John Cafferty is one hell of a good guy.

His band immediately offered us their extra dressing room when we arrived at the Patchogue Performing Arts Center. They must know what it’s like to be an opening act who get little or none of the following:

• Space to change clothes
• Time to sound check
• Food to eat
• Respect or attention from the headlineing act

John Cafferty and his guys went out of their way to make us feel welcome. They beconed us into their catering area where we all sat around eating egg rolls, taking music business and drinking lemon tea with honey. I must’ve asked them 10 times if they were sure they didn’t need the extra dressing room as they walked by our open door. We managed to relax and make ourselves at home come sundown and Kenny finally shut the door.

“Close!” I yelled out, and the boys instinctively closed their eyes to let me change into an outfit. There weren’t too many clean options to choose from at this stage of the tour and I was basically nailing jelly as I sifted through my bag.
“Open! What do you think?” I asked.
“Too casual” “Too dressy” “Too much” “Too little” The guys responded in turn.
“Close!” I’d shout again “Still naked… still naked… still naked” I’d repeat like a truck backing out of a parking space, “OK, Open.”

The boys finally ok-ed a black skirt with a pink top and we went on stage.

The spotlights were so bright I couldn’t even see the people in the front row and with my in-ear monitors I couldn’t hear applause so, as our 45-minute set wore on, I got the surreal impression we were alone up there without an audience. Regardless, when we finished our last song I called out, “We’ll be selling CDs in the lobby.”

Surprisingly, when we got out front of house, there was a long line waiting for us and we sold a record amount of CDs (no pun intended). The line just kept going and going and going until my signature turned into an illegible Charlie Brown scribble and my vision had little blind spots all over it from disposable camera flashes.

Finally, after what seemed like an unreasonably long intermission, the chandeliers in the lobby flicked on and off to indicate John Caferty was about to take the stage. I tried to hurry sales along but the line kept getting longer. The lights flickered again a few minutes later but still no music, so I kept selling. I took a quick glance down the line to assess how much longer it would take to get through sales when my eye stumbled on a John Cafferty fan who ridiculously had the same haircut, same white wristbands, and sported the same tude as John and I thought how odd it must be for him to have fans that dress up like him.

But when the man got up to the counter I realized it wasn’t a fan at all, it was, in fact, John Cafferty himself! He’d waited in line to purchase my CDs when he was supposed to be on stage!!!! People parted like the Red Sea around him apologizing for having pushed him or cut him in line. Some even asked him to add his signature to my CD. I told him he could take as many CDs as he wanted but he modestly and supportively insisted on paying for them and asked me to sign them for his two sons. I was so taken with his generosity and humility.

When John left, the line diminished, the music began and a couple of guys who’d managed to buy every last vinyl copy of my father’s “Gorilla” and mother’s “Anticipation” still in existence were waiting for me to sign them. Don’t ask me why they wanted ME to sign my parents’ work, but they did. One guy must have had 100 records on him, the piles just kept coming out of his Mary Poppins-like carpet bag and he wanted me to sign his red bass guitar too and “the ticket stub, and here’s a magazine clipping!” It was a little overwhelming and I wondered what he thought my scribble was worth, but hey, he can have it, don’t cost me nothin but time and ink.

John Cafferty, I love you.

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.

** 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.

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.

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.

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Footnotes:
*Ring out the monitors: To check the stage sound for bad frequencies that might feed back during a show.

*Kacked: Took a nap.

“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?

“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).

“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.

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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.

A Typical Tour Itinerary