It’s a still, gray morning, damp from the recent rain. Once again, I find myself on vocal rest. My larynx ache, like a frozen tree unable to bend. Six shows in six different towns have left me as dry and worn as an old dishrag.
My tired larynx
We drove 90 MPH from Phili to Maryland yesterday, arriving in a quaint town called Cumberland as the day was winding down. Birdman, gracing us with his humorous, talented and generous self, treated us all to dinner at a New Orleans-style joint—think alligator tail and gumbo—a hidden gem underground and empty, except for us, the wisps of smoke from a waitress’s lipstick-stained cigarette and a James Taylor CD stuck on repeat.
We sat around the table drawing phonemic sentences on my speech pad:
CDB? DBSAB-ZB. (See the bee? The bee is a busy bee.)
AK8, TLIQ12BLON. (Hay Kate, tell Ike you want to be alone.)
ICU. URAQTπ. (I see you. You are a cutie pie.)
I NVU. (I envy you.)
After enjoying a grilled chicken salad, a glass of Chardonnay, lemon cheesecake, and a shot of espresso, we headed back to the warmth of the van to continue our journey to our promoter, Ken’s house in Oakland.
When we arrived, a misty blue fog was settling in the valleys between distant green hills and there was a party going on. For us? I couldn’t ask since I was on vocal rest. Throughout the evening, I stayed silent, furiously scribbling notes to keep up with conversations until the night’s darkness stole my words from the page of my note pad and I became just another shadow sewing together the night.
At Ken’s, we made full use of his hot tub with the special massage seat and the view of the moon as it rose and etched a silver sliver into the dark blue ripples of the universe just beyond the horizon.
The next morning, Ken’s adorable wife Nancy made us coffee before sending us off to our gig. We’d been told we’d be playing a farmer’s market type of hall but I guess I hadn’t expected the long, thin, tin roof painted with the words “Fresh Produce,” next to the train tracks which stumbled through town escorting locomotives with great roaring “yeehawws” through the adjacent neighborhoods. It reminded me of places my dad used to play when I was younger. I remember him calling me to the stage to sing with him and the pride and excitement of being in front of an outdoor audience that I could see.
Birdman and I skipped off, arm in arm, to find a leather craftsman to cut me a piece of hide to fix my watch band. We stuck out like sore thumbs in the quaint town of Oakland full of antique shops and old-time coffee shops with swivel stools. Birdman wore a shirt decorated with subway cars covered in graffiti, while I sported a panther print skirt and dark NYC shades. A shopkeeper, standing outside her wind chime store yelled after us:
“You going to the concert tonight? Starts at 7:00.” “We’ll be there,” Eric shouted back over his shoulder. A few paces later she hollered again, “Hey! YOU ARE the concert?!” and we laughed in recognition.
At 7:00 people started pulling up to the farmers market and pitching their families and lawn chairs on the surrounding grass. A nice young guy with a guitar and synth sampler opened for us. A train ran by with high-pitched toots and kids scampered between parent’s legs to get a look at the stage. Polish sausages, pork sandwiches with coleslaw, and baked ham stands were served in white tents; not much for a vegetarian in Maryland, unfortunately.
Halfway through our set, an Amish family pulled up on a tractor to listen to the show. A bunch of cute kids came up on stage and danced to Happy Now and Split Decisions and some even stayed to sway to Tomboy Bride.
It was a brilliant starry night. We sold CDs, I signed kids’ shirts, and Elizabeth, Amber, and Tina —three groovy little girls—helped me hand out stickers. I was taken with the honesty and beauty in people’s eyes—the children in particular, with their blue, snow-cone-stained tongues, gleefully requesting my signature on their dusty, farmer’s market T-shirts, enchanted me. Somewhere during the night, someone gave me an “I Love Oakland” pin and as the crowd dwindled and distant laughter filled the night, I looked at that pin and realized it was true—Oakland is great!
The morning after our gig at The House of Blues in Boston was gray and rainy, a fitting backdrop as we retraced our steps back along the coast. We’ve been ziging and zagging from gig to gig for seven nights straight. We’ve played in Maine, Martha’s Vineyard, New Bedford, New York, Boston, and finally Philly last night. Sleep? Barely. Time to write? Nonexistent.
