I like to play alone sometimes. It feels sort of like freefalling out of a plane; exhilarating and raw. Chögyam Trungpa once said “The bad news is you’re falling through the air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute. The good news is, there’s no ground.” 

But the truth is, I AM scared. I’m scared to own my own success least someone come along and move into or claim it as their own. Sometimes I hope I won’t ever attain it so that I’ll never have it to lose.

I played this one solo, opening for bluegrass-badass Peter Ostroushko before a packed house of one hundred and fifty. “An intimate evening” read the billing. I plunked down into one of the red theater seats and pretended to read a flier while Mr. Ostroushko finished checking his violin.

Kipp drove us down to Denver from Boulder after I’d sound check with “The Samples” at The Fox. There’d been a blackout due to a heavy wind storm the night before and soundcheck was a mostly acoustic event. Sean, “The Samples” lead singer had called me earlier in the day to ask if I’d play a song with them that night. Secretly I suspected his invitation was a ploy to get into my pants. But a gig’s a gig and if women musicians know anything it’s how to play Roadrunner to Wile E Coyotes.

The plan was to play my set in Denver, pack up, and drive back to Boulder (approx. 1hr) to play my one song with “The Samples” and boogie before any funny business arose.

While I took the stage in Denver to check my guitar, Kipp went out to find food. He came back with some delicious flan and an iced tea and we sojourned to the red-carpeted fortress upstairs. There, we sprawled on the floor stretching newly laced guitar strings, drinking soda, and watching the ceiling expand, our heads propped against my empty guitar case.

Peter’s audience was charming. Each eye I met in the crowd was like a little spark from a campfire. The wide-eyed wonder of a five-year-old delighted me from stage left. He seemed captivated by my tunes as if they were fireflies. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d watch him sneak up on one of my songs, capture it, and spy on it between his fingers before releasing it gently into the air. Laughter danced between chords as the tales behind my songs tumbled out. Stage banter is an art in itself. I learned that from my dad, a master of the spaces between the music.

I’m embarrassed about the interview I did with Wendy Kale for The Daily Camera yesterday.  Wonderful Wendy had taken me for coffee and we’d sat on the porch of Buchannan’s letting the wild Colorado gusts dust us a shade earthier by the minute. By the time we went our separate ways, we could have passed for clay sculptures of ourselves.  Wendy, an exceptional journalist, and soul, I know she’ll write a nice piece about the smattering of Colorado gigs we have coming up before we hit the road again next month (this time heading east). 

I think I sounded pretentious and I’d cringed as I slid back in my little Rav 4 and tried to scrape the caked-on dirt in my rear-view mirror.  I realized I seemed boastful telling her I’d been offered record deals and turned them down, like I’m the only musician who could be, but doesn’t want to be, famous.  Like I’m some sort of lone wolf in the music scene.  Yuck.   It took me two hours to wash Colorado out of my face and just as long to forgive myself for acting so pompous.

When the boys showed up at my house at 5:30 I was delighted to listen to them whine about wanting to go back on the road. I’m a little desperate to get back out myself.  Not because I don’t love being home or because the road is easy but because the band is becoming more and more like my family and coming home requires readjustments no chiropractor can crack.

It was a relief to be back in Moby as we hauled ass for a one-off* in Frisco.  Dellucchi had Moby’s carpets vacuumed and the dashboard dusted and she looked like a new van.  We opened fan mail, listened to homemade CDs people had given us to listen to, and stopped at our favorite Loaf ‘N Jug for coco coffee and cheap sunglasses.

The band caught up on the week we’d spent apart.  Every one of us had been through the wringer: Breakups, one of us was fired from our day job, parking tickets, dog houses we’d metaphorically slept in, bike accidents and days we’d slept through entirely. Glad to be home much?

We got to Barkley’s a little late and didn’t get to sound-check until 15 minutes before the show. Our audience was already in attendance which made me self-conscious and rushed. As a result, I played the show with monitors that sounded like tin cans echoing my voice from the bottom of a well. My performance, no doubt, suffered as a result.

