Northampton, MA – “The Beginning of The End” – The Iron Horse – August 5, 2002

Dean has been on the road all weekend and today marks the sorrowful date of his departure.   “Honey,” he whispers from the pillow, “how’d you get to the other end of the bed?” In my half-conscious state I answer what seems obvious:

“Walking… with… the prehistoric beasts.”

Before we fell asleep, we’d been watching a program called Prehistoric Beasts on the Discovery channel.  Now, in my groggy state, I wonder to myself, how they gained entrance to my dreams and provoked me to do a full 180° in the sheets.  

2 AM

Springfield Marriott

Room #1430

Here I am, at the foot of a single bed, lying beside my beloved who is a little concerned, but mostly impressed, by my night time gymnastics.  I suppose my positioning must be less surprising to me than to Dean, who’s been snuggling my ankles and calves for the last hour.  Dean laughs and hugs me to him as I giggle girlishly and realign my body with his. 

“Get a room…” hollers Soucy from the adjacent bed and we giggle harder and snuggle up closer.  Soucy slips easily back to dreaming but Dean and I don’t bother.  We cling to the slippery moments passing between now and his flight in a couple hours.  I miss him already.  From each other’s arms, we watch the ceiling grow bright from headlights on passing cars below.  When I think of anything besides how to kidnap him and make him stay, I think about the show last night and how wretched it was.  The Iron Horse was one big fail.

We’d spent the previous night at my pop’s after playing Club Helsinki in Great Barrington.  The band, dad, Dean and I had stayed up late, like teenagers, eating potato chips, chocolate chip cookies and drinking hot kava tea. We discussed wedding plans and tried to keep our laughter down to a minimum so as not to wake his babies or pooches.

The next morning, my pop made an extra effort to spend time with me and rode with us in our crowded van to the Iron Horse.  Even though we’d advanced the gig a month ago, when we got to Northampton, the marquee read Tonight! Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks.  Unbeknownst to us, we’d been demoted to their opening act and would be paid accordingly.  There’d be no room for the band on stage, so it would just be Soucy and me.  To add insult to injury, because The Hot Licks had forgotten pieces of their drum kit, they asked Dino if they could borrow his and requested he set it up for them.

I felt embarrassed in front of my pop.  He took me for a coffee up the street.  I explained how this tour has been death by a thousand cuts. 

“This’ll happen at every level along the way, my Sal,” he told me.  “Occasional humiliation is just part of the business,” he explained.  At the café, two cappuccinos teetered in saucers against our uneven-legged table.   I stared up at him with glistening eyes, as he listed off some examples of particularly bitter humble pie he’d eaten recently.  I was grateful for his sympathy and camaraderie and relieved he didn’t think being demoted to opening act was a reflection of my value as a musician.

His eyes sparkled as he repeated what he said when I first told him I was considering a career in music, “I wouldn’t wish this career on my worst enemy, but if you want a career in music, you’re talent is worthy of having it.  You’ve really got what it takes my girl.” 

Boulder, CO – Mom & Dad React to my Demo – April 5, 1998

My heart melted under his empathy and generous reassurance.  I thanked him as some tears escaped my lids. 

“I was really bowled over when I asked you to record those harmonies on Traveling Star and Baby Buffalo.  You were a total pro in the studio, Sal.  You picked up those parts immediately and knew just how to sing’um on mic to blend with my vocals.  You’ve really become a great musician, my gal.  You’ve paid your dues and earned your stripes.  What impresses me most is that you’ve learned how to do all this by yourself, without your mom’s or my help.  You’ve made 3 albums all on your own, put a band together and toured probably more than I have over the past 5 years and you did it on your own terms—without a record company behind you.  I’m so proud, my Sal.”  His adulation made me tear up and I made a little puddle on the table in front of me, leaning over my hands so as not to embarrass him in front of customers who’d already recognized him and were straining to overhear our conversation. 

“I really wanted to make a difference, dad.  I wanted to inspire new musicians to know they can make it on their own — that they don’t need a label — that they can learn the ropes as they go and build a career and own their own terms.  They can find success and shape—”

“—You have done that Sal.  You don’t know how many young artists might have already seen your shows, read your road journals, heard your music on the radio or will hear your music in the future and think to themselves — I can do that too!  You don’t get to know who you have touched or will inspire with your music and message.  You just have to know that you inspire me.  Your integrity and fire and ingenuity inspire me and I know I’m not alone in that feeling.”  I felt so held and loved and seen.  My heart swelled.  I drew a constellation of stars with my tear drops on the table, knitting them into an abstract child’s game of Connect the Dots on the smooth black surface.  Could I admit this out loud? I wondered.

“I’m just not sure I want it anymore, dad,” my admission was tiny when it finally escaped my lips.  “It’s really hard to have a relationship from out here,” I said. 

“Tell me about it,” he laughed. 

“I don’t want to fuck things up with Dean.  If I’m getting married, I want it to be forever.  I want to be in 100% and I just don’t think I can do that if I’m going on the road all the time.”  Dad nodded and took a deep breath.  He pressed his lips together into a thin, straight line and exhaled through it.  He knew exactly what I meant.  “But my band—”

“—They’re your family,” he finished my sentence, “I know.” He pet my hand lovingly.

“I can’t imagine letting them go.” 

“They’ll be ok Sal,” he reassured me.  “You just take your time and figure out what you want.  Your band’ll support you no matter what and so will Dean if you decide to stay on this musical path.  Dean knew who he was marrying when he asked you.”  He nodded his head toward the door.  It was show time.  The sounds of the coffee house returned, like I’d been in the depth of an ocean and was just returning to the surface. 

Dad walked me back to the club like he was taking me to my first day of kindergarten.  Dean was waiting for me under the marquee with a hug.  He took my hand, the one with the ring on it, and led me straight to the stage.   I brushed the tears from my face with the back of my hand and with the strength and vulnerability a career in music demeans, I stepped into the spotlight.  I picked up my guitar and started into Tomboy Bride.  How is it that I am lonely, surrounded by these faces? I thought.  I felt the guitar purr on my belly like a cat and the cool metal of the mic pressed up against my lips.  I felt the eyes of the audience and wondered if maybe there was a young musician out there, somewhere in the crowd,  who I was inspiring to chart their own musical journey.  I felt my song fill me to spilling, and when I came to the chorus, I looked out and saw my band, my fiance and my Dad, all in separate parts of the audience, singing along.  When the song was done.  So was I.  This is it, I thought, it’s the beginning of the end of the road.