In New Orleans, the city pulsed with life. People with luminous, dewy skin and fevered gazes danced through the streets, captive to the rhythmic beats of brass bands and zydeco music pouring out of novelty shops and po’ boy sandwich stores. The air was filled with a never-ending symphony of magic and jazz and I felt like we were riding a conveyor belt of sound as we strutted up the street to find our venue. Every other person we passed seemed to be out busking, whether strumming a guitar, blowing into a trombone, or hitting a drum—each played with a broken heart and passionate expression, their straw hats on the ground outstretched to catch the infrequent passing dollar.
Upstairs at the Parish, an almost cathedral-like calm enveloped us. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and folk-art watched us out of sequined eyes. The Birdman met us backstage, having driven 100 miles to serenade us with a 28-minute opus to our last Eastern Tour together. Dressed in a black and blue, sparkling, see-through shirt—he was a sight to behold. It was wonderful to be reunited with him again!
At ten we play for a crowd of beautiful people clad in feather boas, masks and mardi gras beads. The exotic room was filled with salacious laughter and smoke that flowed like condensed milk on the stagnant air.
After the show, the lighting girl—a vision in blue dreads, innocent eyes, and translucent tattooed skin, approached me with her pet snake. “This is her first show,” she said, placing the small, rainbow boa constrictor in my hands. “I want you to name her.” I could feel the spirit of New Orleans winding around my fingers—beautiful, cold, dangerous, and mysterious. I named her “Isis,” after the Bob Dylan song.
It’s a still, gray morning, damp from the recent rain. Once again, I find myself on vocal rest. My larynx ache, like a frozen tree unable to bend. Six shows in six different towns have left me as dry and worn as an old dishrag.
My tired larynx
We drove 90 MPH from Phili to Maryland yesterday, arriving in a quaint town called Cumberland as the day was winding down. Birdman, gracing us with his humorous, talented and generous self, treated us all to dinner at a New Orleans-style joint—think alligator tail and gumbo—a hidden gem underground and empty, except for us, the wisps of smoke from a waitress’s lipstick-stained cigarette and a James Taylor CD stuck on repeat.
We sat around the table drawing phonemic sentences on my speech pad:
CDB? DBSAB-ZB. (See the bee? The bee is a busy bee.)
AK8, TLIQ12BLON. (Hay Kate, tell Ike you want to be alone.)
ICU. URAQTπ. (I see you. You are a cutie pie.)
I NVU. (I envy you.)
After enjoying a grilled chicken salad, a glass of Chardonnay, lemon cheesecake, and a shot of espresso, we headed back to the warmth of the van to continue our journey to our promoter, Ken’s house in Oakland.
When we arrived, a misty blue fog was settling in the valleys between distant green hills and there was a party going on. For us? I couldn’t ask since I was on vocal rest. Throughout the evening, I stayed silent, furiously scribbling notes to keep up with conversations until the night’s darkness stole my words from the page of my note pad and I became just another shadow sewing together the night.
At Ken’s, we made full use of his hot tub with the special massage seat and the view of the moon as it rose and etched a silver sliver into the dark blue ripples of the universe just beyond the horizon.
The next morning, Ken’s adorable wife Nancy made us coffee before sending us off to our gig. We’d been told we’d be playing a farmer’s market type of hall but I guess I hadn’t expected the long, thin, tin roof painted with the words “Fresh Produce,” next to the train tracks which stumbled through town escorting locomotives with great roaring “yeehawws” through the adjacent neighborhoods. It reminded me of places my dad used to play when I was younger. I remember him calling me to the stage to sing with him and the pride and excitement of being in front of an outdoor audience that I could see.
Birdman and I skipped off, arm in arm, to find a leather craftsman to cut me a piece of hide to fix my watch band. We stuck out like sore thumbs in the quaint town of Oakland full of antique shops and old-time coffee shops with swivel stools. Birdman wore a shirt decorated with subway cars covered in graffiti, while I sported a panther print skirt and dark NYC shades. A shopkeeper, standing outside her wind chime store yelled after us:
“You going to the concert tonight? Starts at 7:00.” “We’ll be there,” Eric shouted back over his shoulder. A few paces later she hollered again, “Hey! YOU ARE the concert?!” and we laughed in recognition.
