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PART 3
Boy, was I ever not on in
Atlanta! It was a small, quiet crowd when I played but I think that
was less of a factor than it being one of those nights when my fingers
just weren't doing the job. Mama said there'd be nights like this. Wish
I'd had a chance to sleep a bit before getting onstage. The drive from
Columbia was cranky and tiring considering the morning's events, and
when I reached the city I put myself to the task of auto maintenance
and bought new spark plug wires and a fresh air cleaner filter. The
old wires were of pretty high quality and still passing current but
they had been on the car for about ten years and likely were losing
some conductivity. It seemed a good preventive idea to freshen up things
a bit. And within the next few days I noticed a slight but definite
improvement in gas mileage. But these advantages cost me some rest and
it affected my playing. It wasn't a bad show, just one that felt stiff
and off kilter.
I have to say that keeping the Toyota happy has been the right thing
to do. I've had her since 1990—paid $800 for her in good running
condition—and she's been doing the long haul touring since about
mid-'96. After the show in Columbia, Watt and I compared notes on our
respective vessels. The Boat has about 200k on it; Irma had just turned
over 270k. He said the Boat's motor was getting tired and I added that
mine was in a comparable state. 270k is a lot of miles but they've been
the most reliable miles I've ever had in any of my cars. Foolishly,
I sold Irma in 1999 to someone who ran it out of oil within a month.
I got a newer, "better" car that turned out to be a nightmare—it
blew a head gasket on a tour in Tennessee and after towing it home to
Austin and dropping in a junkyard engine (which got rebuilt in the process)
it was never right and other problems kept popping up and thousands
of dollars later (and a ruined friendship revolving around the engine
rebuild) I threw up my hands and got rid of the damn thing at a huge
loss. Luckily, I had gotten Irma back for the price of towing and it
was a simple matter of dropping a junkyard engine into her and within
days she was ready for the long haul again. I've no idea how many miles
were on the mill when I bought it but the old Toyota 3TC is indestructible
if kept in reasonable tune and full of oil. But she is tired and when
I get home I'm gonna find another 3TC block and do a full rebuild...
maybe with some performance mods. Dual Webers and a cam, anyone?
Aside from my clumsy show in Atlanta, I gotta praise the E.A.R.L. for
their great food. The blackened salmon salad ruled and the dishes I
saw other folks eating looked pretty damn good as well. Yeah, that's
a place I'd like to play again. I decided to hit the road right after
the gig and head into Athens where my friend Sara had a quiet room and
a futon waiting for me. Maybe it was a bad idea to drive right after
the gig but I really wanted to put all the driving behind me so I would
have the entire day free to sleep late and relax. A big cup o joe under
my belt and I pulled into Athens about 3:30 am and that's where the
fun began. The cooling trend had continued and that night it began to
rain a bit so somehow I missed one of the landmarks I was looking for
and, uh... well... we had to do some cell phone back-and-forth calling
to get me to the street that seemed to disappear from the directions.
My mind wanted to panic but my tired body didn't have the energy to
let me do it and she finally talked me talked me down out of the clouds
and I saw the landing strip and oooohhhh, it's a wonderful life! Ring
a bell and gimme my wings! I had met Sara back in the days when she
was managing the Drive By Truckers. Nowadays she's working in partnership
with Dave Robertson who recently sold Local 506 in Chapel Hill and earlier
this year they revived SleazeFest! in San Francisco. They're thinking
about doing one in Austin sometime. I think it's a great idea but I
must admit that one of the main reasons I like these trash fests is
because they give me a chance to get out of town. But then last year
I did have a great time at the Austin-based Garage Shock. So who knows?
Next day, after a great sleep, we rescued Sara's housemate who had run
out of gas about a mile away. Easy save. Later in the day when I pulled
up in front of the 40 Watt Club who should greet me but Rymodee and
the rest of the Pipebomb crew! They were essentially starting their
tour this night with a MayDay party about three blocks away from my
show and it was an early event so I after soundcheck at the 40W I walked
over there and they convinced me to grab my fiddola and sit it when
they played. OK, twist my arm! Yeah, it was one of those great, fun,
daffy Pipebomb shows that make such magnificently silly sense that I
wanted to stay after playing with them so I could see the other bands
and partake in the inspired dancing but somehow I had to be responsible
and trek back to the place I was supposed to be.