“Big Ben! Parliament!”* we yelled in unison, passing for the third time, that giant blue plastic bug perched on the building just outside Providence on I-95. Our pit stop routine had become a ritual at this point, hitting the same gas station as yesterday. My lyrics—“Stretch me out, I’m your rubber band. State to state, don’t know where I am”—felt particularly fitting as the rain spat rather than poured, dodging us as we dashed inside, collars over heads.
We knew the drill inside the gas station. Fruits to the left, auto magazines to the right, bad coffee in the back, and a single unisex bathroom we have to stand in line for holding our bladders, listening urgently for the flush and running water followed by the ripping of paper towel, and unbolting click of the door.
In our bleary-eyed, boisterous mood, Soucy leaned over like he was about to share a secret. Instead, he stuck his whole tongue in my ear. “Yuck, Soucy!” I yelled, scanning the store for retribution. My eyes landed on a rack of imitation cologne sprays. Grabbing one, I launched an all-out attack, drenching him with designer knockoff Drakkar Noir. The air now reeked of teen cologne, testosterone-y memories and laughter, and suddenly we were all in a heap on the sticky floor, laughing so hard our sides hurt.
Even the old guy behind the counter, wearing prescription glasses with sun visors flicked up was laughing with us even though he’d no doubt be stuck with the stench for the next 48 hours. Soucy, doing his best Pepe Le Pew impression, choked out between laughs, “I don’t think that’s a sample, Sal. You’re gonna have to pay for that cologne now.” Honestly, for $1.50, owning my own arsenal of ‘Drakkar’ to torment Soucy whenever I pleased was a bargain.
The show at The Point was sold out long before we arrived. I absolutely adore playing there and the crowd never fails to laugh both with and at us. The especially roared when Soucy took a guitar solo and I took the opportunity to spray him into a cloud of Drakar on stage. Soucy, however, did not appreciate it and I expect I might have to pay for my mischeviousness for weeks to come.
ScreenshotScreenshotAt The Point
** Vocabulary: “Big Ben, Parliament” is a line from European Vacation that Chevy Chase utters. Scenario: He’s gotten himself stuck on a rotary in London and for whatever reason, can’t get off and he keeps passing Big Ben & Parliament, which he’d initially, excitedly pointed out to his family when they’d first got on the rotary, but as he passes it for the 1000th time he sarcastically sputters between tears and laughter “Look kids, Big Ben!Parliament.” So we use the line when we yo-yo a highway a bunch in one tour, or when we miss an exit and have to turn around to find it again.
There are about 200 songs waiting to burst out of me. Sam is finally in the rearview mirror (thank goodness), and I’m relieved I could extract three songs from that one heartache. But now I’m wading through a sea of half-formed ideas on these worn-out 90-minute tapes. Here I am, sitting cross-legged on my paisley bedspread in a hotel room—#354—surrounded by cassettes, some with jackets, others bare. Each side holds at least ten song snippets. It’s raining in Maine, and I’ve sent the boys off to breakfast so I can focus on songwriting for our next album. We’re playing at Jonathan’s in Ogunquit tonight, but this morning is all about songwriting.
Later, Sal & Soucy signing CDs at Jonathan’s
Armed with my trusty handheld tape recorder, a fresh set of guitar strings, and a mud mask from the local pharmacy, I’m ready. I probably look ridiculous with this green mask, but as I wave the guys off, I look confident.
But frankly, I don’t even know where to begin. Do I work forward chronologically or backward? Do I leave the songs I started co-writing with Soucy for last or do I tackle them first? Do I listen to each tape in the background while cleaning out “pretty bag”— when inspiration strikes, drop my rag and pick up my guitar? The only thing that seems clear is that I’d better start finishing more songs as I start ‘um or I’ll always be in a pile of ideas wondering where to go next.
I close my eyes and pick a tape at random. It’s labeled “Blue Room Writing May 2000,” side A. I pop it into the recorder, rewind, and hit play. From the speaker, my soft voice whispers, “This one is in G. It’s 3 a.m., May 20th, and I’m holed up in an Albany bathroom, trying not to wake Delucchi.” I explain the chord progression—G, Am, Em, D for the verse, and F, Em for the chorus—then strum the chords, hum a melody, and sing a few lyrics. This is my process. I start with a chord progression, get excited like a fisherman with something on the line, grab my tape deck, and hit record. I explain where and how I am for context, and talk the chord progression into the mic. I then strum the chords over and over into the tape deck, start humming over it on the second or third time through until something clicks. Then I let lyrics carve out a river bed into the landscape of sound I’ve created for them. It’s a meditative process. I imagine myself as a pen allowing ink to flow through me. Sometimes a songwriting session yeilds only a single lyric or a few random bridge ideas. Other times, the whole song will fall out of me in less than 10 minutes.