At 7:00 people started pulling up to the farmers market and pitching their families and lawn chairs on the surrounding grass. A nice young guy with a guitar and synth sampler opened for us. A train ran by with high-pitched toots and kids scampered between parent’s legs to get a look at the stage. Polish sausages, pork sandwiches with coleslaw, and baked ham stands were served in white tents; not much for a vegetarian in Maryland, unfortunately.
Halfway through our set, an Amish family pulled up on a tractor to listen to the show. A bunch of cute kids came up on stage and danced to Happy Now and Split Decisions and some even stayed to sway to Tomboy Bride.
It was a brilliant starry night. We sold CDs, I signed kids’ shirts, and Elizabeth, Amber, and Tina —three groovy little girls—helped me hand out stickers. I was taken with the honesty and beauty in people’s eyes—the children in particular, with their blue, snow-cone-stained tongues, gleefully requesting my signature on their dusty, farmer’s market T-shirts, enchanted me. Somewhere during the night, someone gave me an “I Love Oakland” pin and as the crowd dwindled and distant laughter filled the night, I looked at that pin and realized it was true—Oakland is great!
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).
$6 Bucks Go Carts Midnight Mini Golf And cheap wine discreetly sipped from straws in jumbo White Castle plastic cups.
It was cold when we arrived in Missouri and windy. The mini golf range was our scenic view from the middle of the nowhere motel. After checking in, we opened a bottle of wine and settled into a room swathed in overtly floral patterns. Chris Delucchi, visibly enchanted by the mini-golf course, started pointing out some of its quirkier features—“Look at those rainbow flaming lights!” he exclaimed with admiration. “Those water fountains gotta be dyed blue.” “Are those plaster dinosaurs?” Soucy asked, moving closer to the window. Kenny joined in, “That’s the greenest astroturf I think I’ve ever seen.”
Perhaps it’s an indication of how low our standards of a good time have fallen but suddenly we were chomping at the bit to play a round. We poured our freshly decanted wine into super-sized cups left over from lunch and headed across the parking lot, ready for a late-night adventure.
I was delighted by how seriously Brian McRae took his game. He positioned his feet with precision at the top of every hole, claiming the direction of the swing was “all in the feet.” He’d hit his lime green ball and stroll to it like it were a hot girl he was pretending not to notice at the bar. He’d monitor the wind, line up his next shot, and then fold his arms and wait patiently as the rest of us laughed hysterically, hitting our balls haphazardly into bushes and fountains. We were the last group to finish before closing time, and I think the mini-golf employees were glad to see the back of us.
The day was hangover gray when the phone rang the next morning. A bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers in a makeshift water bottle vase nearly blinded me. They tottered threateningly close to falling onto a sleeping Delucchi in the next bed over. It was Brian in the next room, calling to see if I’d go rollerblading with him. He remembered something before he hung up and called so loudly into the receiver I could hear him from the other room: “Sal—my friend asked if we wanted to open for Lynard Skynard this weekend? It would mean hanging out in Missouri for an extra few days but I think it pays well…(hehe)” he laughed nervously. Brian does that. He laughs nervously when he’s unsure of how someone will react to what he’s saying. I imagined the four of us up on a tall outdoor stage at high noon playing to Lynard Skynard’s brawdy crowd (in Missouri no less) and the whole southern, beer-drinking, “Sweet Home Alabama,” sunburn-ness of it gave me heartburn. “So…(hehe)… What’da’ya think?” Asked Bri. “Let’s think about it.” I said, “I mean, I don’t wanna let you down but I’m not sure Lynard Skynard’s our market.” Brian paused, perhaps imagining the same heartburn-inducing visual and replied “On second thought, that’s a terrible idea… (hehe).”