The 40 Watt is a great place, bigger than I'm used to playing. In the
past I had played at the High Hat, a club that closed down a coupla
years ago—the most memorable gig being the one where I shared a
bill with Patterson Hood from DBT. That's when I realized the guy was
a great songwriter and not just someone doing the ol' Southern rock
schtick. There is definitely a Southern state of mind and culture that,
to this day, most Americans don't understand at all. Yeah, Richard Petty
is the King and there's a reason why. Once again, we might blame Henry
Ford for the rift—a veritable Mason-Dixon Line of automotive based
sensibilities. The major automobile manufacturers built their cars in
the north but it was the boys in the South that figured out how to make
'em go faster and, of course (ok, let the historical arguments begin),
Mr. Ford more or less kicked things into high gear when he built and
raced the 999. For years Fords were the hot rodders' platform of choice
from the Model A through the dry lakes flatheads. Witness Hank Williams'
"...I got a hot rod Ford and a two dollar bill..." and Chuck Berry of
whom "...nothing'll outrun my V-8 Ford..." Get the picture? It was the
Southern hot rodders who modified and tweaked out these Fords for the
purpose of running moonshine whiskey and the good ol' 1940 3-window
coupe was the badass machine that the Feds had a hard time to just keep
those taillights in sight. The roads in the South made a racetrack that
only a local could really know and, thus, the drivers of these machines
composed a backroads symphony that was as alien to Northern sensibilities
and culture as Stravinsky was to pedantic high-brows who valued "the
finer things." No no no, this can't be music! But music it was to the
good ol' boys that made it firing up them flathead babies and lettin'
'em roar through the straight pipes like Coltrane or Dolphy blowin'
off the line when the green flag comes down and headin' for that first
turn with the rear end startin' ta come loose and there ain't nothin'
ahead but that dirt road screechin' through the trees and your fists
on the wheel and ya better not let the man get you and do what he done
ta the others! Mmmmm mmmm!
Forgive me, Patterson, if I'm getting too damned poetic but sometimes
I just gotta make a point come hell or high water. You wrote the opera,
I never could have done it. But I understand it, my friend. No, Petty
was not a Ford driver, he was a Mopar man. So how many people know that
it was the Dodge brothers who started in the auto business by building
transmissions for Ford? Of course, Ford's dominance of racing ended
in the mid-50s when Zola Arkus-Duntov engineered the small block Chevy,
the mill that turned up the heat and made those wrenchers go crazy.
The point is that someone realized that Risk could be played for Sport
and what originated on the dirt roads and clay tracks of the backwoods
became Nascar when it revved its engines on the beach at Daytona in
the postwar years and let the North be damned! The South has risen again
but this time it's with the barrels of ram charging on a high-riser
ported, polished and fired into a race-prepped big block of hallelujah
proportions! Amen! And beyond the flash of the last war's roman candle
wedding cake that brought fire and brimstone out of retirement to light
the world to see the greatest minds of a generation consumed by the
lust of the road that beat out ahead of them! the Horror, brothers and
sisters! the Horror! and brave horn men popped a relentless swirl of
notes that wailed birth and death across the smoky night skies backlit
by the twang and glow of St. Leo's revolution! yes, REVOLUTION I say,
dear brethren! I hear a HALLELUJAH! and America rushes back to its rivers
with a high lonesome song of pluck and prophecy that is destined to
ride forward with Rosa Parks who would step onto the bus tired and step
off a firebrand of freedom while children danced and men reached to
a moon which had haunted them since childhood and beckoned them on to
slip the surly bonds of an earth that forever seeks to pull them under!
And as men were once again informed by the chimps which preceeded them,
the fires of exhilarating speed made Southern gentlemen start their
engines again and again!
Yes, Richard Petty is the King and I'm sure that ex-girlfriend I spoke
of earlier may still not understand.
Oh, by the way, the 40 Watt show was a good one despite the low turnout.
I guess the finals factor kicked in and a lotta slackers decided it
was time to stay home and study since they hadn't done it any other
time in the semester. After the show I managed to get a drink just before
last call at the Engine Room where I'll be playing on the trip back
home. There was a possibility that the Pipebomb crew would still be
at the party house so I drove by but, having hightailed it back to Pensacola,
I visited with the folks there who were still awake and had a chance
to relate my I-10 story, to which one of the kids related a similar
story about a ferry line that was replaced by a bridge on St. Edward
Island. He lamented over the fact that on the ferry his dad had taught
him and his siblings to "always spit into the water," but on the bridge
you couldn't even see the water. Ah, the sadness of progress. They pointed
me in the direction of a post office and I mailed the postcards I had
written earlier in the day under the watchful gaze of an Athens bicycle
cop who probably figured I was up to no good at 3:00 am. Ha!
This is where my chimping got a bit more erratic. Mike was constantly
urging me to "chimp all the time" and to "keep up" since he linked his
tour spiels to my spiels. He was concerned that my diaries would not
be current with his. Well, so be it. Maybe it's his military bent but
he insists that his crew do diary entry every day. I've found that I
can't do it every day without it becoming a mostly mechanical process.
