On the Road

On the Road

2005

11/18/2005 - Marietta, GA: Shaka Zulu, epiphany, regime satori, call it whatever you want to, realizing you've been shooting at the wrong target for a long time well and truly sucks. Arriving for the sound check at the Red Door Theater outside of Atlanta, I was given instructions that honestly were very new to me. And I've been doing this a while. Shaking my hand warmly as he introduced himself, the stage manager looked down at his list and said, "You're on after the magician." Have to say, that's a first.

Don't get me wrong, this guy was a really GOOD magician, and the evening had been booked pretty well in terms of the acts flowing one into the other. I just got up on stage with absolutely no idea how you follow an illusionist. So, I just jumped in. Just like the Blues Brothers at Bob's Country Bunker: "screw the room. Our usual set. 'Gimme Some Lovin'. 1, 2, 3, 4. . . " I never talk before the first song. They've come for music, give 'em the gas. But halfway through 'Dance' the guitar just doesn't sound quite right in the monitor, and I can tell it's one of those nights where it's just not gonna. It's a terrific audience in a wonderful listening theater, but there's that gulf there between me and them already. If you don't do something, that's gonna grow. So I audibled at the line of scrimmage and changed the plan. After finishing the first song, just the funny stuff. The satire, the smart-ass, just free-associating at the mic in between the tunes. Don't try this at home kids. And you know what? It killed. KILLED! Best set ever. Bar none. The audience and I just started rolling back and forth from song to song as the indefinable "stuff" started to flow. Amazing.

By the time I got to the lobby area, the CDs I had brought were long sold out. More gigs and inquiries where everywhere from people in the crowd. As I drove back to the hotel, I knew I was in the middle of a major directional reassessment. Maybe I've been fighting the truth. Maybe "sensitive ballad guy" is just not who I am. Maybe all the alternate tunings and the guitar frippery and the agony of the internal poet just aren't me. I hated to admit it, but taking the leash off my inner-smartass just felt so. . .so RIGHT. Maybe I am basically a dart-thrower, a balloon popper, a Beavis, maybe even a Butthead. I think it may be time to set the Creature free.

10/29/2005 - Asheville, NC: As can be seen from the "upcoming shows" page, I'm very lucky to be in the middle of a string of choice opening act slots at the moment; for Kate Campbell at the Grey Eagle, Dana Cooper at the Evening Muse in Charlotte, and Lisa Bastoni at the Red Door in Atlanta. Good planet alignment, I guess. A few thoughts on opening, as it is a skill set unto itself:

- I was in the green room with Kate at the Eagle waiting for the show to start, when a couple of her friends came backstage to say hello. This is a fairly common thing, and I pretty much just disappeared into the corner to tune and warm up. Kate very nicely introduced me to her buddies, who said they were looking forward to hearing me. I shook hands and laughed, "You're very kind. I'm just the opener." Kate proceeded to admonish me with quite the stern look. "NEVER say that!" she said, and went on to explain to me that opening is a very legitimate stage on the journey that EVERYONE goes through, and that you should take real pride in. She proceeded to tell some great stories about opening for artists like Guy Clark in places as far off as the Australian Outback. What I've come to realize is that opening is a delicate balancing act. As an opener, you have the responsibility to go out there and perform with all the energy and showmanship as if you were the headliner that night. At the same time, you HAVE to keep in mind that everything that happens in the room and backstage that night, including your performance, is about creating a successful show for the headliner, and that's not you tonight.

-As an opening act, you have the responsibility to be two things:1)good 2)hassle-free. This goes for everyone you deal with, from the headliner to the sound person, to the merchandise and door guys out front.

-Sound Check: Every artist I know likes a good long sound check. Guess what: maybe, maybe not. The headliner soundchecks first and takes as long as they need. Deal with it. Don't hang around looking annoyed, or, worse yet, bugging the sound guys and crew. Once the headliner is satisfied, the opener MAY get to check before the house opens. Make it fast, and figure out how to do your thing changing as little on stage as possible, preferably nothing. Remember; a soundcheck for the opening act is a luxury. Be grateful if you get one at all. It is not at all unusual for your first number to function as the soundcheck. Plan your set accordingly.

-Treat opening professionally: Plan your set. It's ok to leave song selection until later in the evening to take the temperature of the crowd and the room, but the whole zen master-"I'll just play what moves me when I get out there"-thing leads to uncertainty between songs, not being in the right tuning that you want, and sets you up for a sloppy set.

-Backstage: Every artist is different. Some headliners may have no problem talking to people and interacting with you before the show, others need to start getting into their own performance space. This can be interesting in smaller listening rooms with limited green room space. I have no problem taking my book, getting a beer, and finding a quiet corner table or seat in the house and giving up the green space until it's time to tune and warm up.

