Soucy’s parents live in Millington, New Jersey where they run a bird rehabilitation center, “The Raptor Trust.” They nurse injured Bald Eagles, Red Tail Hawks, Vultures, and Owls before they return them to the wild.

Dr. Soucy Sr. gives us a tour of his facilities which cater to every raptor from the smallest open-mouth ospray (needing hand feeding every hour with a little silver spatula) to the gnarliest, copper-headed, tare-your-throat out Eagles. It’s bird world over here at the Soucy’s in northern Jersey! I’d never seen eye to eye with a raptor before and Dr. Soucy (Len) let me hold an array of them on my arm. Slipping into a stiff leather glove, I got to meet a red-tailed hawk with one wing, hold a beautiful heart-faced, barn owl, and got to chill with some vultures who looked like cloaked supervillains. We had the pleasure of eating lunch with Ms. Soucy on her birthday and to share in her banana birthday cake. Our visit was cut short by the long drive ahead of us to PA.

The Point is a historic folk venue. While the name of the venue has been shortened (It used to be “The Main Point”) little else about it has changed including the street it stands on. My ol’ man used to play here along with Springsteen, Bonnie Raitt, and Jackson Brown. It’s a coffee bar at heart and performances are early enough to bring along a kid or two.

The stage is the focal point of the room. It’s low as a tall curb with a huge oriental rug on it. I love a rug on stage!! It makes me feel so at home and I can go barefoot which always makes me a better performer.

The Point was packed for our show and the caffeinated coffee-sipping faces draped delicately against pastel couches were vastly more attentive than the drunk whisky-swilling faces propping themselves up on our usual bar crowd. My stories felt funnier, my guitar sounded brighter, and my CDs sold faster they had any right to. Best of all there were no“gloms.*” We were loaded out before the sun had a chance to set and we delightedly watched it descend from a splintering park bench eating take-out vegetable chow mein and chicken fried rice. What a gift it was to get an early night.

*“Glom,” refers to the one, or sometimes two people in a crowd who attach themselves to the band, or to me, the way super glue attaches to your fingers, and as you frantically try to disconnect your digits, the glom just gets more fingers involved. We’ve discovered there’s usually one in every crowd. The telltale signs you’re dealing with “A Glom” are

1. They ask really inappropriate questions or tell you deeply inappropriate things they think will endear themselves to you, i.e.: “You know, I slept with your father back in ‘68.” Or “What color underpants are you wearing?”
2. They follow you backstage, or into the bathroom and get in your van without being invited.
3. They stand too close to you while you’re talking to someone else and answer their questions before you can.
4. They ask “Do you have any SHWAG CDs?”
5. They eat the band’s ‘food and drink rider’ backstage without being invited backstage.
6. They grab your guitar and start singing your parents’ songs…badly.
7. They ask if I can get them JT’s autograph.
8. They don’t understand that when they see you running in the opposite direction, you’re running away from them, and instead of taking the hint, they try to keep up.
9. They tell you they’re your parent’s friends when really they’ve only just seen them on the other side of the street (keeping their distance no doubt, due to their well-seasoned “glom” radar)
10. When you tell them you’ve gotta go. They say they’ll meet you back at your hotel.
    

If you fear you, or someone you know, is a glom it’s not too late to seek help. Just call 1-800-Glom-Anonymous.

What can I say? I’m guilty of excess this day but how could I leave that J-45, 1945 behind?

She hit me over the head with her starburst mahogany face and her chipped nail polish varnish. There was a small brass plate riveted to her black, calloused, case that read “Smithy,” The name some previous owner gave her no doubt. She had a yellow tag woven between her strings, begging me to lean in; to read between her lines: “1945, J-45, Do Not Touch.” But Howard, the owner (after thoroughly vetting me, requesting my wallet as collateral, and checking me over for potentially scratch-causing zippers and buttons) said it’d be okay to take her on a test drive.

Hoisting Smithy onto my knee was a holy event; an introduction to a musical sage. I was humbled by the intimacy of holding her small body against mine and held my breath to slow my heart. I wrapped my left hand around her worn neck and shook hands with the tree she’d been born from. I caressed a D from her mouth and then an Em. She hummed the way hearts do when lovers touch after they’ve been away for a long time. In a trance, I played chords I thought she’d like.

