Mill Valley, CA – “The Show Must Go On” – Sweetwater – September 5, 2000

We rose early at Delucchi’s parents’ home, where Bob and Judy graciously, albeit a bit madly, put the band up whenever we were in the Bay Area. The morning light stung my eyes, puffy and red from last night’s emotional breakdown. On the ride back from the Golden Gate Park show, I’d vented to the guys about my guitar’s annoying buzz in the stage monitors.

“Try taking guitar lessons,” Delucchi mumbled from the driver’s seat. I brushed off his jab, assuming he hadn’t meant it to wound. “Could it be my pickup?” I wondered aloud. “Try taking guitar lessons,” he repeated, this time louder.
I told him I doubted my guitar skills were the cause of the buzzing. I told him I knew my guitar playing was my weakest link. I told him it was easy for him to say and then I told him he’d hurt my feelings.

Soon I was crying—tears I battled to suppress—until my eyes were swollen like ripe berries and my face was a canvas of mascara and hopelessness. When we reached his parents’ home, Delucchi offered an apology and a hug under a flickering street lamp at the end of his parent’s cul-de-sac, but I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be “good enough” — to be simultaneously seen and unseen — I wanted fame.

Fame!?!? The very thought horrified me, far more than Delucchi’s remark. It revealed how little I valued my love, as if its worth depended on the accreditation of a crowd of screaming fans—as if I needed an audience to co-sign my heart.

I’ve noticed since my breakup with Sam I’ve started measuring my worth by show attendance, CD sales, and the number of compliments I get on my voice, my outfit, my stage presence, etc. I’ve been using praise like a drug and applause to mend my broken heart. It is not healthy.

I should just focus on recouping the money from this album and escape this business, I ruminated, wiping away the makeup debris in Delucchi’s bathroom mirror. I thought back to my therapist’s hippy shack on Martha’s Vineyard. I recalled the day I’d asked if she thought I was crazy to consider a career in music. Of course it was crazy, but she didn’t think so and together, we put some measures in place that might protect me against my ego if I ever chose to pursue a musical path. They were, in short,

• 1. Don’t sign a record deal.
• 2. Don’t read reviews. and
• 3. If your ego gets in the driver’s seat, jump ship!!!

But while it was clear my ego was in the driver’s seat now, how could I jump ship two albums deep, in the red, halfway through a tour? I imagined various music business escape routes as I drifted off to sleep on a futon in the middle of the Delluchi’s livingroom–some of which, near the horizon of dreams, involved life rafts and scuba gear.

I feel better this morning; besides itchy eyes and a throbbing head, my despair has largely cleared. We’ve got Sweetwater tonight in Mill Valley, and I know I have to rise to the occation. I pull myself up by my bootstraps, eat a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast with jelly and OJ and remind myself, “The show must go on.”