It was an OK show. Nothing really to write home about (though that’s what I’m doing) and the people in the audience were sweet, attentive, and seemingly had a wonderful time.

The boys fell asleep on the way home but Delucchi and I were wired on coco coffee and Excedrin we’d taken for our brewing headaches. By the time the guys dropped me at my house it was 3 am.  It was cold.  I was alone again; just me and my guitar and the moon hanging overhead, huge and orange like a pendant against the breast of the mountains.

*A one-off is a single gig, untethered to a proper tour.

The windows are opened and the scent of sagebrush and freedom pour through us. We move at a lethargic 60 miles per hour, which is okay when you have nowhere to be, and are somewhere in Oregon headed toward Boise Idaho. It’s dark in the van.

A Game is on the radio, Duke vs. UCONN. We’re split on who we want to win but 1/2 of us are indifferent. I spilled Diet Coke on my seat and now I’m sitting in a sticky wet spot.

During commercial breaks (which seem longer than programs these days) we tell our “back in the good ol’ days” stories. So far we’ve heard about “The Largest Acorn” from Chris Soucy, and the one about “The Sinking Boat and Wet Oreos” from Mr. Mcrae.  I told a story about the time I had to have a spinal tap, and Nisa told us that when she was younger, she threw herself through a glass door because her mother insisted she come in for dinner. What a strange and wonderful group we have.

Our morning was a struggle against gravity and the allure of a warm bed.  I must’ve asked that poor woman at the front desk for 3 callbacks after her first attempt to rouse us at 9 am.  I could hear desperate rain pelting against the window, trying to force its way inside from behind brown paisley curtains.  Soucy, one bed over, drooled, face down into his Clorox-scented pillow. 

Our battle against sleep was won only when Dellucci yelled “It’s Shari’s time!” from outside the hotel door and the promise of waffles and hashbrowns proved stronger than slumber.

The Sit and Spin is an eccentric gem. Imbued with a distinct bohemian charm, this funky venue masquerades as a Laundromat by day and a bustling hub of music, games, food, and drinks by night. Its walls are adorned with board games, ranging from Strategy to Monopoly, creating a vibrant, playful energy.

While Dellucci wrestled a rebellious bass drum mic that refused to comply, the rest of us peeled off soggy jeans and tees until the lot of us were down to our skivvies and whatever towels the bar had on hand.  Tossing drenched threads into one of Sit & Spin’s hefty driers (one that could probably spin a small car) we huddled around a game of “Sorry” and listened to soundcheck slowly take shape in the background.

As we draw the curtains on our first national tour and start to head back over the Rocky Mountains, what I’ve learned and need to remember is this;  It’s not enough to be good.  Music is only a fraction of why audiences go to see live music. 

When I step on a stage, whether it’s bathed in a spotlight or nestled in a dim corner of a coffee shop, there’s an unspoken promise I am making to those who came to honor me with their ears. I’m not just there to play; I’m there to connect, to give a piece of myself that can’t be gifted any other way but through song.

The next time I pack my guitar case, tune strings, and set out on the road, I want to remember that I carry more than just a heart full of melodies with me. I’m a modern-day troubadour, sharing tales through rhythm and rhyme that echo back to a time when stories weren’t just told, they were sung.

I want to remember to stay open, like the road that stretches its arms out to me.  To be compassionate, like the old cracked door of a venue that’s seen decades of artists leave their hearts on stage. I want to remember to play every note like it’s a secret confided which whispers, “We’ve shared something real tonight.” I want to remember that songs, masquerading as music, are a feast for the soul.

And until the next leg of gigs… I want to sleep. Only one show left on the way back to the stable.