In my brain factory I ain't slapping a quick sandwich together; more,
I've got a number of pots slow cooking on a few different burners and
when that time comes to push 'em all together into a meal then the utensils
start clanging and the food starts flying. No wine before its time!
And sometimes the details are more coherent when they've had a while
to stew. But that's just how it works for me.
I barely missed a hard thunderstorm on my way into Nashville. Pretty
treacherous stuff but it was worse for those travelling eastward on
I-24. The End was a kinda dark, blacklit joint where the soundman was
helpful but put a bit too much reverb/delay on things. I ain't used
to sounding so wet! But it was a damn good show for me and I appropriately
got to tell the story of the first time I played in Music City at the
Bluebird Cafe, the über songwriters' hangout/scene. That was where
I went on immediately after the guy who wrote the song "Red Necks, White
Socks and Blue Ribbon Beer." Needless to say, I was more than a little
nervous but I survived (and met Roger Cook who wrote one of my all time
fave pop songs "You've Got Your Troubles" [a hit by the Fortunes in
late 1965]. unfortunately, he also wrote the infamous Coca-Cola song
about teaching the world to sing. uh huh. but to his credit he also
writes vicious little barbs like "Sliding Down the Razor Blade of Love.").
And who should show up at The End tonight but Kara, a friend from the
old days at some record company whose name I can't remember. Good to
see her! And lastly, there was Duane Denison, ex of Jesus Lizard and
Hank III. He moved out of Chicago a few years ago to Nashville. We had
a great time recalling a "hoot night" I hosted years ago at Big Mamou
in Austin. This was the night when I coerced local musicians who had
some classical training to perform such pieces and dress the part at
what I dubbed "Snoot Night." Duane had just come out of the band Cargo
Cult and he played a seriously silly prepared guitar piece complete
with electric razor embellishment. Great night, great fun!
This night I broke a fiddola string in the heat of battle. Since fixing
all my gear during the days off at the beginning of this stint, it had
been smooth sailing when I sat in with da guyz on "The Red and Black"
and "Sister Ray" and, even though I could hardly hear myself with the
fiddola going through the little Champ amp and none of it in the monitors,
it was a lot of fun to play in a more intuitive fashion, to more sense
the notes than hear them. Plus, it wasn't giving my neck and shoulders
the fits since I had been using the new shoulder rest. When we settled
into the apartment of Bennett, a friend of Watt, I set about to change
all the strings on the instrument but it turned out the low C-string
was not right. Somehow I had pulled the fluke of the draw and somebody
had mistakenly packaged two G-strings into the set; actually, it appeared
that a G had been miswrapped at the tuner end with the wrong color code
which made it look like a C. I had an old used C with me but it would
sound horrible next to fresh strings. So the next morning I was lucky
enough to be told about a place just west of town called The Violin
Store which I recommend highly to fiddlers! When I stepped into the
upstairs store, the woman working there, Gretchen, was finishing up
with a "customer from hell," a mother trying to buy the right chin rest
for her young daughter and I definitely caught the vibes of an uptight
christian family that would mold this poor youngster into a miserable
therapy candidate by the time she was 24. If only there was something
someone could say or do...
After they left, Gretchen confided that it was a difficult, snappish,
$7.00 sale that took one and a half hours during which she really wished
to kick the mom's ass. She persevered only because she understood the
girl's problem having had the same problem when she was learning the
instrument. This disagreeable transaction notwithstanding, Gretchen
was an utter angel and a total doll! Such knowledgeable, helpful and
friendly service I have not received at a music store in much too long.
She concurred that my set of strings had been mispackaged, found a proper
C-string from the stash of singles, showed me a few secrets on stringing
and tuning, helped ME find a more comfortable chin rest than I already
had, recommended and showed me some better quality strings than I been
using and, in a nutshell, she REALLY made my day! This, all before coffee!
And I mustn't fail to mention Tim, the other person working there, who
was just as friendly and helpful. Take note fiddlers: THIS IS THE PLACE!
Heading east again to Blue Cat's in Knoxville, more rain and another
good show. This has thankfully been a trend since Atlanta. Now it seems
like folks want me to play more banjo in my set saying things like,
"hey, you gotta remember this is Tennessee!" Of course, I know
they're still perceiving my picking as a bluegrass thang... which it
ain't but why do I need to be telling them that? I ain't on stage to
conduct no seminar, I came to rock! Once again another person came up
to me and started a conversation thinking I was Watt. It's happened
a few times now. Uh, no, I don't think we look that much alike despite
the gray hairs. Yeah, those moments can be a bit confusing at first
when the dialog starts not making sense but ultimately it's kinda funny.
