Nashville, TN – “Skunk Buddy & Other Humiliations” – 3rd and Lindsly – September 19, 1999
Eric Erdman agreed to drive up from Mobile to snuggle me for a night in Tennessee. Did I mention the road gets lonely especially surrounded by bandmates who are also lonely? It’s a relief to wake up in Eric’s arms in a private room of my own and with a greatly improved mood, I call down to someone named Mark at room service to order “Seven continental breakfasts please.” I want to surprise the band with breakfast and bonus checks. While we wait for Mark, Eric and I sit around in bathrobes, singing in harmony to radio hits he strums on his Taylor guitar. When two carts of continental breakfasts arrive, Eric and I push them together through the 17th-floor hallway to the elevator. I don’t bother changing out of my oversized t-shirt and rainbow socks or removing the football-like black mascara from under my eyes. “We’re only going up 6 floors,” I retort when Eric suggests I put on some pants.
But apparently, you need a room key to access floors above floor 22 which I did not know and so instead of going up we’re redirected to the lobby. There, a suit-wearing businessman joins us. We smile. He scowels. I try, unsuccessfully, to hide my legs behind the white tablecloth. When he exits on the 22nd floor we follow him with our trays and I call Delucchi from the courtesy phone. “We’re stuck on the 22nd floor,” I whisper into the receiver while Eric cracks up behind his hands and people stare. When Delucchi fetches us he falls on the ground when doors open to reveal my vagabond ragged ponytail and rainbow socks. “Come on up,” he smiles compassionately.
The humidity is relentless when we arrive in Nashville. The hot, stagnant, air sinks into my bones as though I hadn’t any skin to protect me. We load in and meet the owners of 3rd and Lindsly who tell us the first 1/2 of our set will be broadcast live on a station called “Lightning 100” and that we should have a good show, as though it’s a demand, not an insight. We’re just glad it’s the last of the tour and I find my mind 1/2 way to Kansas already, as I try to engage in vague, detached conversations with people in the club.
We get food. Brian, who can’t, or just won’t, eat cheese and specifies this to the waiter, nonetheless, gets cheese on each and every course of his meal and frustratedly returns them for their proper preparation with a scoff.
My best friend from Boulder, Kate who now sadly, for me, lives in Nashville, shows up early and lifts our spirits bringing my mind back, temporarily, from Kansas for some much-needed girl chat in the walk-in/guitar closet/green room/hospitality the venue has provided. There’s a mirror on 2 of the three walls with some bald bulbs overhead that I constantly bump into while trying to change into a maroon top and black pants. Kate giggles and trys on my new Maybelline “Mauve Magic” lipstick.
There hasn’t been anywhere to shower since we left North Carolina 3 days ago and my hair is taking on a very dry, rat nest-like quality but the boys tell me I look all right (they’re the best) and we go on and straight into the radio show.
“No curse words,” they say, specifying…NO FUCK, SHIT, ASS or ASSHOLES but somehow I keep managing to fuck shit up and the radio DJ’s lips purse at each of my infringements. Nashville, what a place. It’s full of boots and business and tiny dogs with bandanas around their necks, and pancake make-up that looks like it would be painful to take off and might require a chisel. The air is seasoned with acoustic music with slide guitars and shooting stars and smoke filled bars with denim lights left on all night.
“I’m just assuming there’s no one in the record business out there in the audience,” I joke into the mic. Half the hands in the room go up. “Good,” I say “This next one is about people in the record industry. It’s called Strangest of Strangers.” The night flows with me poking fun at the audience, who eventually turn their crossed arms into hugs.
The rain holds out just in time to drench us at load out. I talk to a guy about a possible PBS special and a songwriter about touring logistics. I change back into jeans and sneakers in the mirrored closet and collect the measly $25 bucks the venue gives me for the gig. I leave out back door into oven-like, post-rain heat. Delucchi is hanging out of the back of the van rearangeing instruments to accommodate Brian’s departure in the morning to meet up with The Freedy Jones Band in Chicago to finish out their dates. He made good on his promise to me to prioritize my tour over theirs and though there were some gigs I had to cancel, I can’t overemphasize my gratitude he kept his commitment to finish this tour with me. I know most likely he’ll be moving on after this. I know it’s the last time we’ll crate “Fat Amy,” his red drum case, into Moby’s trunk and I pat the side of it with deliberate affection.
I’m not looking forward to finding a new drummer to replace Brian and recognize the moment as the end of a chapter. What better way to commemorate it than with him passing the torch? The last to drink the skunky Budweiser mascot “Skunk Buddy,” Brian needs to ritualistically pass it to me, the latest recipient. It is time for me to take the plunge and drink the hot, disgusting, cooler rat of a beer and I swallow hard.
Tiny flints of rain pass like ferries between us in the yellow street light. Delucchi films as Brian, holding the very angry beer, asks me to acknowledge I’ve made the biggest blunder this tour “I have,” I admit, and to accept the brown labeled award as my prize. “I do,” I say ceremonially. I take it, open it, smell it and swig. It tastes beer-ish but also like red meat and wound up fists. I drink it like a pro though and don’t spit it out the way those before me have (wimps).