I take the tape recorder and my lyric notebook into the bathroom of room #354, listening with one ear while I shave my legs in the sink. When something stands out, I grab my notebook, pause, rewind, pause—until the song is complete. It’s a bit like reeling in a fish.
In three hours, while the boys are gone, I manage to finish “Wait” and nearly wrap up a co-write with Soucy called “October.” Suddenly, my legs are smooth, “Pretty Bag” is spotless, the guys are back, and our next album has some meat on its bones.
“What’s that on your face?” they ask, alarmed. Oops. I forgot about the mud mask—meant for a 20-minute treatment—now seemingly adhered to my skin. At least we have new songs to keep us entertained while they try to scrape the clay off my face with hotel towels.
We had the day off on Tuesday and decided to take the band on a road trip to Niagara Falls. I was on vocal rest all day and realized over breakfast at Denny’s both how much of nothing gets said over meals – and how hard it is to join in the band’s mindless fun when you have no voice.
I called my dad looking for some sympathy. He understands vocal rest better than most and when I call him whistling into the receiver, he usually directs, “Whistle once for yes, twice for no,” and scrounges up a multiple-choice conversation that feels both compassionate and warm. But apparently, he didn’t know it was me when I whistled and blew kisses into the phone at him. “WHO is this?!?!” he demanded in a tone I’ve never heard him use. As I couldn’t respond in words, I whistled with greater enthusiasm. “Try some English!” he yelled and hung up. It shouldn’t have hurt. He clearly thought I was someone else. But it did and I felt lonely on the long drive up to Niagara.
The Falls were beautiful. The white water fell away from the cliff sides in slow motion, down through the stillness of a perfect rainbow, and landed with heavy fury on the black teeth-like rocks below. As I stood gapping over the ledge in a trance the wind switched directions and the rain came down, or up, I’m not sure which. Wetness seemed to come at us from all angles and all five of us were instantaneously soaked.
Being cold and wet did not deter Delucchi and me from buying ice cream cones from a yellow umbrellaed vendor. Chris got a triple scoop of red, black cherry and I got a double scoop of Kermit green, mint chocolate chip. It didn’t take us long before we were both covered in our fast-melting ice creams. We couldn’t seem to lick fast enough and the mess we were making, induced laughter that made it almost impossible to lick anything at all. suddenly Delucchi jabbed his red cone in my face leaving a huge blotch of melting cherry on my right cheek and it was WAR. Before we knew it both of us, soaked to the bone, were covered in green and red ice cream streaks. The drive to Syracuse was cold and messy. We sat on towels and dodged air conditioner vents.
The show at Styleen’s was silly and full of laughter. I brought a Trivial Pursuits card on stage and announced, “If anyone in the audience knows the answer to this question, they get to spank Kyle. But, if you get the answer wrong, Kyle spanks you.” I thought it was innocent enough. But when a brunette bombshell came to the mic and muttered her answer, it was clear she had no intention of being right. When Kyle gave her a little swat with his paw, she turned to him and said “Is that all you got?!?!” And the crowd howled.
On our way up to Maine, we stopped at a local bookstore. I bought a dogeared Sophie’s Choice. Kyle got Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Delucchi got some R Crumb comics. Soucy got something he’s already complaining he’s bored with and Kenny got a bodice ripper for 50 cents, which he’ll, no doubt have finished, by the next rest stop.
When it comes down to it, “The Stupid Game” was all Kyle’s fault. We were sitting by The Bottle Rocket bar waiting for Delucchi to ring out the monitors* when Kyle grabbed my right hand and engaged me in a tableless arm wrestle. “My brother and I used to fight like this, holding each other’s hands, when we were little. Whoever let go first, lost.” “So if you let go now, you’re a loser,” I said and thus, The Stupid Game was born. It’s a battle of egos that neither Kyle nor I was willing to lose so we stubbornly walked around, connected at the wrist for an hour and forty-five minutes. When Kyle got called to stage to sound check his drums, I went with him. When I had to go to the lady’s room, he held my hand outside of the stall. Finally, when it was time to do a full band sound check, we made a pact. We’d both let go at the same time on the count of three, “1-2-3,” and surprisingly we both released our then, overly clammy palms.
