Hollywood, CA – “Something to Prove at The Troubadour” – October 20, 1999

After the show in Santa Barbara (where I’d narrowly missed being assaulted in an alleyway), a two-day break was exactly what the doctor ordered.  The whole band was itching for some R&R and after a late night loading out under a yellow flickering street lamp, we each went our separate ways for a mini-break.  Kipp and I fluttered back down the coast to LA for a romantic getaway on our film producer friend Geyer Kosinski’s couch.  Geyer always puts us up when we’re in LaLa Land claiming he doesn’t mind stepping over my guitar case to get into his kitchen.  Despite the lack of privacy, it was blissful to swim in Kipps beefy arms and sleep for hours against the cool leather of Geyer’s couch.

On a hot and sticky Wednesday night, Santa Monica Boulevard snaked Kipp’s silver rental towards West Hollywood. I couldn’t tame the butterflies dancing in my stomach.  Even after a shot of tequila at the bar and a sandwich Brian and Kenny made me eat in the dressing room, I was still a wreck.  My mom and dad have banked so much history in The Troubadour’s dark electric walls, it’s impossible not to feel I have something to prove.  To make matters worse, this time, we were headlining.

By nine the house was packed— a noteworthy feat for a Wednesday night in October which I attributed to Kipp and Geyer’s shameless promotion. Our opening act was a trio out of Vancouver who, unable to secure a US work permit before the gig, were forced to leave Canada with nothing but the clothes on their backs and rent some cheap musical equipment when they landed in LA. The lead singer, Kristy Thirsk, was a pretty little thing with red manic-dyed streaks in her hair.  She wore a tiny vintage lace dress with platform combat boots. Fifteen minutes before she took the stage, Kristy dashed into our dressing room with a panicked expression and some caked-on eyelash glue drowning her left lashes.

“I can’t get this one on!” She panicked in my direction. I thought she might cry.

“Let me see,” I said inspecting the gluey webbing mess on her eye.  With a motherly touch, I led her down the hall to a heavily graffitied bathroom.

“Want me to fix it?” I asked. She shook her head yes and closed her eyes.  I plucked the metallic pink lash from her dainty white fingers and pushed it into the cobweb of ropey glue all the while reassuring her, “Don’t worry, I used to be in a disco band.”

“Thanks,” she said leaning into the frosted mirror, staring at her reflection between a multitude of penises etched into the glass.  She sighed, covered her lids with glitter, and like a pro, grabbed her ax and took the stage.  She rocked!  Emily and Carols, the second act, were great as usual.  We’d played with them our first time at The Troubadour — the time my mom and brother surprised me on stage—you know, the best night of my life.

Although nothing will ever top that first gig, last night was outstanding. I’ve always dismissed LA and NY as jaded, where people seem disinclined to see live music unless there’s something in it for them. But last night I changed my mind. People listened to the music. They watched intently. They weren’t scanning the crowd for famous faces or industry leaders who might elevate their careers. They were there to have fun and enjoy some live music. Needless to say, this made me very happy.

After the show, Emily and Carols insisted we go to a dive bar around the corner for tequila shots. The boys (who would have followed Emily to hell and back) went out, but Kipp and I were tired, and Geyer’s couch was calling.

Outside, on a grimy, early-morning curb, littered with cigarette butts, Brian and I walked east on Santa Monica Boulevard (he to the bar, me to Kipp’s car).  Looking down the row of lights lining the avenue he asked “How much further does this street go?”

“To New York,” I said slipping my capo into my front pocket, throwing my guitar case into the back seat, and hopping into the passenger side of Kipp’s car. Blowing Brian a kiss out the window, I pulled into the empty early morning street.  The strands of lights in the distance turned into a dazzling necklace.  I was asleep before the last star removed its pinprick from the sky.