My friend Kevin tells me that Doug Martsch is the nicest guy in rock and roll, and I believe him. Previous casual conversations and email exchanges with the guy have confirmed this to be true. Doug Martsch is a sweetheart.

And a stoner.

Tonight I’m at Slim’s to interview Martsch, Built to Spill’s singer-songwriter-guitar god-beardy leader. I’m also here to see this guy I kind of dated, but by “dated” I mean we’ve rolled around on the shore of a lake and the floor of his apartment a couple times. And by “guy,” I mean he’s at least 30.

Kevin and I descend the stairs to the unventilated backstage where Doug and the rest of the band are engulfed in a thick cloud of some seriously killer Northern California weed—apparently, their show in Arcata proved fruitful. One of the band’s three guitarists goes all Snoop Dogg with the bong rips as Doug smiles, offers me beer and asks if we can do the interview later.

It’s weird to be almost 40 and backstage with Built to Spill. Almost 20 years ago, I listened to them with a slew of indie-loving dishwashers at Copperfield’s Cafe in downtown Santa Rosa; we’d flip the “closed” sign, lock the doors and blast There’s Nothing Wrong with Love while shouting about upcoming road trips and concerts over the rattle of the boombox. I’m much older now. I’m not wearing a miniskirt or fire engine red lipstick or any of the things that I used to wear backstage at concerts, and this is good, because I obviously don’t look like someone who is here to give blowjobs or handjobs or any other kind of “jobs.” Instead, I am a geek with my water bottle, notebook and recording device in hand, in my mom jeans and T-shirt.

At my midlife turning point, I’m not into smoking weed, either. I imagine the whole scene playing out before me—bongs and joints and bottles of whiskey being slowly passed around the small rooms and hallway with scraggly, long-haired dudes plucking at guitars—mirrors that of a low-budget Phish documentary.

“Doug might be too high to do the interview,” says Kevin, his eyes darting around the room as he fidgets with his wristband.

Kevin is naturally antsy (and about a million years sober), and as I look at him, I find myself staring at the collar of his shirt for an extended period of time. He looks kind of funny and I wonder if his chest feels all swirly and orange like mine does. I’m sweating now, and getting that weird stoned feeling I remember from my teens and 20s, a sensation of food woven through my teeth and paranoia that I’ve either started my period or peed myself a little.

Doug suggests we check out the opening band and glides up the stairs, disappearing into a sea of fans who are presumably too high to recognize him behind his fuzzy beard and half-closed eyes. Kevin and I head outside for fresh air, hoping the cool San Francisco evening will help us sober up from our unintended trip down 420 Lane. Suddenly, I remember the thirty-something waiting for me out in the crowd. Built to Spill goes on next and I realize, with the heavy weight of defeat and pot-fueled anxiety, that my interview opportunity has slipped by the wayside.

I find the thirty-something and kind of hope he’ll kiss me, but I’m worried about my cotton mouth and weed breath, even though I didn’t smoke pot on purpose. Everything feels so complicated. I don’t have earplugs and I’m afraid I’ll have permanent hearing loss from standing up here, so close to the stage, with this drunk thirty-something who keeps calling me a rock-‘n’-roll mom. I might be too old to be at a show on a school night, I think to myself. I need to get home and pack my kids’ lunches.

And then Kevin leaves, the thirty-something takes off without kissing me and I stand alone with a Bud Light as the band busts out a Blue Öyster Cult cover. Soon, they’re launching into a rendition of the Smiths’ “How Soon Is Now?” that morphs into a 20-minute jam session with the members of one of the opening bands dispersed throughout the room. I never knew how incredible long-ass guitar riffs could be—but then again, I never get as high as all my fellow audience members who, by the looks of things, are having their minds (and eardrums) completely blown. How is the band playing so flawlessly after all of those bong rips?!

Like a true jam-band aficionado, I get super into it, closing my eyes for a few moments in this sea of sweat and hair and bloodshot eyes, forgetting my age, the possibility that I may have peed in my mom jeans and the thirty-something that I’ve let slip away. Nothing matters but this moment. My kids can make their own damn lunches.

And I think, as the swirly chest syndrome takes it all in, Holy shit, holy shit, this is the best fucking concert in the world! And I realize that Built to Spill, after all of these years, have still totally got it. And maybe I’m just high, but fuck, dude,I think that maybe I’ve still got it, too.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it Godzilla? No, it’s a radius clause! Everybody run for your lives! Aggghhhh! They’re hideous—shield your eyes!

