scary about Darrell because he just won't stop smiling.

We cross the city an discuss Darrell's decision to play in his van. It isn't some artistic fauxhemian conceit, or some kind of deference to uptight neighbors. Darrell is taking his van on the road this spring to play around the country, so it will literally be both his practice space and his home. Jon asks Darrell what kind of route he has planned, where he's going, and Darrell shrugs. He tells the story of how he flew down to Pennsylvania to pick up the van, which he bought sight-unseen. Airport security wouldn't let him take his tools with him so he had to hope that the van would hold together for the long journey back to Maine. There are a few repairs that need to be done before he heads out on tour, but he's going to handle those himself. “These old Volkswagens are the easiest cars to fix,” he explains. “Back before they started adding all these electronics.”

Darrell parks at Loring Memorial Park at the end of North Street and we set up to film. The wind is really blowing now, and the temperature has dropped into the 30s. Darrell takes out his guitar, slides open the door, and begins to play.

“Definition of Faith” starts with a light and airy motif, notes that float out of the guitar to be carried away on the wind. “Sick of trying to be myself,” he laments. “For a while I'll just try somebody else.” The words are carried out over the northbound lanes of I-295 and over the bay.

Just when it seems that the whole affair is going to be drowned out and blown away, Darrell's cello accompaniment, Tim Garrett, comes in. With a flourish the cellist begins a series of deep round string volleys, and Darrell begins to lay down a driving rhythm. His laments transform, turn into statements instead of responses. He's not being moved anywhere, he's on the move.

People begin to stop and watch. They roll down their windows, park in the Loring Memorial turnaround. Somebody stops in the middle of the road at the end of North Street, oblivious to the traffic lining up behind him. Any chance that this song which started so quietly will be threatened by the growing wind has disappeared. The cello, the guitar, and Darrell's voice continue to raise into a wail, until they create a whirlwind of their own that travels across the Promenade, up North street, and down the highway.

When Darrell finishes the first take his fingers are turning blue. “Cool?” he asks. Jon gives him the thumbs up, he retunes his guitar, and he starts to play again. The smile doesn't leave his face. He's happy to be here. Happy to play. Happy to be moving forward.

Darrell and Tim play some more. Eventually Tim falls prey to the cold, as the close-to-freezing temperatures could wreak havok on a cello that's worth more than my car. Darrell packs up his guitar and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Jon offers him the chance to see the footage, but he smiles and shakes his head. He has to keep moving.

The Vanagon starts despite the cold and pulls away, leaky transmission and all. Darrell flashes a peace sign and rolls down the hill, towards the highway. He'll hit the highway and keep on moving, and who knows when he'll ever stop.

Written by Jake Christie
Video by Tasty Dude Films

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