Grant’s Pass, OR – “Catching a Cold On the Road” – Rogue Theater – June 21, 2000

When we got to the gig, I was finishing a call with my dad peppering him for vocal advice. I’d felt the cold coming on in San Diego and in the parking lot of Grants Pass OR, a week later, it finally had me by the throat.

“Aw, Sal. I’m so sorry my gal. There’s nothin’ worse than losing your voice out on the road. Can you get some rest?” my Dad asked.
“Yeah,” my voice cracked into the receiver, lower than normal, “I can sleep in the van tomorrow on the way to Portland.”
“That’s really the only thing you can do Sal. That, and drink more water than you think you can and put yourself on vocal rest. Ah, I’m sorry my Gal. There’s nothing worse than a cold on the road.” I’d been hoping for a magic tincture. Something with tarragon and turmeric and black magic. Vocal rest and water felt so pedestrian. He’s right thought about one thing, Ain’t nothin’ worse than a cold on the road.

Oregon was broiling as I joined the boys, already in their ant-like effort to shuttle equipment between the oven-like conditions of the parking lot and the air-conditioned Rogue Theater. The stage was elegant — tall and newly painted. We’d be the first act to play on their newly extended stage and the second band to play the theater EVER. We were honored but nervous, knowing it usually takes at least a year for a venue to work out all its technological glitches. But it turned out we had nothing to worry about. The place sounded like a dream. I only wished I had the voice to christen the place properly.

Buffalo Bob, our promoter, wore a tan suede hat from which his downy white hair tumbled like milkweed. He took us to dinner at the Mexican joint next door where none of the employees spoke much English. To make up for it, they followed everything they said with “Thank you, Thank you,” which was quite endearing —“We have special chicken enchilada thank you.” “More water? Thank you.” “You are in a band? Thank you, Senorita, thank you.”

Buffalo Bob, compelled to document his second production at The Rogue, took an endless stream of pictures until, during the quiet encor of Tomboy Bride, he cursed off stage left, “Aw Fuck! That was my last shot.” His distress was so audible the whole audience must have heard and the laughter I assumed the band must be having at my expense behind the curtain made me almost bust a lung. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried not to laugh while singing but it’s almost impossible. Your mouth is already open for god sake! I composed myself by thinking sad thoughts– world hunger, homeless kids, slavery. Those tragedies seem to strangle the most ticklish laughter from my lips.

While my voice held out for the show, in the parking lot, I realized how sick I really was. My head ached, my lungs felt like steel wool and my legs were weak and achy. The heat had dimmed and a soft warm breeze cuddled my exposed face and arms like a warm wet towel.

One of The Rogue Theater’s owners, Ann, insisted on giving me a ride back to the hotel. She mommied me in a way she couldn’t have known how much I needed. She walked me into the hotel and escorted me to the check-in desk. I could have done it myself but she insisted on taking me up to my room, giving me her number, and asking me to call her any time during the night if I needed anything. She gifted me a little bottle of tea tree salve for my chest and got me some OJ before she left.

Thank you Ann!