Maybe that's what the guy in Charleston was thinking? At the end of
the night we sailed over to the house of one of the fans and, in transit,
I got very concerned when headlights came rushing up in the rear view
mirror and looked like they weren't gonna stop. It turned out the tailgater
was a fan following us and when we arrived at the house a buncha other
folks showed up as well. It was friday night, after all, and this was
a town which didn't have a lot of entertainment that these kids were
interested in but tonight was the exception. I just wanted to sleep
but the kids wanted to talk to Mike so, on the couch with sleep mask
poised above his brow, he held court til folks decided to let him sleep.
I had set up camp in the corner of the room and sparred a bit with Pete
and a couple of folks sitting nearby so I did join in the enthusiasm
although I was jonesing for sleep. It's too bad that my grumpy old man-ism
doesn't allow me to enjoy these encounters as much as I used to. But
they were talking to the captain, not me (and really, I'm not THAT grumpy
of old man. really! i'm not! just older and less prone to this kind
of socializing).
Next day was another dead reckoning drive—no mapping software for
me. I admit that by this time, chimping notwithstanding, I've pretty
much got my computer stuff well sorted out and, aside from the few times
I couldn't connect, the old PB-190 has been my friend and not my enemy.
But at this stage of the game I definitely see the need to finally upgrade.
This old Mac is a good machine but it's slow and very clumsy to use
since it's best to use the power supply (the battery can drain in about
an hour) and an external mouse (the built-in clicker sticks a lot) for
maximum productivity. No problem. I managed to develop work patterns
that minimized these drawbacks. One of my biggest gripes has been the
computer/tech nerds who always insist on upgrading when I confront them
with a problem I am having. They never really educate the user on problems
or their fixes, they just apply to the philosophy of replacing rather
than fixing. I'm cut from the opposite cloth. I've found that most older
pieces of equipment will work just fine if taken care of and configured
properly. Hell, even though I have more up-to-date machines running
much more current system software, I still have my old SE/30 running
on OS/6 and it never fails to boot up and work perfectly for a simple
job. It can't connect to the Internet too well but that's not what I
use it for. But this experience with this "old" laptop has at least
educated me to where I finally understand for myself the wisdom of getting
a newer machine if I'm going to continue this type of communicating
and touring. I hate it when the computer-gentsia pontificates on being
current with the latest hardware/software without giving real down to
earth knowledge on why. "Take my word for it..." is simply not enough
reason for me to shell out money for things that I may not need. At
least now I know for myself.
So yeah, I found King's easily after a drizzly ride to Raleigh and I
couldn't help but remember a song that a writer had recorded in the
early, early days of Media Art recording studio with the opening lines
"I got a call from down near Raleigh in the middle of the night / seems
those yard dogs started barking when her car pulled into sight." It
was a guy named Jim Davis, it was about 1976 and he was one of the only
clients the studio had in those early days in Hermosa Beach. The song
had been recorded as a typical acoustic-based songwriter demo and had
kinda become the most played tape at the studio. When Jim wanted to
re-record it with bass, drums and electric guitar (he had a cool old
Gretsch and a blonde Fender Tremolux amp) everyone tried to talk him
out of it but he persevered. He was sick of the song being taken as
a sentimental ode to lost love, he wanted it to mirror some of the anger
and sense of highway lust that he insisted was at the root of what he
was trying to put across. He eventually tracked it with a local rhythm
section but even those players were working against him and when he
tried to get a different vocalist on it... in a nutshell, it ended up
almost laughable. It wasn't a bad song but it was the era of lame post-rock
songwriter demos where most artists and studio musicians felt that since
it was "just a demo" it wasn't worth giving your best performance. Ironically,
Jim was after something that didn't yet exist in those days. True, it
was the beginning of that post-Gram Parsons style but the overwhelmingness
of the genre was country-rock and very little approached the realness
of Parsons or the fired up playing of someone like Clarence White and
his seminal work with the Byrds. At best, most attempts at this style
were pale imitations of the Eagles or worse. Jim Davis wanted his song
to push out of this trap and if he had gotten sympathetic musicians
to work with he might have singlehandedly laid an early blueprint for
Alt-Country.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not praising the Alt-C genre. If anything I
want to trample it because too much of it stems from an inability to
rock or from a conceit that snubs its nose at the very idea of rocking
in an urban sense. That, I think, is the deep seated problem with the
genre since it expects (perhaps demands) the listener to focus more
upon the style than on the content of both the material and the execution
of same. I burned out on bluegrass years ago for this very reason. Not
that there is no good bluegrass to be had or that rural-sensibilitied
song and performance is inherently inferior, but too often this music
is put into the hands of folks who cop the external elements of the
style without a real grasp of either the tradition or the technique.
