Wednesday October 16, 2002 [Club Passim, Cambridge MA]:
A benefit is typically only as successful as (A.) It's headliner or (B.)
It's producer. In this case there is no headliner and the producer is
one of those community characters who got an idea in his head.
There's a smaller crowd for a benefit than I'm sure he hoped.
At a benefit with a smaller crowd, there are two kinds of performers. I
watch from the back row as the kind of musician who chooses to point
out the size of the audience crucifies himself by recommending that
"at least you folks are here." There should be a little rule card handed
out to some of these cats before shows. Don't diminish the
accomplishment of an attendant audience.
I'm, again, the only folk singer drinking whiskey in this joint. What
happened to us?
A fellow Dylan listener, Chris Elliott and I talk about the talking blues in the
green room. I tell him I think it's the great unused song-structure of the late 20th/early 21st century. He worries that people will associate the songwriter with Dylan immediately. I think he's right. It's important to not fall into the Dylan-trap. Write about stuff people will recognize and maybe they'll dismiss the similarity (although lately, I've come to think that a contemporary folk audience may not have heard Dylan's talking blues). We hang out after the show and he tells me about his 450 Dylan bootlegs. He says he hasn't had a chance to listen to them all.
Friday October 18, 2002 [Fire & Water Café, Cambridge MA]:
It's a neat night in Noho. I play for a modest room at the very un-rock-n'-roll hour of 7 o'clock. Almost everyone here is a new face, but totally absorbed in whatever it is I do. That's good for me and apparently good for them. The owner comes up on the performance space at the end of my set. I have no idea what he's doing. He tells the room that the Fire & Water is closing soon (at the end of November) and that he wants to get me back one more time before that happens. The place seems to think so too. I slip away and pack up.
In line for food, a woman from the room tells me that she "doesn't get much of that kind of folk" in her world. I ask her what she means. She tells me I'm edgy. I tell her I learned folk music from Dan Bern and mid-1960s Dylan records. She nods and tells me I'm good and drifts back to the room. Later I discover that she's here to see Deb Pasternak.
I talk with a friend and colleague, Joe. We discuss quantity of audience versus quality of audience. Joe's just embarked on a solo career after playing in a duo with a decent draw in these parts. He's experiencing a reset of the quantity of audience equation. He tells me he's changed his value system and it matters more to him that people "get it." I guess that is pretty much something you'd hope for in this gig.
Meanwhile, as someone looks at my CDs the act on after me is announcing that those aren't his CDs, but mine. The person puts the CD down and walks over to the other merchandise table. He proceeds and forgets some more lyrics to his songs.
Saturday October 19, 2002 [Java Hut, Worcester MA]:
The stage is so draped in theatrical cobweb that my head keeps snagging strands and I'm trailing wispy white thread. Same with the machines on the headstock of the guitar. It's a little much, but I do sort of groove on playing under this Canopy of Dracula.
It's a great night in Worcester. A ton of people turn out, and the room is attentive and active with the music all the way through. I'm trying to emphasize some surprises in the song lists right now, because with new cities, I'll want to drive some of the staples home. Later, one of the guys in the audience thanks me for surprising him. I like that. That's when I'm into a show, when the writer is pulling out all the stops and throwing in rare stuff and little diversions into other songs and all that.
I drive to Leominster after this. I half decide to make it back to Boston, to sneak one more night in my own bed but I'm glad I don't. I spend the majority of the next day buying a cel-phone and waiting for the rep to enter the contract.
Sunday October 20, 2002 [Radio Bean Café, Burlington VT]
Well, this is one of those shows that my manager would say forget about it and don't tell your readers about this shit. But the whole point of these tour diaries is to lay it on the line and paint an honest picture of what this touring songwriter sees and feels and, sometimes, endures. Besides, I am my manager, so the motion to surpress is overruled.
It's a nice drive. Just over 3.5 hours from Leominster to Burlington. The sun sets over the Green Mountains and I try to snap a digi-shot from the driver's window. The camera is acting up, so we'll see if it comes through. It's one of those bruise-colored sunsets that lingers until it turns to copper and darkens to nothing.