Wheels on, I rolled into the hallway and skated down the red-carpeted isle to the elevator. I hit complimentary breakfast in the lobby, thinking I’d just grab an untoasted bagel and an orange when I discovered it—My new favorite thing. It sat unassumingly on the indelible, beige, mica, linoleum countertop—An automatic mochaccino machine!!!!! All you can drink, all-day, all you have to do is press your desired cup size, your preferred strength of coffee, slide a paper cup under its lip and hit “start!” Over the course of the day, I took advantage at least 50 cups of complementary mochaccinos. Brilliant invention! What will they think of next?!?!?!
Our blade was desolate. We kept mostly to the flatness of “paved paradises” (parking lots) and side streets. The area of Missouri we were stationed in felt soulless, as though even the breeze was afraid to breathe there. We trekked into St. Louis for lunch and ended up at the top of the St. Louis arch. Even though it was pretty cool up there, we all agreed it wasn’t worth the hour-long line.
The Firehouse is an old fire station. Its rugged brown brick walls are beautiful and strong but unfortunately, they make for an echo chamber of a venue if the show’s not packed to soak up the sound. Our show was NOT packed. Apologetically, The Firehouse’s owners, Christian and his wife Kaylene, let us know we were competing with Dave Matthews Band and Chuck Berry on a Wednesday night, no less, and a home team baseball game was just down the street.
The green room was hot and downstairs. I hung my dress on one of the pipes off the low ceiling and sat in a deep yellow chair. My dress rocked on it’s hanger. I Watched some fruit flies case a freckled bunch of bananas in a silver bowl and sipped camomile tea an anonymous employee had brewed and left for me. And in that moment I thought to myself…
This is truly the best time of my life.
On our way home now, speeding along as eagerly as horses heading back to their stable, Kansas stretches out before us—a long, flat, windy place. Over these 9000 miles, we’ve listened to so much good music. If we were to make a compilation tape of this tour, it would definitely include:
John Hyatt – “Come On Baby Drive South”
Black Crows – “Remedy”
Liv Taylor – “Olympic Guitar”
Lucinda Williams – “Car Wheels on A Gravel Road”
Meshell Ndegeocello – “If That’s Your Boyfriend, He Wasn’t Last Night”
Eric Erdman with The Ugly Stick – “Nine Planets”
The Brooklyn Funk Essentials – “Creator Has a Greater Plan”
G-Love and The Special Sauce – “My Baby’s Got Sauce”
Staple Singers – “Love Comes in All Colors”
Donny Hathaway – “Jealous Guy”
The Brand New Heavies – “Make Sauce”
Cymande – “Brothers On The Slide”
Iris May Tango – “Hairdomagic”
Ben Folds Five – “Magic”
Looking Glass – “Brandy”
STB would like to thank the following for making our “Flying V Tour” of the East Coast so damn great:
Big Hand Todd, Dan Beach, The underage dancing girls from Minnesota at The Port O Call, Gary Jones, Kipp, Charles at Harbor Docks for all that phat food, “Big Time” and “Re-run,” Of course: Eric the “Bird Man,” Melba and Mary from the Waffle House, “mom” from Madison, “Hot Po” Tader, I.Q, Peggy, David Starr from Arkansas, “Missy”: Chris’s Mystery girl from Shuba’s, Kim Kelly in Tuscaloosa, Alex Taylor for housing us in Northampton, “Smithy,” Livingston and Maggie Taylor for all of their unbelievable support and loving advice, “The Bubble Man” who ever you are, Ian Selig and Val for up all night in Tribeca, Nimi, Heidi, Cat, and Mikol, Dr. Len and Diane at the Raptor Trust, The kids at the Walden School and Marji and her family (thanks for the chocolates, flowers and “gingew beeww”), Jeffery, Sean Pocock and Mary Jane Rumley, “The Gloms” who probably don’t know who they are, Brint and Liz Anderson… Yummmm food, music, and “one boot playin’ on the porch board,” DJ Image (The parking lot attendant in NOLA), The Porch Board people at Enroute Music, Howard @ Blue Note for the J-45, Jason for the beautiful flowers, Josh for the Safe House, Kate Faccia (thanks for leaving me in Boulder alone!!!!!), “Disco” for supplying Kenny with the cup….(next time bring two), The Paramount for supplying us with our mascot “The un-kind Bud”, Shuckers, All those people who “looked like a chicken to me!”, Those of you who stuck us with the fat ass tab at Walker’s in NYC, Reid’s Ginger Beer, “Key’s to the Trailer,” Laura back in Boulder for everything, Those of you who gave us hours of listening with your CD’s, Ariel, P.I.M, Those cool phone interviewers, Thai Joe, Beccini contestants #5 & #7 From the Windjammer, Gene O’Brian, “Pelican, Pelican, Pelican”, Amityville, all of our parents for their support, Mel, Heidi Wild and Brandon, Nisa, Dave our tow truck driver, Michael White and Mary, and thank you to I-70 headed us West as we speak.