It's why so much Alt-C music is without any real spontaneous fire and
why it pales next to Buck Owens & the Buckeroos, and when it does try
to rock, it kinda plods along under the weight of slow moving lyrics.
There are exceptions but I haven't found enough to make me interested
in paying close attention to the style. So why did I bring this up?
Because I realized that a modest writer had honestly, but clumsily,
tried to invoke some of that Neil Young voodoo onto an unlikely song
at a time when few musicians could appreciate this approach. And if
they did, it was probably 20 years too early for anyone to even notice
how the song was trying to tell its story.
So here was Raleigh, no yard dogs barking, no fanfare in the drizzly
arrival, just another day on the tour. Paul, one of the owners of King's
is a member of one of my fave bands, the Cherry Valence, and Brian showed
up a little later in the evening, too. I saw them at Garage Shock last
year at Emo's and they were definitely a highlight of the weekend. That
fabulous lady, Cheetie, whipped up some truly great salsa for us, some
of the best we've had on this jaunt, but unfortunately she couldn't
come to the show since it was the night to really make some moola on
her bar shift. Darn! Woulda been great to see her (she also put together
a really tasty salad for me. rock on!)! I was feeling pretty seriously
in need of some down time so I opted to pass on the offsite dinner that
some of Watt's friends had offered us to stick around the club and nap
during those hours before doors opened and yak with members of the opening
band, an instrumental unit called Baamphf! (two guitars, bass, two drummers)
that I really liked. The other instrumental band was Ladies Choice in
Atlanta and I've gotta say that this approach kinda puts me in the mood
for doing my set a little more. Can't explain it... just does. And Susan,
their gorgeous hunk of a bass player (what a smile!), made me and the
Watt crew air fresheners for our vehicles with great smelling plants
and shrubney from her garden. A floral theme? Oh yah, you betcha!
Without a doubt, this was one of my best shows of the whole ding dang
tour. For once I had people to put on my guest list! Tom Topkoff and
his wife Susan (not to be confused with Baamphf! Susan) had moved there
from Austin a year ago which was the main reason my last band—DeLorean
Mechanics—came to an end at Garage Shock last May. Tom was a very
adventurous man who had been my bass player and at the time when I had
been trying to replace drummer Dave Cameron whose personal schedule
had been getting tighter and tighter, Tom announced his imminent and
unexpected departure so I decided to pull the plug on the whole operation.
Too bad. It was lotsa fun while it lasted. Also, Ms. Xanna Don't had
moved there with her wife Anne earlier this year and she managed to
track me down. She's a great singer who was doing a country/rockabilly
thang in Austin and it was a few years ago that she recruited me to
join in on some shows. We did a really fun hoot tribute to the Brian
Jones-era Stones once at the Continental Club. So yeah, I guess I can
say I had a whole crew there at King's. Xanna brought a great jar of
flowers for both me and Watt and I made sure to enshrine them prominently
onstage during both of our sets. The opening band really sparked me
up and once onstage I was really ON cuz the audience was down with it
as well. Damn! These are the kind of nights I live for! Once again,
it's a wonderful life!
Now then... Tom and Susan are complete, utter, dedicated Nascar aficionados.
His favorite driver is #24, Jeff Gordon, while hers is #28, Ricky Rudd,
and they have all the fan paraphernalia that befits the obsession. No,
I'm not talking about the cheesy stuff you can buy at any convenience
store; they've been to the tracks and the races and have gotten all
this stuff directly from the official sources. Most impressive—and
this will underline my declaration of their fanaticism—are the
two Goodyear tires that were purchased directly off their drivers' cars.
It's not known if these shoes were actually in races or if they were
used in practice or qualifying, but that doesn't matter. They were absolutely
scrubbed around a track by Gordon and Rudd and that's that! In paraphrase
of an old Chuck Berry song, "It was a Nascar wedding and the old folks
wished them well..." And if anyone cares to see the proof of what I'm
saying here, check out Nascar Winston Cup Scene, the fanzine dedicated
to this fanaticism and there in volume 25, issue #46 (March 28, 2002)
on page 70 you will see and there they will be, submitted for your approval.
Back on the track, I made the short haul up to Richmond where the race
we had watched on TV had just finished (it had been rained out in the
early laps on saturday and we were all overjoyed to watch it broadcast
live on sunday while we sipped coffee off a table held up by two famous
tires). On a gas stop, I couldn't help but buy a #28 Bic lighter (sure,
call me cheesy), I needed a lighter, I woulda bought a #24 too but they
didn't have one in stock. Further up the road I passed numerous 18-wheelers
that obviously belonged to various race teams and venders who had just
left the track and were heading south. I take it that Poe's Pub was
named in honor of Edgar Allen, whose museum was not far from it. I got
right down to some repairs because another fiddola string broke in Raleigh.