Smithy was full of joyful ghosts; spirits of the trees and air and rain that made her. Spirits of musicians who once sang to her and co-wrote songs with her and took her out on troubadour-ing adventures. I imagined these old retired ghosts sitting together inside her sturdy sunburst mahogany body, playing poker, teaching one another favorite songs, and trading in tales from the road, sheltered in her dusty ribs. I could feel them change my mind about cords I’d had in my mind to play, silently calling out in smoky breath, from the belly of her shadows, between her strings: “Yeah yeah, that sounds great honey, but we’ve heard that already. Let’s try something more like this…” and my fingers would dance a new course I’d have never considered working. Over the course of my half-hour test drive, I could feel Smithy begging to get back on the road, pleading to co-write future albums with me and teach me her secrets.

So, how could I leave this guitar behind?

When we rolled up to The Recher, the marquee was packed tight with names, like a towering stack of steaming flapjacks. There we were, nestled among the eclectic mix – us with our folk-rockin’ tunes, Fat Head representing funk and rap, and Jah Works bringing the reggae heat. Despite our wildly differing genres, we found a joyful camaraderie between our bands. Over the course of three sound checks, six pitchers of beer, and a wardrobe malfunction (where Jah Works bass player lost his shirt to a wayward female fan who illicitly gained access to the stage and rippled it off him), we found kinship. We weren’t just acts sharing a stage; we became each other’s biggest fans, cheering from the crowd, celebrating the rich tapestry of sounds we collectively brought to the table. Fat Head even gave us a shout-out during their set, slipping lines into their rap like, “Ya betta stay for Sally Taylor, she ain’t gonna fail ya! She’s the queen of the stage, came from Boulder just ta play-fo-ya.”

After our notes faded into the rainy Baltimore night, we traded for one another’s CDs and checked routings, hopeful our paths would cross again. Playing at The Recher was a breath of fresh air after so many smokey bars. It had an elegance about it, clean and grand, with an extra large disco ball hanging from the ceiling – like a giant Christmas tree ornament – a glittering lighthouse that seemed to bless our makeshift family of musicians.

And now here’s a little confession before I sign off. I’ve been misspelling our Dellucci’s name since the day I hired him, and boy, am I red in the face about it. Spelling has never been my strong suit, but that’s no excuse. To Delucchi and the entire Delucchi clan – I’m truly sorry. There, I’ve said it.

Goodnight, Baltimore. Here’s to more nights of unexpected friendships and diverse music that brings us all a little closer together. Now onto Phili to play with Uncle Liv!

Yesterday, as we made our way into Washington D.C., I was struck by how lonely I feel in cities. It’s a peculiar loneliness, one that suggests being without myself rather than simply without others. As we circled the drain of exits leading into the city, I reflected on the transient nature of our experience out here and the unsettling nature of this nomadic existence.

I called Kipp from the hotel room, desperate for some company after the rest of the band left for dinner. I was thirsty for reassurance I was out here doing the right thing and not just spinning my wheels. The last few weeks have been rough. It’s nearly impossible to convince myself I’m elevating my career when I’m advertised under a 25¢ beer sign, hosting a bikini contest between my sets, chipping my teeth on bouncy plywood stages, and getting heckled to play James Taylor songs by drunken frat boys. It’s depressing. Kipp’s voice was a balm of warm sunshine. I caught him on his cell phone over at our friend Stu’s place in Boulder.

“The relationship book says you were born in the ‘Week of Determination,’” he said. “I’m not worried about your career one bit. Even when you get all weird and self-conscious and stuff, because you’re so damned determined!” “…And cute,” I heard Stu pipe in from the background. “And cute,” Kipp repeated. “I’d come to see you even if you had nothing to back it up,” called Stu. “Your insecurities stand absolutely NO chance against your spirit. You’re much too good and strong for your fears to stand a chance,” said Kipp.

I felt like Popeye post-spinach. Kipp saved me from drowning in the sewer of my thoughts, and I went to sleep affirming his wonderful words to myself, “I am determined. I am strong. My fears don’t stand a chance against my spirit.” Thank you, beloved Kipp.

When I woke up, the sun was shining. It chased away the cobwebs of yesterday’s self-doubt.

The Iota was across the street from a Whole Foods Market, and while the rest of the band unloaded the van I stole away to restock our dwindling supply of Reid’s Ginger Beer (which, frankly, I cannot live without!!!!).

When I entered the dark venue, arms full of green bottles, our promoter was confused and pouring over our contract with Delucchi. He’d intended for us to headline the show “…with special guest Lisa Cerbone” (a local act) but we’d accepted an opening slots payment. While willing to headline, we didn’t love the idea of only getting paid $100 for a 90-minute set. We decided to draw straws with Lisa for the headline act and ended up, happily, opening for her at 9:30.