An old friend, a long time back, warned me about Vermont. She told me that beneath the veneer of of educated hippy there lurks a brutality. Thus far, Burlington drivers suck but that's about it for brutality.
The Radio Bean is incredibly cozy and ultra-hip. It's a backwoods-baroque hippy wine bar a haven for studying students and elitist white people. Beneath the rustic, Janis Joplin frills there's a whiff of J.Crew. Shannon, the bartender/barista is very nice and helpful; but then, she's paid to be that way. Rose Polenzani's in town and she's left me a postcard with a polite hello and promise of a later visit. She's playing a rock club up the street.
The room is in flux up to the point of show. People grabbing take-out coffee and some kind of obsession with hot chocolate by the crunchy girls that come in pairs. The haunting review by a colleague, via Mary: "Radio Bean is kind of lame." I'm thinking it might be a set up. Thinking of Mary, I make a mental note to touch bases with here about Indianapolis details. My radar is blipping about that show, for whatever reason.
This can be the hardest shit, ever. Complete nudity in travel. Exposure to the socio-psyco-economic elements. I'm a writer, on the road without a safety. No fall backs. It's time to play.
It's a rather strange, largely fruitless effort. I play well, and later find out that Shannon made a CD-R of the show. That's something good.
The room is full of that weird vibe I'd previously only known in Northampton. Affected, wealthy people without a shred of hunger. I play my heart out to them and get a few to laugh and watch and tap their feet. Someone, a college guy with one of those scraggily bookish good looks who wear fleece and a scarf and pre-faded work jeans, actually huffs when I send the tip hat out to the room. Nobody donates. Not one of them. They listen and mildly react and contribute no money to the performer's hat. I sell nothing, I make a couple of bucks from Shannon, who puts 5 one-dollar bills in the hat. She's marked each of them with a black Sharpie. They now read things like, "ENJOY BURLINGTON!", and "THANKS JAMES!". I feel sheepish spending them later and try to hand them to clerks writing side down.
I stay to hear the next guy, a Burlington lad recently transplanted to NYC. They watch him and are as appreciative. Some of the people who come in between our sets are his family. He plays a long set of Dylan-esque material and he's even dressed the part with a big shock of curly hair and a hobo's hat right out of 1963. He's technically very proficient. Rose and her ambiguous friend come in and we chat and eat a brownie and I drink some wine. Later, I think about splitting a hotel room with them. I decide to be alone for the night and drive out of Burlington at midnight. I drive until 2.30 and camp in my truck at the junction of 22A and 4, next to the Vermont-New York border. The stop is nice, it has showers. Score one for the home team.
Monday October 21, 2002 [Happy Endings Coffeehouse, Syracuse NY]:
Woke up around 8.30, dozed until 9.30 and then took a shower at this very plush truckers' stop in Fair Haven, Vermont (or close to, anyway). Had to buy a bar of soap, which I left behind. It would have been a mess to keep it in the truck. Don't know if I'd use a bar of left-behind soap but maybe somebody else will. Cleanliness karma.
Arrived in Syracuse at 2.45. It seems that everyone on the road is out of patience with everyone else. Maybe it's this way all the time and I'm just sensitive to it these days.
Found a Kinko's in Dewitt, one town over. Spent a hour answering emails and trying to work on a tour with Michael McDermott in February.
After paying the internet fee at Kinko's I'm pretty much out of in-hand funds. I stop at a gas station and try to withdraw from the ATM. No go. I call the bank and they tell me some funds will clear at midnight. Until then I have a whopping $19. If I can get through tonight, and on to Buffalo, I might be alright.
I've been worried about Syracuse from the beginning. I've never played this town, and I'm starting with the biggest room a 120 seater at $5 at ticket with a theater-style listening room that's removed from the café by heavy oak doors. If I don't draw it's a complete bust. I've worked hard to get radio and newspaper plugs, and have had some modest success in that effort.