Would this be a trend for the rest of the trip? Ironically, it was a
G which gave me a chance to use that extra mispackaged string and, thankfully,
no other wires popped on me the rest of the tour. But it sure put me
in a hyper-careful state of mind that, if it didn't affect my performance,
it certainly made me avoid excessive attack on the instrument. After
the fix, I joined Jerry for some chimping and after that I made a phone
call to Suzi Gardner to use up some of my minutes. She delivered the
message to tell Watt and all the folks to "...behave themselves or
I'll come out there and kick everyone's asses!" The message was
taken to heart cuz folks definitely behaved in a manner befitting the
situation. This night when I played "Ministry of Funny Dances" I had
two folks who cut inspired rugs which launched me into a mic-in-hand
venture out into the crowd to vote for "couple #1" or "couple #2." Yeah,
fun! And when Watt's crew took the stage the crowd was pretty worked
up and, no shit, it was like one of those shows back in the old days
where the crowd excitedly pushed its way right up to the stage with
sweaty smiles and no desire to stand still at all. This, my friends,
is what rock & roll was always about and I felt damned proud to still
be a part of it! The down side was that some of my mersh got trampled
upon and baptized with water and beer but miraculously it all survived
the stampede (praise the lord for shrink wrap!) and the one 7" that
almost didn't survive got signed and dated and sold at a subsequent
show. Shazam!
My good friend Molly showed up and she took me over to her granny's
house just outside the city later to sleep. I'm very appreciative of
any safe port in the storm and I find it a little funny how some people
will get very apologetic about only being able to offer a couch with
blankets and pillows. My god, this is the lap of luxury for me! It's
indoors, it's safe, it's warm, I'm not having to unload the whole car
for fear of theft... what else can a man want? A sleeping bag on a dry
floor makes me thankful, a couch makes me grateful, a bed makes me get
down on my knees and pray. I realize I'm a very lucky person to have
any of these on such a tour and doubly lucky to be able to wake into
a new day and give thanks for it. No, most folks in this country don't
think about these simple essentials. That's their loss. I'm convinced
that the only way to truly get a feel for this great land of ours is
to drive (or walk or bike), not fly, and get close to the people and
the fields and the rivers and the peaks and the bridges and all the
other things I could go on and on about. I'm not a flag waver, I don't
value that at all. My allegiance is to the people who wake into an American
day and struggle to do something right for themselves and for others.
We may not all agree with each other on what is right but when has there
ever been a time in history when we all did agree unequivically? It's
not a myth that sane, honest people can work out their differences.
It's also not a myth that the politicians and big corporations should
do more to leave the people and the country alone!
Leaving Molly's granny's house I stopped off at a post office and sent
more cash home to my bank, and back in Richmond I found a great diner
that Molly recommended and had a good old-fashioned sit down omelet
and grits breakfast. Damn, I love grits! And sometimes there's nothing
like a good, hot plate of breakfast to do some chimping by. Up the road
to DC was uneventful but as I crossed the river into town, I passed
the Pentagon and saw what I think was the point of 9-11 impact. DC is
definitely not a fun city to drive in. The roads are a mess and will
probably never be repaired, neither will the roads in Chicago or New
York. Well, that's life and it's life that makes me wish I had an automatic
transmission whenever I drive in these urbs. The Black Cat was easy
to find and I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had beat the Boat
there. There was no chance of getting in the place to chill til later
and there was a laundromat directly across the street so..... it was
time to do some sudsing. It was expensive sudsing but sometimes ya just
gotta do whatcha gotta do and when on the road you don't always have
ideal choices in this regard. If I had thought about it saturday night
in Raleigh I could have done this chore at Tom and Susan's house and
saved a buncha quarters (not to mention having to feed the parking meter
in front of the club). At least I was able to do more chimping while
the clothes were swimming.
It was monday night and Watt called this show a "character building
event" due to what I thought was the rather low turnout. A couple of
days later I found out he may have been referring to something D. Boon
had said about how playing in DC puts you as close as possible to having
your words and ideas heard by the people in power. It's an optimistic
thought at best but it is a real ideal to consider. For this reason
Mike said it was a difficult show for him to play on an emotional level.
Other than that it wasn't a bad show at all. The room was huge and at
first I had a hard time feeling like I was getting over to the distant
audience but after a few tunes it proved not to be a detrimental factor.