It’s amazing how vastly my emotional weather pattern can fluctuate from day to day out here. I mustn’t forget this tomorrow when I’m certain to arise with a freshly baked batch of fear and uncertainty.

“I am determined. I am strong. My fears don’t stand a chance against my spirit.”

In the dim light of morning, I find myself caught in the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness, nestled uncomfortably on a bunk bed’s moldy mattress. My paperback is lost in a tangle of sheets, a casualty of the moment sleep hijacked me. Our bunk-filled room is a cacophony of white noise—the whirl of a fan, the hum of an air conditioner on high, and the unsynchronized snores of a band after a late night. I focus on a felt-tip-like rug, stained by post-party spills, up-chucks, and who knows what else.

There are four fold-out couches in the common room, each bulges like a rotund woman in an ineffective corset. Despite the array of devices aimed at cooling the air, the effort seems futile against the stubborn southern heat. Light filters through slightly charred, frayed curtains, illuminating the space in a way that feels both intrusive and revealing. It’s an odd sort of home away from home, this band condo. But, as I’ve come to realize, band houses are only made awful by bands themselves. Each one, perhaps once an innocent shelter, transformed by the passage of countless musicians and their late-night stories.

The gig last night was an odd affair. We felt as if we’d stepped through the looking glass into a slightly skewed reality. The Port-O-Call, with its dark wood, velvet curtains, and antique charm, felt both beautiful and haunted, as if old ghosts lingered in the shadows watching us through slits in the eyes of portraits on the walls.

The horizon looked ominous as we pulled up to our outdoor venue. Huge black thunderheads loomed, threatening to crack the sky. Surprisingly, the promoter remained optimistic, though he refused to meet our eyes when we approached. “This’ll clear. It’s not supposed to rain,” he said, casting a doubtful glance at the menacing sky. But from my experience, you don’t simply wish those kinds of clouds away, so we discreetly tucked our instruments under the stage and covered the electronics with jackets. Miraculously, his weather prediction held. Despite dark clouds that hovered close, the sky remained intact as we took the stage at 7:30.

We had an impressive backdrop. A white-capped river flowed behind us flaunting white sails and beefy motorboats which seemed to sway in time to the music. In the crowd, jugglers, balloonists, and clowns entertained children who skeptically clutched their adult’s hands.

I made an unfortunate decision to wear my hair down. The wind whipped off the river and my medussa curls were taken hostage, at the mercy of every gust. I inhaled a mouth full of hair every time I tried to sing and nearly choked on my own goldilocks.

A sweet tiny girl approached the stage after our first set to compliment me: “You have…uh…a pretty voice,” she said.
“Why thank you. You have…uh…pretty dress. What’s your name?”
“Jacqueline,” she replied.
“Jacqueline, I need your assistance. Will you help me get people dancing when we start our next set?” She promised she would do her best and, when she approached the stage later, her face was painted like a beautiful butterfly. In her tiny fist, she held a balloon hat for me shaped like a flower. I put it on my head immediately and wore it for the rest of the show. It actually helped tame my hair which was a relief. We still have the balloon hat in the van, somewhat deflated now, but I cherish it because it was a gift from sweet little Jacqueline. She made me realize just how much I want my own baby someday.

After checking into the inn, Brian, Soucy, and Dellucci ventured back into the night, following a lead from a few girls they met at the gig. What they found was the following:

1. A warehouse filled with men.
2. That Jacksonville is the break-dancing capital of the world and
3. That when you get a chance to link up with some cute girls at a gig you better damn well take the opportunity then and there.

Kenny scolded the boys for missing their chance. “Nobody stepped up to the plate!!” He said, and now we’ve got our new catchphrase.

We’re in Savannah on our day off, and I’ve chosen silence to preserve my faltering voice. It’s beautiful here. Trees don majestic, flowing gray beards, and the air carries an alluring charge that’s intoxicating to stroll through. Our hotel pool hosts a sea of joyful, uninhibited children, creating a high-pitched soundtrack to our stay. We kick back with Cool Ranch Doritos, a six-pack of Milwalkie’s Best and fight over the room’s limited pillows. Kenny, Brian and I glue ourselves to the Discovery Channel’s special on rollercoasters while the Chrises plot our next adventure on the map.