Unfortunately, The Stupid Game did not end there and has since evolved into a game where the the first to release is “the loser,” only until he/she clasps hands with somebody else, yells “Stupid Game” and continues the match. It’s truly a stupid game —fueled by ego, pride, and sheer stubbornness. It’s not even fun, there are no ‘winners,’ only ‘losers’ and no one’s getting a prize at the end. Nonetheless, I’d later invite the audience at the Bottle Rocket to participate. This was a stupid idea. Not only did their clasping one another’s hands prevent them from dancing or clapping, it also made CD signing near impossible at the end of the night.
But let me back up. When we arrived in Toledo, the streets were BARREN save for some loud seagulls overhead and a couple of street sleepers who might have done better to move into one of the 10,000 vacant, boarded-up buildings linning the city. The sky was clogged with high, dark, murky clouds that refused to drain and we kicked around litter in the streets outside the club until Dave, the owner showed up to let us in. He was a stellar guy with a cigarette, a look of subdued glee, and a bright pair of red shoes that lit up the dark neighborhood like little firecrackers. He led us upstairs to the joint, up 32 elevatorless steps winding around a narrow, rickety stairwell painted in striped pastels. Load-in was a bitch.
I kacked* out on the black and white cowhide bench beside the bar, underneath a phone that kept ringing. At 8:30 we went down the street to the only other place open, a local watering hole called Union Station, and grabbed some chef salads. Our waiter was also the establishment’s chef and bartender so our food took a little longer than we’d allotted. We ended up forcing dressing-filled bites of lettuce down our throats, getting most of the ranch coating on our cheeks and chins and running back up the 32 steps directly onto the stage.
We’d planned to play and then get out of town immediately in order to get some sleep before the 8-hour drive to Buffalo but what with The Stupid Game in full effect, it was hard to literally detach ourselves from the gig.
When we managed to disentangle and pile in the van, one of us (who shall remain nameless) was still missing. When he finally appeared 20 minutes later, we wanted to be angry but he had such a pathetic, sad pout on his mouth we motheringly loaded him into the van and asked what had happened.
He’d been talking with some cute little nursing student, he said, trying to convince her to spend the night with him when she produced a coin. “Heads twice and you come home with me. Tails twice and we exchange numbers and call it a night.” She said. “Tails!! Damn it!!!!”
Now we’re off to Holland, OH for an abbreviated night of sleep.
Footnotes: *Ring out the monitors: To check the stage sound for bad frequencies that might feed back during a show.
“You Guys wanna eat here or wait til Lincoln?” Kenny yells from the driver’s seat over Jimmy Smith’s Chicken Shack. We look out the tinted windows at Nebraska. “Arby’s, McDonald’s, Wendy’s” Soucy reads aloud from the available billboards.
“I can wait,” says Kyle lifting his head momentarily from his miniature Saga golf game.
“Yeah, Let’s wait ’til Lincon,” chimed in Delucchi who up til that point had been passed out on the floor under the back seat next to the CDs. I haven’t attempted to sleep in “The Nook” yet but the guys tell me it’s quite comfortable. Kyle discovered “The Nook” midway through our last West Coast tour. I thought we’d accidentally left him back at some gas station and was freaking out when I looked back and only counted 3 heads. But in fact, Kyle had crawled under the back seat to chase his headphones and, finding it comfortable, stayed down there for a nap. I can’t imagine it’s very relaxing to be wedged next to the wheel well, in between boxes of CDs, bags, shoes, stickers, and empty fast food bags but I’ll give “The Nook” a shot next time I get tired enough. Why not?
Kenny Drives, Delluchi Rides Shotgun in “Moby” after a nap in “The Nook”
“Lincoln it is.” Replied Kenny as we rolled past exit 353
“Wasn’t The Sod Museum around here somewhere?” asked Soucy. The House of Sod was a Museum we’d stumbled across last year around this time. Like “The Nook,” we’d stumbled upon it by accident tucked into the back parking lot of some gas station. The museum was in a building made of dried dirt and grass and showcased random artifacts like a mammoth’s tooth and a buffalo statue made out of a mile’s worth of barbed wire. We looked for signs for the museum for a while with no luck.
“Probably got mowed down,” I said.
“Or got smoked” Said Delucchi at which point we all laughed and stopped looking.