When we arrived in NOLA we discovered Chris had booked us into a cushy Marriot with a rooftop pool! Yay.
Unfortunately, there was only one room for the five of us… no make that six of us (we brought our Mobile, AL bubble machine toting opener, Eric Erdman along with us to NOLA. We couldn’t leave him behind after he’d provided us with the best laugh of our lives.)* Dellucci, Eric, and I would share the double bed closest to the door and Soucy, Kenny and Bri would bunk up in the other. The trouble was less with our tight sleeping arrangements (which proved pretty humorous for poor Eric, who’d only just met us) and more with the vast number of open bags lying around the room. The floor became a hazardous obstacle course when the lights went out later in the night and you could hear any one of us crying out as we tripped our way to or from the bathroom.
Chris Soucy reads between the lines as Chris Dellucci uses a good old-fashioned towel for sunblock
After checking in, we escaped our close quarters. Some of us went to read books through slats in pool chairs on the roof. But I wanted to go shopping and, generously, Eric agreed to accompany me. At “Hemlines” a French Quarter boutique at 609 Chartres St, Eric patiently took a seat on a mocha leather bench and let me try on 50 outfits for him. He generously approved of each and every one of them in a southern drawl that could charm the panties off a nun. I left a little lighter in the wallet and extremely grateful for Eric’s admiration and attention. I think I have a little crush on him. No one can make me laugh the way he does and walk away without my heartstrings attached.
We opened for The Continental Drifters at The Howlin’ Wolf. Overall, it was a pretty uneventful set except that during “For Kim,” Kenny was wriggling around a whole bunch. He was trying to hint at me that he had to pee but I just thought he was dancing funny. Finally, he couldn’t wait any longer. He dropped his bass mid-song and flew off, stage left only to discover the restrooms were located on the opposite side of the stage……I’ll spare you the details of the debacle but let’s just say that the cup wasn’t quite large enough. It happens to all of us at some time. Poor Kenny.
Kenny’s hints look like a funky dance to me
Late night, we hit “The Bitter End,” a bar uptown where our friends George Porter Jr. and The Running Partners were playing. Man, did they make it funky in that humid little joint. We snagged beers at a round table close to the band. Cigar smoke billowed in the blue stage lights and Brint Anderson’s guitar, wawa-ed it’s sexy filth into our souls.
There’s no curfew in Mobile, Alabama so college students tossed “wanna fight?!?!” glances and ill-advised pick-up lines at each other into the wee hours of the morning.
As we rolled the last of our gear past the backdrop of this drunken scene, I found myself grappling with how to share the uproarious, effervescent, and brilliant spectacle that unfolded on stage earlier that evening.
Let me begin by asking if you’ve ever known the thrill of riding a rollercoaster of infectious laughter. The type that starts as a gentle simmer, a bubbly sensation, as though being shaken like a soda can, until suddenly, the pressure’s too great, and you can’t keep it in. It’s not just any type of laughter; it’s the bottle rocket, explosive kind; the type that starts with your lips tightly sealed, trying desperately to hold it in, until a sound you’d expect to come from an elephant’s trunk, comes out of your own mouth and the sound, in itself, is so funny and embarrassing you might, for an instant, forget what made you laugh in the first place and start laughing at yourself for the noise just emitted from your body.