I woke up on Delucchi’s sister’s floor.  We’d made it to the Goldengate bridge just after midnight last night and while Chris’ family had retired before we arrived, they’d left the lights on, food on the stove, and futons on the floor with unrolled sleeping bags in lollypop colors.   I hit the pillow hard and woke only due to the racket downstairs.  Brian and Delluchi’s dad were one-upping each other’s drum skills on dualing samplers in the basement.  It wasn’t the drumming so much as the two of them yelling over their deafening headphones:  “Listen to this.”  “No, no.  Listen to this.” “What?”  “What’id you say?”  “WHAT?” they shouted over one another.

It’s a luxury to wake up in a home.  People who open their houses to bands are a rare breed.  I don’t know if I’d be so brave.  These folks (The Delluchi’s included) don’t appear to balk at 6 loads of laundry, the rancid baked-on stench of smoke and booze that follows bands like a bad habit, the inevitable din of instruments unshethed and played at all hours of night, the inside jokes a band has formed which alienate everyone not in the band, the depraved voracity a band has for food and comfort and space that they can’t help but devour like a pack of wanton dogs straight from the pound. 

A band on the road becomes a beast with a mind of its own. 

Sweetwater was a warm blessing on a rainy day.  Its spiced, honey-colored wooden walls, floor, and stage glistened in the dampness.  Downstairs, the green room featured old newspaper clippings, vintage posters, and stickers from all the “greats” who’d played there before us.  I sipped a cold coffee from a leaky paper cup and toured my musical heroes on the wall; Elvis Costello, Jerry Garcia, Huey Lewis, John Lee Hooker, Ritchie Havens, Ry Cooder, Bonnie Raitt, Sammy Hagar, and Carlos Santana. Soucy came with tape sent from the bar to hang our own poster beside the rest.   What an honor.  Who knows, maybe in 30 years time, we’ll have blended into the history here.

The audience was generous, attentive, and plentiful, and “Actress” went over particularly well (despite Kenny losing his pink wig at the Gallaxy Theater gig in Santa Ana). 

I was delighted to run into an old babysitter, Jane Hogan, who was now shorter than me but otherwise, unchanged.  Jane was one of Ben’s and my favorite sitters. She used to host “Pig Outs” for us when we were lucky enough to spend the night at her family’s house in Cranford, New Jersey. She reminded me of her “All you can eat Fluffernutters.” I wish she’d brought one with her.

When unexpected old pals like Jane show up at gigs, it makes life like one perpetual surprise party.

The Hotel Utah was built in 1908 as a saloon and hotel. It is small and intimate like playing in the belly of a whale. Backstage, someone mysterious had sent me a bouquet of wildflowers with no name attached. Whoever you are, thank you so much.  

I took advantage of a fully stocked rider to sample an assortment of medicinal teas; echinacea, throat coat, gypsy cold care, and ginger lemon.  A rider is a band’s list of backstage needs a venue agrees to provide.  A rider is sent before a gig, along with a contract agreeing to fees, times, and dates and an aditional stage plot marking the location of monitors, mic stands, cables, and players on stage.  A venue usually tries hard to accommodate rider requests but sometimes they’re so ridiculous they become notorious.  Infamously:

• Van Halen requested NO brown M&Ms backstage.
• Elton John had two dressing rooms on his rider and
• Iggy Pop once requested seven dwarves, a Bob Hope impersonator, Grolsch beer, and two bottles of red wine, “preferably something we’ve heard of but still can’t pronounce.”

Though the tea was delicious, it did little to soothe my undeniable lyangitis.  In the mirror, my eyes were bloodshot and glassy from sneezing.  Talking was too painful so I tied some loose yarn around my neck, strapped a notepad to it, and took a vow of silence until showtime, communicating between the lines in bold letters to my band. 

The owner of Hotel Utah looked skeptical, wondering if I could fulfill my end of the contract and perhaps regretting having bought all those expensive teas for me.  But haha!  Dr. Theater came through and while I admit, not all my high notes came out smelling like roses, I managed to get through the night before returning to vocal abstinence and passing little notes to my band.

Notes on the way back to the hotel…