Early in the set I broke a string on the Takamine and had to derail
into territory yet untouched on the tour. Luckily, the soundman Doug
saved my ass when he rushed onstage and offered to change the string
for me while I played the Strat. When all was fixed I went back to the
previously scheduled program but realized I was kinda lost in my set
and didn't really know where I was—by this stage of the tour I
was on auto-pilot and was no longer thinking about the set in a linear
fashion. So more than likely I played past my time but the old man didn't
say anything about it. Ha! Shit happens!
One really cool thing about the gig was the fact that Doug, aside from
being a very easy to deal with soundman, was a tenor banjo player! Fancy
that! AND after some banjo talk we got on the subject of cars and wouldn'tcha
know it, he was an aficionado of the good ol' Datsun 510! Damn! Then
we really got to yakkin'! He still wants to kick himself in the ass
for ever getting rid of the 510 he had years ago. I've never had a 510
myself but I've always known what a great car it was—a veritable
poor man's BMW that with the right performance mods can routinely eat
beemers for lunch. A friend in Austin has an old (non-running, I'm sure)
510 sitting in his yard that he says he'd be willing to let me tow away
and get it out of his misery. I wring my hands with glee!
After the show, Alec MacKaye, Ian's younger brother, came up and reminded
me of the night some 20 years ago when we met during that fledgling
DC straightedge/hardcore scene and the next day I went with him and
Ian and some other guys over to the pet store where I got all my hair
chopped away with the infamous dog clippers. Ian woulda been at the
show but he was in New Orleans enjoying JazzFest. Alec put us up at
his house that night and it was pure hell trying to find a place to
park in the neighborhood. I must've driven around close to an hour to
only find spaces that were almost big enough for me to squeeze into.
Damn! Eventually, I found a street a few blocks away that had plenty
of parking available but only because no parking was allowed between
the hours of 7:00 and 9:30 am. I figured that an alarm clock could hurt
me but it wouldn't kill me. Graciously, Alec offered to move the car
for me at 7:00 since he usually woke up at that time anyway and parking
would start opening up on his block then. OK, twist my arm! When a man
who owns a 1947 Indian motorcycle offers this amenity the wise man does
not turn it down... especially if he wants to sleep. Thanks, Alec. It
was definitely a beautiful morning the next day because of this and
because of the continuing trend of cooler weather. And Alec and his
wife Lely are gonna be parents in about 5 or 6 months. A lucky baby
that gets to play around a '47 Indian and all the other stuff they have
stashed in the basement.
Somehow I screwed up the directions to the highway and ended up doing
some sight-seeing, maybe seeing more of DC than I ever wanted to see.
At least, in my errant path, I passed right by the National Public Radio
building but successfully fought the urge to go inside and demand Terry
Gross' phone number since I was wondering if she had heard anything
from "The Tongue", aka Gene Simmons. And hell, I'd be in Philly in a
coupla days. I would've loved to have met Bob Edwards too since I mention
him in my song "If You Don't Like Me Now" and I once wrote him a letter
thanking him for his book "Fridays With Red", his tribute to Red Barber.
If you like baseball and broadcasting it's a great read. Arriving in
Baltimore I discovered that the Ottobar had indeed moved to a new location.
I had played at the old location about three times and was happy to
see that they had really come uptown with the new building. Nothing
against the old and funky but their old and funky had become a liability
and the new place was a big improvement that didn't lack character.
Hooray! And the beautiful Tekla is now a beautiful expectant mom! This
show goes down as one of the best shows of the tour, hands down. It
may have been the best but I refuse to make that assertion about any
individual performance because it's too subjective to gauge. But when
most of the room starts clapping along with "The Ministry of Funny Dances"—and
in perfect rhythm, mind you—and doesn't stop til the tune is finished...
well, gee, that's a bonafide watermark event! The only thing better
would be a whole room dancing! It could happen!
We stayed at the loft of Baby Leg, one of the bartenders, a place where
the wooden stairways leading up to the entrance are some of the steepest
you can imagine in both directions. Eek! The next day I took his advice
and ate at the Golden West Cafe up the street where I had a fantastic
dish of huevos with corn cakes, beans, feta cheese and fried bananas.