It’s that elephant noise that kills you man, every time, because if you’d just let yourself chuckle a little “te-he” in the first place, all that energy would have dispersed evenly, the way you can let air slowly out of a shaken soda to avoid a catastrophe. But not after the elephant sound….no, no, no…Because then you are doomed for the rest of your life to laugh not only at the funny thing, not only at the embarrassing elephant squeal you allowed through your lips but at the fact that you shouldn’t even have been laughing at the funny thing in the first place.
THE FUNNY THING Eric Erdman, a talented, charismatic, bubble-machine-toting virtuoso, was our opening act. He held the philosophy that a performer plus bubbles didn’t just equate to a good show but transformed it into something spectacular. He insisted, and I quote:
“A good performer makes for a good show, but a good performer with bubbles makes for a GREAT show.”
-Eric Erdman “The Birdman”
Eric had rigged his whimsical bubble generator to his guitar pedal board so that, with one stomp, he could turn any stage into a magical bubble wonderland. Did I want to use it for my set? he asked. Uh, hell yes I did.
The bubble machine was deceptively simple; a seemingly innocuous black box filled with ivory liquid soap. But inside, it harbored an arsenal of at least twenty bubble wands and a fan that could have cooled a small desert. I didn’t think to use the machine until we were about to play “Red Room.”
I was thinkin’ to myself, ‘I’ll just turn on some bubbles to create a sexy red room vibe.’ But when I crunched Eric’s guitar-peddle bubble-button, instead of lilting sexy bubbles, I inadvertently released a torrent of bubble-bees that swarmed the air.
Now, there happened to be this liquored-up biker dude standing about eye level not 3 feet from the bubble blower’s mouth. He’d been making eyes at me all night, leaning against a wooden pillar in that “I’m the shit” way. He had wavy, salt and pepper curls, a Harley Davidson t-shirt, and what looked like 10 pounds of silver rings covering his beefy hands.
When the bubble barrage began, those shimmering suckers came out at him so fast and with such profusion, his first reaction was to fight them off and he did so with comical resistance, as if battling a soapy blizzard. At some point, he must have realized how ridiculous he looked and stopped swatting but he was too cool to abandon his post, so he just let the soapy beasts envelop him and tried to resume his composure.
The thing was, these bubbles weren’t popping. They were made of Ivory soap and they were indelible! Even after the show was over we were still finding unpopped bubbles sitting on top of amplifiers and instruments.
While Eric had instructed me how to trigger the bubbles, he’d failed to mention how to make them stop. All “Red Room” long those shatterproof bubbles assaulted and attached themselves to the Harley man who didn’t understand they weren’t just hitting and bursting. THEY WERE ACCUMULATING.
As he stood there, stoically, staring at me, listening intensely to me sing he was being turned into a bubble snowman. He was covered, and I mean covered (his whole beard and hair and shoulders) in iridescent glowing bubbles. And since he was standing in the front of the crowd, most of the people in the audience saw this accumulation too and started pointing at him which he was also clueless to.
This only made keeping my laughter in, harder, so when my tightly clenched lips cracked to sing the third verse, the elephant sound came out of me and I completely lost it. I fell on the ground kneeling over my guitar. I couldn’t hide my laughter. I was practically crying for god sake. But I felt badly for laughing at the Harly dude who, albeit drunk as a skunk, was listening so sincerely. I tried to pretend I had to fix a broken string. I tried to pull myself together and make it back for the chorus but catching the Harley dude out of the corner of my eye, now wearing a bubble robe iridescently lit by the lights from the stage, I completely blew it and couldn’t even attempt the end lyrics. How could he not know he was covered in bubbles?!?!
I’ll cherish that memory for the rest of my days. Thank you, Mobile, GOODNIGHT.