Though you may not hear these exact screams from North Bay music fans, that doesn’t mean they aren’t still wondering, “Why don’t any big name bands ever play in my town?” The answer isn’t very attractive. Radius clauses, those little devils, have been a controlling aspect of the talent-booking business for years, and are the main reason why most big-name bands performing at larger venues like the Fillmore, the Warfield and the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco don’t make the quick drive across the Golden Gate Bridge to play a show at one of the many worthy venues in our region the next night.

A radius clause is a promoter’s requirement in most booking contracts that a band may not perform geographically closer than 60 miles within a timeframe of 60 days before or after the promoter’s show. For example, when Gwar play the Regency Ballroom in San Francisco, the band is contractually barred by Regency promoters Goldenvoice from playing the Phoenix Theater in Petaluma one month before or after their San Francisco show. The goal is to get fans within a 60-mile radius to drive to the show, thus maximizing ticket sales for the San Francisco date.

Talent buyers in Marin, Sonoma and Napa counties have had to deal with radius clauses firsthand, and they’ll tell you that, overall, they lose out when it comes to booking big acts. Jim Agius of the Phoenix Theater says that most of the time he doesn’t even realize the business going down behind closed doors. “The majority of the time that it affects us,” he says, “we don’t even know about it, because in a lot of the national bookings that I do, the artists or the representatives are planning a routed tour. They’ll look at the map and be like, ‘All right, let’s go here, let’s go here, let’s go here.’ I believe that because of radius clauses, we just don’t get offered anywhere near what we otherwise would.”

The Phoenix Theater is not alone. Patrick Malone and Aaron Kayce, talent buyers for Sebastopol’s Hopmonk Tavern and Mill Valley’s Sweetwater Music Hall, respectively, have also felt the sting of being turned down as potential venues for big-name bands. For Kayce, radius clauses are simply a matter of business. “There are some artists that you could book 10 nights in the Bay Area, and they’d sell them all out because they’re that kind of artist,” he says. “But there are others that can’t support that. So at the end of the day, while it can be very frustrating for a talent buyer like myself, I do think it’s a necessary evil.”

Malone, though having occasional issues competing against San Francisco, notes that the restrictions affect him when bands play at competing local venues as well. “I generally will be bumped,” he says, “because whoever is booking and promoting that show doesn’t want that band to play within a certain period of time and within a certain mileage because they feel it could compromise and jeopardize their attendance.”

Though it seems as if the big city usually wins out against small-town venues, Malone offers a time-tested strategy in working against other talent buyers to secure big bands: “Be ahead of them and try to be quick, basically. When you have an opportunity, just strike fast and try to confirm and lock in dates as soon as possible.”

Though neither Malone or Kayce discuss specific occasions in which they have had difficulty booking in the past due to radius clauses, Agius offers examples. “We did AFI back in 2010, and they had been booked like a month prior to play Live 105’s ‘Not So Silent Night,'” he says. “We still got the show, but Live 105 organizers freaked out that AFI had this other show at a little 700-person place in Petaluma, and they made us wait until their show went on sale before we could announce our show,” Agius says.

Days after speaking on the phone, Agius received an email from the agent for a Southern California band that cited a radius clause for the band’s upcoming show at the Fillmore that blocks out two months of possible dates in Petaluma.

All three talent buyers understand that even though the restrictions often work against them when trying to book big-name bands at their venues, radius clauses still have their place in the business. But next time you look up at a venue’s marquee listing the acts who play there Friday night, don’t whine to the venue about all the bands you want to see come up from San Francisco. Take up your complaint with the big-city radius-clause profiteers. As they say, it’s the business.

Taking in a concert in the great outdoors—around here, it doesn’t get much better. Except, that is, when it’s combined with supporting a state park. Bill Myers calls it Funky Fridays, and it’s happening each week at Sugarloaf State Park.

“Not many people even know there’s an amphitheater in the park,” says Myers, who also hosts monthly hikes in the park as a volunteer docent. This Friday, the Cork Pullers (above) take the stage at the 200-plus-seat amphitheater, playing favorites from Doris Day to the Dead. Other bands in the series include A Case of the Willys, the Jami Jamison Band, Twang Ditty and more, continuing each week through Aug. 30.

So far, the effort has raised about $1,000 per show to help keep the park open. It’s one of many fundraisers planned for the summer, including a Fourth of July hike to the top of Bald Mountain, with 360-degree views of almost 20 simultaneous fireworks displays.

Funky Friday concerts run every Friday through Aug. 30 at Sugarloaf Ridge State Park. 2605 Adobe Canyon Road, Kenwood. 6:30pm. Adults $10; kids 18 and under, free. Fourth of July hike is $50. 707.833.6288.