Happy Endings is owned by a woman in her sixties, named Shelby. She's super-nice and offers me chicken stew. I don't eat the stew, but I do spend some time putting up flyers. The room made me postcards, which they've distributed over the previous two weeks. They're very snappy postcards. John, her son, looks like Matt Pinfield from MTV. He's one of those upbeat, pro-musician guys and he runs a quick, clean, dead-on sound check that proves them both right; the room sounds wonderful.
Later, in a classic folk-music moment, the surly guy at the café counter answers the phone. It's clearly a call about tonight's show. He starts squinting at the show-board hanging in the café, and then peering at the postcards for my show. Finally, he says, "Yeah he's here tonight." Long pause. "I don't know," he answers the caller. "He's just an artist."
Oh yeah! That's how you sell a show!
In another brilliant moment for our barista, I approach and say hello. I ask him his name. He squints at me and shows me the palms of his hands.
"Why?" he sneers.
I say, "Because I'm the performer here tonight, and I thought I'd say hello to you." He tries to backpedal and pretends nothing happened.
I pat the counter gently and smile. "I'm good, thanks." I say it slowly and walk back into the theater.
All this evaporates. The show goes very well. Somehow, a few people turn out and I start the show in the café part of the club, leading the audience (for what it is) into the theater. I play a forceful set, leaning into every ounce of melody I can muster. I want these people to have the show of their week, just them and me and the idea that you give 100% no matter what. We have a really intimate time, and the theater seems to love us, allowing for bang, crash and stomp, as well as subtleties and rich, quiet moments that just hang there like planets. I keep it succinct. Just an hour or so, I think. I want it to be perfect, no mess ups, no overextensions to wear us out. I'm playing to wipe out Burlington, and to carve into Syracuse.
After the show, Shelby's all charged up. She tells everyone how many opening slots she's going to give me and how the room will be full for me and how they'll grow me and I'm in total agreement, of course. It's really a songwriter's fantasy, to be adopted after one listen. I take it for what it is; it feels wonderful. I leave recharged and with some funds to fill my Jeep's gas tank too.
Tuesday October 22, 2001 [Coffeebean Café, Buffalo NY]
This one is a reward. It's a reward for tolerating constantly confusing people. The longer you grow, the more people you know, the greater the odds you'll meet someone (or a number of someones) with crippled minds and crippled hearts.
In this business, there are oceans of cripple minds and crippled hearts. I'm trying, always, to not navigate other people's mine fields and psychological mazes. I've chosen the mother of all jobs, my friends.
After an afternoon of freaking out about these matters I get a show to regenerate the damaged tissue. I play the Coffeebean unplugged (it's a small enough listening room and the tile floors send the sound to the ear with a warm, natural reverb). Tonight, I've almost single-handedly filled the performance space.
Oddly, when this happens I just feel relaxed. The arithmetic subsides and fades and what's left is the art. Ideally, this is the way it should happen, I think. I give a gift back to them, for answering an unvoiced appeal they gave me a show that was pure, without intrusion. I've come to know a lot of these people. There's the Koch brothers, who showed up one St. Patrick's day because I was the only overtly Irish name in the club listings. There's Lynsey, who sings along and feeds me with uninterrupted attention. Lizz, a painter with a game plan. There are the regulars I haven't learned everything about, the faces that come back each time who need/want nothing other than the songs. I thank them and they thank me and a few of us drift off into Buffalo for whiskey and the sorting out of the things we see and do.
Friday October 25, 2002 [The Barking Spider, Cleveland OH]:
Long, gray day of rain. I follow the curve of Lake Erie and end the road in Cleveland's university district. The Barking Spider is tucked away behind brick frat houses and wide green lawns. Martin runs the joint, he's a silverback hippy with a giant thirst for the drink he sells. I find him working away at getting a fire going for the evening. This turns out to be the absolute definition of the man. A drink-monster with a caretaker's heart.
I float through the art museum for the afternoon. I start with Warhol and Pollack. My conversation with Elizabeth comes back. I'm searching for male voices in America. I want to hear about this mess we're in without the interruptions of safe language. I want to get the belly full of the mind.