Dinner in Lincoln was hot. It was a scorching 98 degrees at night. We stopped at The Main Street Café and got some grub: French onion soup which was really just warm, brown, oily water with some slabs of unmelted cheese. We watched The World’s Strongest Man competition on a TV over the jukebox playing “Dyslexic Heart.” My favorite! No kidding. I love to watch those huge guys lift Flintstone-like objects over their heads or walk with cars slung over their shoulders.
The sunset was remarkable on the road and Kyle video taped it like it wasn’t an everyday occurrence. Orange crush and crimson saturated the sky, reaching, but not touching, the cool blue pool the stars were straggling toward for their nightly skinny dip. I was tangled in the black ink of the last pages of my book “Memoirs of a Geisha” which I unfortunately had to finish just as we pulled up to the hotel lobby in Iowa at 1:00 am.
“You need ‘Pretty Bag’ Sal?” Asked Kenny grabbing bags out of the back. (Coincidentally it’s Kenny’s birthday tomorrow).
Sal & “Pretty Bag”
“Sure I do,” I said. “Pretty Bag” has all my shampoos and nail polishes and lotions and I take it on every tour except the short ones for which I only need “Pretty Bags” little sister: “Handsome bag,” a Soucy term, which is black and white and shiny and striped and charmingly cheesy. With so much extra time in the van, we get around to naming almost everything!
Kyle’s Hardware case is “The Coffin of Death.”
My guitar amenity case is “Head Case.”
And the Van is obviously “Moby.” We’ve got more names for inanimate objects but I can’t think of them right now. I can’t think of much of anything right now. I’m too exhausted. Tour De France is on the TV and the electric alarm clock red reads 2:00. Here’s to the first night at our series of “Home-tels” across the East Coast of America.
Good night.
For anyone interested in what our tour itinerary looks like, this is it. After advancing all our gigs, Delluchi makes these cute little books and hands them out at the start of a tour. Here you’ll see notes on our distances between gigs, where we’re staying the night, if a meal is provided and how long we’re expected to play, along with other fin little notes. I dog-ear each day completed. It gives me a sense of pride and relief to do so. Here’s what you can look forward to, though I doubt I will write about every show. Sometimes there’s not a lot worth writing about after all.
SLC was as hot as a skillet when we arrived at The Zephyr. In the green room, I dressed in my brand-new black rubber pants. So did Soucy. That may have been where the trouble began. The boys said I looked hot and that Soucy reminded them of a fishing lure. To accompany his plastic pants, Soucy made the bold choice of a python print button-down — an outfit that I’m pretty sure, almost cost us our lives.
The show was a little slow to start but by the end of the night the joint was jumping. Everyone was dancing. A hot little blond was gyrating in front of Soucy “The Lure,” and he beelined it to her after the show. Having caught her, hook, line, and python shirt, he reeled her in backstage.
“Cindy here, has invited us to a party back at her house. Who’s in?” Soucy lifted his eyes hoping to bait one of us into being his wingman for the night.
“I’m pretty exhausted.” I apologized and the rest of the band nodded in agreement.
“Awe come on guys, this is the last night of the tour,” said Soucy, “Let’s get into it!”
“Come on,” said Cindy, bubbly as a candy wrapper, “I’ve got a bed if you want to crash and I make a mean breakfast.”
I knew Soucy needed me if he was going to try to get with Cindy and I figured I could always use a good night’s sleep on a real, non-hometel bed.
“Sure what the heck,” I gave in. Soucy mouthed “THANK YOU!” to me in bold letters as he escorted Cindy out of the green room.
Unfortunately, the night did not unfold the way either Soucy or I had planned it. There was, in fact, no party at Cindy’s house. Though we thought it odd she’d advertised one, it mattered little to Soucy’s smooching agenda or my sleeping plans. What DID matter to us was that Cindy’s house was a tiny studio apartment with only one bed and over that one bed, hung a life-sized poster of James Taylor!!!! It was the only art on the wall!!! Hmmmm. This is unfortunate I thought to myself, pretty well convinced we were about to be murdered.
Cindy locked the door behind us and as the bolt slid into the lock she machine-gunned my least favorite questions at me “What was it like growing up?” “Were there a lot of drugs?” “Do you like your parent’s music?” “Which of their music do you like more?” I stared daggers into Soucy who looked at once terrified and sheepish in his lure outfit.
