San Juan Capistrano, CA – “YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY UP” – The Coach House – October 21, 1999

We loaded out into a cold windless late night through sprinklers that sprayed cold misty water at our shins and soaked my dress to dripping. Exhausted, I shoved the last of the instruments in the back and slammed the cargo door. after drying my ankles, I climbed past a spiderweb of seatbelts into the bowels of the van to lie down.

As we pulled out onto the road, I heard the boys see something moving across the highway. “BUNNY!” They all shouted with glee as the small rabbit dashed safely across the street. But, just when they were sure it was gonna stay put, it dashed under the right car wheel and crushed itself. It was a horrible sound. “UUUUHHHHGGGGGG!!!” They all shouted. I told Delucchi (who definitely was not to blame for its death) that he had to drink the skunky Bud this tour. We all fell silent, mourning the little bunny’s tragic end. But why, I wondered, do we care more about this bunny’s death than about the 100s of moths that splat against the windshield? Or about a dog than a 1000-year-old tree? These were the thoughts I chewed on as our bodies were thrust at 95 miles per hour down the highway smashing up against our own destinies.

The Road
The Road
We’re out here on the road
In the middle of nothing, we’re headed nowhere
In this space that glitters gold
Conversing with angels who try to convince us
that we are not alone
And the devils that sit on the dueling shoulder
Who’d try to send us home.

As sleep reeled me in, I thought back to the concert we’d just given. Overall, I thought it was a success. It began with a painless 45-minute drive down the coast with Kipp, putting us into San Juan Capistrano by early evening.

The rest of the band was late. Kipp sat down outside on a curb and talked too loudly on his cell phone. I laughed, watching him trying to score a ray of sunshine between glacial, iceberg-like cumulus clouds. I left him outside to investigate the venue. Contrasted against the 95-degree day outside, the Coach House was a cave—dark and cool. it took a moment to adjust my eyes but as my sight calibrated, the room appeared. It spread out in a red array of chairs and balconies. The walls were plastered with black and white autographed 8X10s, not unusual for a venue save that EVERY SINGLE ONE of the faces was someone extremely famous. You name them, they were on the wall.

Jay, the stage manager appeared out of nowhere and nearly scared the socks off me. He had dark gray, shoulder-length hair that staggered, like drunk stick figures, from under his hat. He spoke in a coke-induced, tight-lipped voice that sounded compressed, like something you’d expect to hear from AM radio.

“Where’s the rest of yer band?” he asked, then, without a beat continued, “Not here yet….(he he)” he chuckled, “Yup…(he he)…ain’t that just like a band?” He offered his hand the way a dog that’s ordered ‘shake’ does. I shook it.
“I’m the stage manager, Jay, but I specialize in lighting. What kind of lights you like?”
“Well, I’m not too picky….. maybe just—”
“I’ll just play it by the music then, right? Yeah, that’s what I’ll do… he he,” he laughed, turning his back to strut with purpose toward the bar.
“‘Lot ‘a famous faces you got up here on the wall,” I said in sincere reverence.
“Who’s your favorite?” He yelled over his shoulder still beelining it for the bar.
“Wow, I’ve got to pick ONE?” I joked
“WE GET ‘UM ON THEIR WAY UP AND ON THEIR WAY DOWN.” He shouted with a glass in hand. “YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY UP.” He raised a one sided toast.

A sudden impending doom swept through my chest. The expressions of the faces in the 8X10s abruptly changed from ones I’d read as hopeful exuberance to ones of mortal peril.  All of a sudden, I saw the headshots as stuffed deer busts—trophies on the wall—portraying something once beautiful and vibrant, shot dead by a camera and mounted.  Fame, what a strange and dangerous beast to ride, I thought.

The green room took the entirety of the upstairs. It was a maze of low ceilings, semi-air-conditioned enclosures, stickered walls, and guitar cases lined up and latched with braced teeth. Rick Fagan from Taylor Guitars came by early with a friend, Zack, and together with Gary Folgner (The Coach House’s founder) we sat around a glass-topped coffee table complaining about the current state of the music industry.

Gary was especially knowledgeable and fed up with how the industry treats its artists. He wanted to know my take.
“I see the conglomerates of the industry—radio, major labels, MTV, etc., as one huge glutenous monster,” I told him.
“Exactly,” said Gary, “They have all the power and money because they’re all in bed with each other. All they do is create careers and smash them. They don’t care about you; they don’t care about me; they don’t care about what people want to hear or love or desire. They shove manufactured junk in our faces and say “This is what you get. If you don’t like it, well, fuck you.”

There was something bonding about venting to the choir about my indignation and, invigorated, the four of us traded stories about bands that’d been screwed by “The Man” until the band showed up and wanted to sound check.

I pray, as we enter this next millennium, people will seek out what they want to hear! That we won’t just continue to settle for the fast food music of MTV and Radio— that we’ll demand something better, something soul quenching and nutritious—something that doesn’t come in an easy-peel, pretty little, microwaveable pink dress with disposable lyrics. I want to live in a world where artists make art for art’s sake, not just because it gets them laid or because they want retribution against some kid in 5th grade who picked on them. I want to be surrounded by artists who want to support, help, and nurture each other—not just compete to play the role of GOD.

I want to start reevaluating what success means, to me.