San Francisco

At first peep, Holland's new album, The Living and the Dead, may seem defined by her new digs in Brooklyn. Former Tom Waits sideman Marc Ribot plays guitar on several tracks, and songs like "Your Big Hands" which would sit nicely along the Keith Richards-charged work on Raindogs. Overall, the country and folk stylings of the past have been buried beneath rock instrumentation, much in the way of latter-day Lucinda Williams.

Still, many of these songs were composed in San Francisco, or during travels in Europe and a writing retreat in New Zealand. There's plenty of sweet guitarwork by M. Ward and subtle drumming by Rachel Blumberg (the Decemberists, Norfolk & Western). Holland's songwriting still bursts with a vivid wanderlust, delivering an emotional impact as big as her Texas homeland. Just check out her version of the traditional "Love Henry" or the effervescent waltz of "Sweet Loving Man."

Plus, as I witnessed at a recent industry showcase in which she "opened" for Sammy Hagar and E-40, Holland remains a fascinating performer -- one of those artists wrestling in plain sight with her muse, her talents, and the ghosts flying around the rafters.

To get you in the mood for her show, I asked her to tell us what she misses about the Bay Area. Here's what she came up with...

I miss the walk up Bernal Hill, and the views from the top, on nights and mornings and foggy days, the chiaroscuro, the gigantic panorama, the way that one part feels kinda lunar.

I miss the Musee Mechanique, especially the tiny Opium Den, where for twenty-five cents a pop you can watch the itty-bitty gnarled dudes huff their pipes and the implied hallucination of a dragon emerges from behind a dusty red curtain, a skeleton whirls out of a closet.  I love any cramped little bar anywhere in the world that makes me feel like I'm in that miniature, imaginary room.

I miss Freddi Price, and everything he might be doing -- music, theater, barbeques.  He's one of my favorite performers ever.  Rube Waddell, the Armchair Geographers, Wink Pain, the Wink and Yoni Show, the puppet shows he puts on ... hearing him sing, play piano, tabla, trumpet, slide guitar ... just hearing him hold forth on any subject. I heart Freddi Price.  I think he's a national treasure, but maybe we don't even deserve him.

I miss the stumps, the succulents, the dahlias, the fuschias, the marshy ponds, the ferns, the towering trees, and the moss of Golden Gate Park. And I miss the foxes, bison, ravens, and tough-ass raccoons that live there.

I miss the Victorian Box tree that grows in the panhandle on the path that leads into Shrader Street.  It is so graceful, and it smells so beautiful when it blooms at night.

I miss the gnarled bark of the Eucalyptuses that grow all over the park, and the hawks that hunt pigeons from their branches.

Jolie Holland, Herman Dune @ Bimbo's on Wednesday, October 15; doors 7 p.m., tickets $19.50.