I hadn't had fried bananas in a long time and had forgotten how delicious
they are. This meal rocked like a hurricane and it was one of the most
beautiful days of the trip! Eating out on the front porch I got some
serious chimping done against a backdrop of a clear, blue sky through
which warm sunlight dripped like massage oil and suddenly the cool breeze
blew her my way... Omigod! The porch extended to my left across the
front of the adjoining stores and about 100 feet down she stepped up
onto it. A metal railing separated each store's porch space from its
neighbors' and deliberately, one by one, she climbed over each partition
delivering letters and packages into the appropriate mailboxes and some
might say that it was the weather, some might say it was spring fever,
some might say it was just a notion, but I might say I was smitten by
the most gorgeous mailwoman on the east coast who was getting closer
and closer to where I sat... a lump in my throat... a weakness in my
arms... omigod! what'll I do now? She skipped the cafe's mailbox but
when she stepped onto the porch to my right she smiled at me and said,
"I wish I had worn my shorts today. It's too warm for long pants!"
I agreed and told her she should bring them with her the next day in
case the weather turns out the same. Smiling again, she bade me adieu
and went back to her appointed rounds which took her out of my sight
but before long she came back into view delivering to the other side
of the street. Omigod! I could have watched her all day, but then I'm
a sucker for a woman in uniform.
Back on the highway to Philadelphia and my last show of the Watt tour.
Philly is another city whose streets will never be repaired (not quite
as bad as DC or Chicago) or maybe it's just time for new shocks. The
Khyber is another club that demands meter feeding if you're fortunate
enough to get a space directly out front as I did. I decided not to
soundcheck since the time would be better spent dozing upstairs in anticipation
of driving to Charlottesville right after the show. Strangely, this
was one of those shows where I had a hard time telling how the audience
was receiving it. But once again, an unfounded fear. The place was packed,
it was just a more reserved audience than at the last few. And then
again there was a loud band on just before me and I think that's a factor
which throughout the stint I never looked at all that closely. Actually,
it's been hard for me to comment on the opening bands. On some shows
I've been the only opener and on those shows where there's been an opener
it hasn't always been possible for me to listen to them. Mostly because
these are the minutes when I need to mentally concentrate or catch those
last few minutes of rest. I'm sure that lots of folks will think "how
hard can it be as a solo acoustic opener?" Well, lemme tell ya. It ain't
easy. Firstly, two guitars (acoustic and electric) and a tenor banjo
make for critical tuning up and acoustic instruments on the road are
subject to unstable tuning from gig to gig due to temperature, humidity,
road vibrations, etc. The banjo is especially quirky—it's impossible
to pre-tune for the stage; it can be put into pitch but it really needs
to be tuned at the exact moment it's used. That's just the nature of
the beast. Let's face it, solid body instruments are much more stable
in the intonation department. On past tours I would let instruments
go for days before checking the overall pitch since I didn't have to
be in tune with anyone else, but this time I diligently checked and
adjusted before each show. I think it paid off. Secondly, I need to
protect my ears. Earplugs are absolutely mandatory because the loud
environment of most clubs can really deaden your ears and getting on
stage to play an acoustic set with ringing ears is the kiss of death.
Thirdly, I'm the only one up there and and there's no one else to lean
on either rhythmically or melodically if things start falling apart.
So yeah, it's tough, and I challenge anyone to walk onstage alone after
a loud band has blasted and then play this kind of set. I'm not bragging
here, but after years of doing this for both appreciative and hostile
audiences I do know what I'm talking about.
Anyway, most of the opening bands have become a blur. I mean no disrespect
to any of them but that's the nature of being on the road day after
day and this is a detail that, unfortunately, doesn't stick too well.
DeVotchka stood out in Santa Fe because of their middle eastern bent;
I remember the band in Lubbock but don't recall their name; likewise,
the opener in Tallahassee; EMA in Jacksonville were memorable; the guys
in the countrybilly band in Charleston knew a bunch of the same folks
I know in Austin and I told them to call me when they play at the Continental
Club; Fling (Columbia) was a kinda hybrid pop outfit that had one of
those sounds I can't describe; Ladies Choice in Atlanta had a cool soundtrack/surf/jazz
thang going on; and, of course, Baamphf! in Raleigh was great even if
they did go on a little late!
So in Philly all was good, all was fine, and something about the routineness
of the night made me want to beat a quick path out of the city so there
could be no long goodbyes. When the job is done it's done and there's
no need to anticipate it being any more than that. It was a good tour
and I truly hope the guys keep the ship afloat and sailing through calm
seas. One night Watt and I characterized touring as "hills and valleys"
or more precisely, "valleys and hills." Thankfully oars can become wings
and, Sirens, Cyclops, Laestrygonians, Scylla and Suitors aside, the
sea is just a wider river across which the bridge is the bouyancy of
your own thoughts and I'd say something about the deathless gods and
Watt as Odysseus here but... nah, that'd just be silly. He tried to
talk me out of the late night trek to Charlottesville but I was resolved
to pull anchor and I felt good and alert. Smooth sailing Watt, Jerry,
Pete, and thanks for all the fish!
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