Next, Cindy suggested we watch the video she’d just made for her boyfriend who’d “mysteriously” died in a snowshoeing accident. She chain-smoked Camel lights as the three of us sat nervously on the edge of her strawberry-print, ruffled bedspread. Ten minutes into her creepy video, I excused myself. “I’m so sorry, I’m super tired. I think I might need to turn in. No need to stop the video, I’ll just sleep on the couch over there,” I said, pointing to a long cushioned stool next to a fabric room divider.
“No, no. You two take my bed. I’ll take the couch,” she said, moving toward the sofa. Soucy and I looked at one another, breaking into a nervous, silent laughter that was almost painful to try to contain. As we climbed into opposite sides of her small twin bed, Soucy looked at me with saucer-sized eyes and whispered “There’s been a terrible, terrible, TERRIBLE misunderstanding.”
At this point, the lights in the studio apartment went black, Sarah McLachlan came on, and Cindy shouted over Building a Mystery in explanation… “To sleep too…”
I bit my fist hard so as not to laugh and as I stared weepingly at Soucy, Cindy suddenly and without warning, launched herself out of the darkness, landed in between us and, under my father’s watchful eye, tried to make out with both of us. I turned my head just in time and slid my body sideways off the bed. While Soucy occupied Cindy’s mouth, I felt my way through the dark and Sarah McLachlan’s caramel-y voice to the couch/stool and curled up in a fetal position praying for morning to come so.
I didn’t get much sleep, but I am very happy to report that neither Soucy or I got murdered and the boys managed to track us down in the morning. Ahhhh-nother adventure in SLC.
It was a beautiful Seattle day. The wind ran warm and the sun shone brightly against the water, etching vibrant, silver, stencils into the waves down at Pike’s Place. That’s where we ate. That’s where the men in orange plastic aprons shouted and threw fish over unsuspecting and frightened tourists’ heads, That’s where Delucchi got in his accident. Nothing devastating really, just a little fender bender going 5 miles per hour. But Moby, with her girth and torque, can do quite a bit of damage to a smaller car even at 5 miles per hour and Delucchi felt pretty bad about the whole thing.
The ride to Ballard was filled with wrong turns, lost directions, and short tempers. When we arrived, the firehouse was empty, save for the barflies and a soundman who helped us load in. After sound check, he suggested we hop a bite to eat down a couple of blocks at an “All you can eat Chinese buffet.” A bad idea to begin with and an even worse idea right before a show.
Ballard’s streets were empty and so was our show for the most part. We managed to have a good time anyway and a bunch of our friends came down.
The band that opened for us was told by the conveniently absent promoter, that we were supposed to pay them out of our take. Man, what’s up with that? That just ain’t right.
After the show, while the boys were hanging out in the parking lot, and I was chillin with the bartender complaining about our draw, or rather our lack thereof, the night outside was ushering blind winds off Puget Sound and the day was being folded like clean, cooling, linen sheets to be put away neatly beneath the shelf of the horizon.
The difference between a hotel and a motel is not that significant, but when you’ve been on the road for a couple of months in motels, you do not turn down the Rockwindow.com promoter’s offer to be put up in the Paramount Hotel in Seattle WA. The difference between the motel and hotel room lies mostly in the expense of the room and in the complimentary amenities provided therein. In a motel, you’re lucky to get a complimentary bar of ivory soap next to the sink. In a hotel, you get shampoo, conditioner, lotion, a shower cap, q-tips, and sometimes one of those nice little sewing kits I like so much. In a hotel, you get a comfy bed, thick, almost fightproof, walls, a bath that’s probably been sanitized, and a nice lobby with classical music playing. In hotels, you get lights that don’t hiss when you turn them on and there’s less bolted-down furniture and more cable channels on the TV. But the AC still grumbles like an old man in a hotel, and the views still overlook out to the parking lot and the maid still enters the room at 7 am despite the DO NOT DISTURB sign on your door. We were in Seattle for the launch celebration of Rockwindow’s streaming media company (check it out by the way. It’s very cool).
By the time we’d found our hotel and checked in we only had 15 minutes before we had to be at the venue for sound check. I rifled through my bag for something to wear. I’ve lost everything on this tour! I swear the boys must be playing a joke on me. So far my lost list includes:
1 left sneaker 1 black and gray high heel My favorite beige python silk shirt My book “Into the Wild” 15 pages left to go to the end My set of keys to Moby Oh yeah, and my mind is pretty much gone too.
I tugged a black dress out of my bag and the last intact pair of shoes I own and ran downstairs. The lobby was full of pretty people moving in slow, graceful motions to the classical music surrounding us like water against the cold immaculate marble walls and floors.