I eat the best meal of the week at this Mexican place that Martin recommends. Piles of hot tostados, green and red salsa, spicy pickled carrots. Soft cheese quesadillas with poblemo peppers and rice and refried beans. A huge mug of sangria. I'm full too quick, though. I haven't eaten this way in too long to even polish off the plate.
The show is one of those moments. The barriers come down. This woman, in business attire, is clearly stirred up and she wants to play harp. I take a chance and let her. Sometimes she's even okay at it. It draws the whole room into a fabric. I try to imagine what they saw this shaved little tornado and the office dress code sidekick. We stand back to back and wail the songs into the darkness. The room fills as I go. Later, the woman tries to get me to agree to marry her sister, who she tells me is a model. I sign her CD.
Another face from Boston in the room. Ben, friend of Gwen, from Brandeis University. Ben watches my show and two full sets of the sloppy Dylan cover band that follows. I ask Ben if he's a Dylan fanatic. He says he never heard much before. I jot down some records for him to check out, horrified that this is his introduction.
Later, staying at Martin's we look at old photos from 1969 when he fled the country for India, Pakistan, Afghanistan. This reminds me of the old guy who used to run Mother Earth's in Albany. There must be thousands of these guys, derelict vessels. They used to run with these big ideals and now they try to keep it alive in tiny taverns in college towns far enough away from the grid to avoid detection. Except Martin is closer to the real deal. He's still marginally in touch with reality and he's a no-bullshit character. I sleep forever on his couch and wake up and eat a sandwich and drive on to Michigan.
Saturday October 26, 2002 [Rubber Soul, Ypsilanti MI]:
The weather breaks by mid-afternoon. The record store I'm supposed to play at is a funky, little indie place with a Hi-Fidelity vibe. Wil, the guy working it, guides me to a little pub for some food. I hit a Kinko's in Ann Arbor, eat, and then play to one very passionate listener.
It's an hour and change of show, and the guy listening buys a record and the whole thing is fine, okay. Wil pays me out from the register. He's very apologetic and tells me that the store doesn't usually have music on Saturday nights. He describes how packed it is on Friday nights, with all their regulars. The listener tells me he wants to help promote my next Ann Arbor area show. Wil invites me to a party.
Never feeling this appreciated at a light gig before, I roll off into the heart of Michigan at night. I crash out at a sketchy gas station parking lot somewhere near the Michigan-Indiana border. I have a panic attack in dark. I'm sure my career is an act of will. I talk with Karaugh in the dark, and my heart begins to beat normally again. I sleep and wake up to a pale yellow sky. I drive to Indiana.
Sunday October 27, 2002 [Off-Day, Indianapolis IN]:
The peculiar thing about the off-day is its divided possibility. On the one hand one might work hard and find a productive way to promote the next show at a local open mic. On the other hand, one might unplug and hide from the world of performance for the night.
I split the difference. I crawl into a hotel room around 11am and emerge only to eat lunch at a very technologically sophisticated sports bar next door. The rest of the day is pizza, whiskey, songwriting and the World Series. Salt that with a little Mel Gibson and Clint Eastwood cable movie action and I'm living it way down under the radar in Indianapolis, kids.
I get a decent song out tonight, and practice some unplayed new material. I don't think they'll make it out on this tour, but I like them and they're tamping down to finished status.
Monday October 28, 2002 [Cath Coffeehouse, Indianapolis IN]
I choose the Indianapolis Zoo today. It's Monday around noontime when I slip inside, and I have the first few hours to myself. A sad/beautiful thing animals protected and robbed of their real lives, simultaneously. I avoid the humans as much as possible; feeling suddenly misanthropic. I like to stay and watch the monkeys in silence. They preen and grab leaves through the fences. One of them lays out a handful of leaves and selects the ones she likes from the array.
The Cath Coffeehouse provides money to buy a meal at a Cajun joint named Yatz. I eat some amazing mushroom-spinach thing and read a copy of Atlantic monthly that concentrates on a post-American-invasion Iraq. I drink a whole bottle of mineral water.
