Seattle, WA – “What I’ve Learned” -Sit & Spin – March 27, 1999

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.