The theater we were sound checking, “The Big Picture,” is a new “internet venue.” It’s set up specifically for filming and streaming live performances for the World Wide Web. It’s a small space, 60 seats or so, but comfortable with good sound. We’d be playing with Edwin McCain, a very talented musician and showman whose song, “I’ll Be,” has no doubt been on the radio every single f*ing time you’ve turned it on this year.
We met Edwin outside the backstage door strumming on a Gibson and immediately fell in love with him. He was hysterical and slightly magical in that naughty, twinkle-in-the-eye sort of way.
Experience Music Project
The event we were playing for was a private party for music industry people only — managers, record label execs., and the higher-ups involved in the newly launched “Experience Music Project (EMP) Museum.” The lights stayed on in the room for the whole performance on account of the live-to-internet filming, which was a little awkward. An inebriated couple fondled one another in the front row and the stage manager cued laughter and applause but even without prompting, people seemed to dig our act and we were praised for what I thought was only a “so-so” performance. We were invited to a big mansion party which the boys ended up making it to, but after hanging with Edwin & co. for a couple of hours in the hotel bar I was exhausted and felt like I needed to sleep off the tail end of my cold before our 5th show in a row so Edwin and I were the only two not to make it out on the town.
Here’s Chris Soucy’s account of the rest of the night:
We had all received these little invitation cards with an art deco-looking, martini-sipping woman and the words “Party on the Patio” on the front. We were told it was going to be a “must do” Seattle scene party, with live music and some of the surviving members of bands like Nirvana and Soundgarden in attendance. We all bounced around the idea of going, or maybe just staying back at the hotel for a good night’s sleep for a change. For some reason, at about 1:30 am going to the party seemed to be a fine idea to some of us, so Kyle, Chris Delucchi, and I picked ourselves up out of our stools at the hotel bar, and away we went.
It was a big house overlooking the downtown area perched high upon a hill and we could hear it long before we could see it. True to Seattle style, there were few lights on inside, each room like a darker and darker chamber, deeper and deeper into the depths of the cavern. Upstairs, people dressed in black, adorned in chains, multiply pierced, and covered in tattoos hung out on the balcony by the bar, lounged on the couches inside, and waited in line for the bathroom.
I met a woman from Norway in the bathroom line named “H” who was simultaneously smoking a clove cigarette, drinking a beer from a plastic cup, eating a huge onion and mayonnaise sandwich, and holding a conversation with me. As we chatted, two couples emerged from the bathroom, red-faced and giggling. Hmmmm?
“H” and some other friends from Norway were here in Seattle to get their band launched into rock and roll stardom. One of her bandmates, another woman with a name that sounded like maybe it began with a “G,” but was otherwise unintelligible to me, came up to her looking very excited. Apparently, there were some fellows there at the party from a Yugoslavian techno-trash-thrash-industrial-alternative-acid-hop band whom “G” had been wanting to meet for some time. She told “H” in her broken English that she had been kissing the drummer for a very long time. “H” shot back at her, “Hey, how come you are never kissing me?” “G” knocked the sandwich out of H’s hand, grabbed her hair at the back of her head, and laid a very long, wet, and seemingly passionate kiss all over her. “G” let her go after a while and just walked away. “H” looked in my direction and said, “She never does that to me. Really.” The bathroom door was opening at that time, so I headed off toward my next adventure.
Entering the bathroom I had to pass the three girls who were leaving it. I don’t know how they snuck into the bathroom in front of me or why they all needed to be in there together some sort of pack instinct women at parties seem to have. I must have been distracted by the behavior of the Norwegians. I made my visit to the bathroom as short as possible: the floor was pooled in what appeared to be vomit.
I regrouped with Kyle and Chris Delucchi outside. They had found some entertainment of their own. On the patio, a fully clothed couple was engaged in an activity that, had they been in public would certainly have gotten them arrested in most states. Why they couldn’t just go get a room, or how they were able to pull that off without removing their clothing were mysteries we were unable to solve.