The show starts out looking empty, with just my old friend Nathan from Boston turning out. His family lives around the corner, though, and soon the place is half full of the clan. What an amazing turn of luck.
For whatever reason perhaps it's because I play unplugged, perhaps it's because I was thrown by the initial emptiness of the room I remain mostly subdued during my set. I talk a lot and perform the songs well, but less aggressively than say @: The Barking Spider or even Happy Endings. It feels a lot like the house concert I did in Philadelphia earlier this year. The songs just fall out on the gentle side. When I try to push for aggression I don't feel right about it. I let it ride. Finally, I get "Sleep" to punch, then follow it up with a very subdued "Talking Two Drink Minimum". I brink it to a close, 90 minutes of O'Brien The Gentle. Later, the manager takes a photograph of me on a giant wooden rocking tiger. I put my harmonica in its mouth.
I get a beautiful bedroom to myself at the manager's house. She makes sure I have beer, internet and all the amenities. She's an old pro at this lots of musicians stay here. She has an amazing Pez Candy Dispenser collection.
Tuesday October 29, 2002 [Clifton's Pizza Company, Louisville KY]:
I'm thoroughly grumpy by the time I get to Louisville. It's cold and wet, again, and I'm hungry and tired from a long drive through the miserable weather. I park and crawl into what just happens to be the only vegetarian Asian restaurant in the city (or so the literature says). After some hot-and-sour soup and a spring roll, a big pot of green tea and some rice pudding I go back to the truck. I nap under the tarp in the back seat for 45 minutes and then load in to Clifton's.
Clifton's is a multi-level room, a bar and a restaurant combination. It's dimly lit and there are beat up old license plates bolted into the walls and floor. The stage is waiting, set up and ready. This is an enormous plus! Any sign the room cares, is a good sign.
I drink beer, watch the bartender struggle to make the heat work and watch the Kentuckyians grapple with a 39 degree cold snap in Louisville. Everyone prophesizes a gloomy show due to the weather. That seems to the be unofficial task of Midwestern venue staff. I ignore it and by eight we're on stage, seated. This is a song swap gig and the room has filled out nicely. We throw a variety of love-themed material around, that seems to be the recipe for the night. The one time I try out a harsh political song, a new one called "Fall Away" it really thumps the kitten. No one hates it, but the reaction is more "In your face!" than I'm used to this is a room looking for the heart. People keep buying me beers, which are delivered to the stage and the bartender whispers, "They really like you."
I'm very drunk by the end of the night. There are half a dozen empty mugs around my chair and I pack up and rumble off to the house I'm staying at. I discover that my hosts are sober alcoholics and I try really hard to not wobble around the kitchen.
Wednesday October 30, 2002 [The Quiet Storm, Pittsburgh PA]:
Hauling ass all the way back across the state of Ohio, I'm sloshed with rain, murk and dreary weather yet again. By the time I get to Pittsburgh I feel rather like someone has stuffed my pockets with wet washcloths.
From the outside, The Quiet Storm looks absolutely dismal. It looks like a nasty 1950s soup kitchen, complete with a generic white backlit sign. I'm fouled by this prospect. I just want it to be easy, tonight.
Inside, it's a different story. The room is large, unorthodox and retro in appearance. The stage is creatively laid out and the staff seem excited for the show (they are more enthusiastic once we discover that a local paper wrote a preview of the concert). Of course, I still get the "it's Wednesday night, so don't expect much" speech and the barista intercepts me at the door, thinking I'm stiffing him for the espresso. I explain that I'm the performer about whom the concert write-up was penned, and I point out the tip I left for him (which is at least equal to the actual price of the espresso). He backs off and seems genuinely embarrassed. I try to make it all okay and start loading in.
Thursday October 31, 2002 [Off Day, Philadelphia PA]:
The weather breaks. A brilliant, cold Thursday in Pittsburgh. I drive across the Appalachians, where clouds hug the peaks. It's a different kind of cloudy. No rain, but the trees and road signs are coated in ice. A half dozen tunnels and then a straight run past Harrisburg into Philadelphia. I meet Karaugh on South Street and we make a bee-line for the nearest Italian restaurant. Stuffed, we wander off to find Mary; my booking agent. Later, after drinks, we crash at the Permanent Records compound and wake up and eat breakfast and drive to Long Island.
Friday November 1, 2002 [Peacesmith's Coffeehouse, Amityville NY]:
It's a brutally long drive, and Karaugh's transmission acts up. We stop and I fiddle with the engine and her car reacts well. Still, we don't get into Amityville until after dark. Peacesmith's Coffeehouse is held in a small theatre-hall in a Methodist church. As we pull into the driveway next to the church, to load in, the reverend approaches me and asks, "Hello? What are we doing?" I bite my tongue as hard as I can and the coffeehouse manager hurries to intercept.
It's a long, hectic set up. Susan, who runs the coffeehouse, is very detail oriented. She also spends a part of the time worrying about turnout. Of course.
Originally we'd been told this was an unplugged gig. Karaugh and I try out our sounds in the hall, and I realize she'll never project to the back. I might, but I'll have to push really hard to make it happen. I change the plan and load in the amplifiers from my truck. This seems to concern Susan, but I know it will save the performances. Later, Karaugh uses the amplifiers but I do not.
Karaugh and I walk through Amityville in the dark. We find a little Italian pizza place and have ziti and wine in the back room. The girl who waits on us tells us that she's studying music at Freeport. I wish her luck and she says, "I don't expect to progress anywhere with it,though."
The show goes on for so much longer than anyone could have predicted. The official start time was listed at 8.30, but it starts at 9. Karaugh plays and we're on time. Her set is phenomenal. She delivers a textures, ascending list of songs that really captivate the room. Then we take a break. Then we hear announcements. Then somebody dances. Then a local Green Part candidate stands up and talks. Then his kid plays the cello, out of tune. Then the poet begins. It's closing in on 11 o'clock. I start, finally at 11:10. I play unplugged and move throughout the room, looking for places to connect. I see it in their faces. There are smiles, closed eyes, nodding heads. Despite all the waiting and diffusion of purpose, the show comes together and the night ends on a high note.
On the way home I talk with our host, who's a sort of disgruntled Long Island liberal. He tells me how difficult it is to raise biracial kids in Freeport. At his house we get a comfortable private room and a hot shower the next day. He makes us Nicaraguan coffee and fresh bagels. We like the coffee so much that he gives us a mustard jar of it. He tells us that his brother-in-law is the source, in Nicaragua. He says that the coffee farm will probably vanish soon, as Nicaraguan coffee is out-priced by the giant importers.
Saturday November 2, 2002 [Postcrypt, New York NY]:
An easy drive into the city. We park near Columbia University and plug six hours worth of quarters into the meters. A short subway ride and a walk across Central Park gets us to the Met. We buy pizza and chips and juice at a grocery and I hide a huge chunk of chocolate cake away for later. After eating, we fork over the $13 admissions and wander the paintings. Usually I get tired in a museum before Karaugh. I guess I've worked my stamina up over this run, so I outlast her. We head back uptown and eat again and read in her car until it's time to go inside.
The time before the show seems to pass in spurts. I spend a good deal of time in the back room figuring out what to play. I haven't thought about it at all for a while, but I'm performing for people who know the material and have watched me along the way tonight. I'd prefer to nail it from the start.
When I hit the room, it's full. More people come in during the set. I seem to play forever, but later work out that I managed about eight songs. How does that happen?
Friends find me and we spend some time in the back area going over life since the last time. I'm tired and can't believe it's four hours of driving before my bed and home. My body feels thin, flat, worn through. We pack up and spiral out of the tangle of Parkways that make up the northern part of the island. Then it's the weird endless trees of Route 15 and the fits and starts of the unevenly exited 84. Sometime around 4am I'm drifting back to sleep. My body will take 48hours to recover, and a virus will wreak havoc with my muscles and digestion.