Downstairs there was indeed live music. Two unbelievably out-of-tune guitarists, a bassist who appeared to be playing to some other music not connected at all to the music being played around him, and a drummer who struggled to push the beat along. Kyle made a remark that went something like, “Just because the guy is playing triplets, that doesn’t mean he’s actually playing a shuffle AT ALL.” They were butchering some blues so bad that it was almost art. Delucchi commented that it reminded him of some early Velvet Underground records performance art of the highest order, all based on extremely poor performances. I was tempted (and in fact encouraged by my two friends) to grab the microphone and recite some beat poetry. The music was begging for it, but the only thing I could think of to shout out was the scientific names of various birds of prey. Imagine it. A dark basement, drunken dancers, awful music, and some guy half singing, half chanting, “Bubo virginianus, Otis asio, Tyto alba pratincola, Falco sparverius, FALCO PEREGRINUS!!!” I think it really could have worked, but I’m a shy guy, and I didn’t do it.
The musicians rotated around from time to time. A few came close to getting the guitars in tune. The Yugoslavs took over at one point, and since they were actually a band they played more or less together, albeit in some radically non-American sounding time signature and in some freakish Phrygian mode. There was at least one party-goer who was enthralled by this music however, and he sat in the corner of the room making out with an empty guitar case throughout their entire performance.
Kyle and I attempted to commandeer the guitar and drums once. As he pointed out, there were a lot of girls standing around trying to dance, and when that happens he, responsible drummer that he is, feels compelled to lay down funky drum grooves for the people’s enjoyment. Delucchi even took hold of the microphone and shouted, “Kyle Comerford and Chris Soucy to the stage! Kyle and Chris to the stage please!” No one seemed to care, least of all the guys holding the instruments, so the music remained undanceable. We tried to help. Really, we did.
A faint bluish glow began to appear in the east and we realized that dawn was approaching. We had not recognized even one bonafide rock star member of any influential Seattle grunge scene band, so we decided to bail. We had to step over a man sleeping in the driveway on our way out Kyle thought it was perhaps the guy who was getting it on with the empty guitar case. Could be; he was definitely headed in that direction when we saw him.
We stopped at Seattle’s famous Space Needle on the way back to the hotel to watch the sunrise. Sunrise at the Space Needle is an eerie and strangely surreal experience and it seemed just the kind of thing to finish off the kind of evening we had just had.
We climbed up to 3,000 feet on our way to Bend, Oregon. With each winding turn, the chill in my bones worsened, and the pressure in my head made it feel ready to burst. We had to pull over frequently to allow my aching skull to repressurize which it did against the breathtaking backdrop of Hood Mountain. The towering trees bowed along the road, creating a canopy that danced with threads of golden light, weaving intricate batik-like patterns on the pavement below. I gripped the wheel until my vision blurred with pain, then surrendered the driver’s seat to Kyle.
When we finally rolled into Bend, my eyes felt like they might pop out of my head. The world around me was muffled as if wrapped in cotton. During sound check, doubt gnawed at me. “Do I sound terrible, Deluch–?” I shouted past the mic, straining against the congestion in my voice. “Sal, you are raspy, I won’t sugarcoat it,” came his honest reply, “but you still sound good.” I swallowed an antihistamine at 6 PM that left me dizzy and groggy, forcing me to retreat to the sweltering van until showtime. I felt broken.
The performance was a grueling test of willpower. The audience looked self-conscious under harsh lights that apparently did not dim. Their visibility unintentionally forced them to become part of the show and they looked around at each other, unsure of their role. In my humble opinion, an audience is meant to be shrouded in darkness. It’s their paid privilege to stare from darkness, like a peeping tom, up to a fully lit stage where people perform at their most vulnerable. But though they shifted in their seats and looked unsure of themselves, at the end of our set they called for an encore, and though I felt sick and dazed, their enthusiasm cut through my fog.
Jack Ingram took the stage at ten past ten—a honky tonk troubadour from Tennessee, with charm, good looks, and talent that made for a lethal combination. His voice, a blend of honey and rust, poured through the mic, wrapping the room in soulful melodies. I wished I could linger, but the call of bed—and my aching body—beckoned us back to Portland, a three-hour trek through the night.
The antihistamine, taken in desperation, had finally dragged me into a zombie-like stupor—neither awake nor drowsy. Sleep was just out of reach. As oncoming cars flooded the cabin with intermittent headlights, I traded tales of past injuries with Kyle and Chris. There’s a tradition of mending ancient broken ceramics with gold in Japan. The practice is called Kintsugi and the gold that repairs the cracks renders a new piece that is more exquisite than it was before the break. In the predawn darkness of the van, laughter became the salve, the gold, for our old wounds. Our loving compassion for each other’s cracks bound us together into the perfectly flawed band that we’ve become.