-When onstage: at some point during the set, remember to prime the pump for the headliner. Rev the crowd up for them and remind them that the break in between acts is a good time to go out to the merchandise table and pick up their cd, shirt, or whatnot. It's ok to be a fan, too. Everyone out there looking back at you probably is. In addition, you're an opening act, not the headliner on "Storytellers". Nobody in the crowd cares that you wrote this song during a great time of personal crisis when you lost your retainer. Trust your music to speak for itself. Play the songs, have fun, and then get off the stage. Big rule: WATCH YOUR TIME. No matter how much you think you're rocking the room, or how completely you've taken over the crowd, the quickest way not to get invited back is to go over the allotted opening time.

Opening can be a blast, and is great prep for what's hopefully coming for you later. Kate's right: take pride and enjoy the ride.

9/24/2005 - Flat Rock, NC: The Flat Rock Music Festival was outstanding. Great sound, an appreciative audience, and neat musicians to hang out with backstage. It's always fun to meet new folks who are out plowing the same fields as you. Andrew Maxwell of Asheville has a couple sweet little songs, and I hope we get to play together again. I gotta give the "gut check" award to Teresa Storch from MA, though. To just get on a plane, no idea of where you're going to stay, no other places to play, no clue of how you're even going to get from the airport to the gig and back; that, friends, is faith! I'm getting to be an older, more cautious wolf now, but I don't remember EVER being that young and courageous. I envy that.

Touring for me is a sweet science. I'm very detail-oriented, and while I have been known to pull in to the occasional whistle-stop town to sing for my supper, I generally need to have all the gigs planned and mapped out, hotels reserved, and gas calculated long in advance. This is going to get bigger as gas becomes more and more expensive now that we've reached Peak Oil. As airline after airline goes belly up due to fuel costs, it's going to get tougher and tougher for little, independent guys like me to hit the road for large scale touring paying four and five bucks a gallon for gas. People in all industries are going to be staying closer to home and seeing their "life radius" decrease. Don't fool yourself, cowpokes, regardless of what you may have heard or believed, American society is not predicated on the cell phone, the computer, or the internet. American society has been built on a quivering foundation of cheap petroleum, and those days are coming to an end. Get ready to live a lot more locally, a lot simpler, and on a lot less gas.

8/22/2005 - Decatur, GA: My latest thoughts on Open Mics: As previously noted, I'm a huge fan of Eddie's Attic, but I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to have to swear off their open mic, and before I go any farther, let me state flatly that it's not their problem, it's mine. Maybe I'm getting older, wearier, or warier, but open mics in general, and that one in particular, are starting to bring out a side of me that I'm not enamored of. With money and gigs on the line, the Attic stage gets a bit competitive, and the whole "music as bloodsport" thing is frankly killing my buzz.

A bit of a confession at this point: I'm pretty hyper-competitive to begin with. I've sworn off most board and trivia games, only play golf by myself, and have to police myself pretty hard in several other areas of my life. But the music has always been different. The music has always been pure for me. Not a contest, not a measure, just the medicine. The only time it's been otherwise, coincidentally, was in Seattle when my band started getting some notoriety, garnering some top-40 airplay, and I turned into some sort of playlist watching, chart monitoring, spin counting freak. I didn't like that person very much. It was definitely one of the things that led to the dissolution of a pretty damn good group.

So when I catch myself looking at other artists on a bill and feeling too Thunderdome ("Two men enter, One man leave! Two men enter, One man leave!") instead of being able to just sit back and be grateful for what they're putting out there because future gigs or large wads of cash are on the line that night, I think it's time to pull the ripcord. If the gang up in the Attic want to book me or not, they've seen me enough to make a decision. There's certainly no shortage of places to play right now (knock wood) and some things need to be guarded and cherished, even if it hurts you short-term. Eddie, Bob, et. al, strike me as the type of people who will understand that and not take offense. Here's hoping.

8/3/2005 - Charlotte, NC: This was my first foray at the Tosco Open Mic, which has become something of an institution in Charlotte. A little history: John Tosco, a terrific guitarist and voluntary shepherd of the local music scene in Charlotte, took weekly songwriter nights in his east Charlotte home and grew them into twice-yearly performance nights in downtown's amazing Spirit Square theater (think the Ryman on a slightly smaller scale). He holds monthly auditions and a miniature version of these "Tosco Music Parties" at the Evening Muse, right across the street from the Neighborhood Theater in North Downtown Charlotte, the first Wednesday of every month. It is a thoroughly enjoyable and low-key evening. A few pointers for those interested:

-DON'T do stuff in funky tunings. John starts the night with a massive, ten guitar sing-a-long with the crowd, so you'll have to be in standard for that. I was unprepared.

-You get ONE song. Make it a good one. John was gracious and asked me to close the night as well, so I ended up doing a couple, but they try to move through anywhere from twenty to thirty people a night. Be warned.

-The Evening Muse, while a totally cool music room with a great selection of beers, has NO food. Nyet, nada, nil, none, ninguna, navratilova, nothing. I take that back; there is a three-year old chocolate cake on the bar under glass with two pieces missing (Fear Factor was in town?) that qualifies as food so they can sell alcohol. Eat before you come. Hey, I've seen worse; in Denver, I remember a dive I used to play that conformed to the law by having, on the wall behind the bar, an empty rack for potato chip bags with one, lonely, ancient bag of Lays hanging at the top of it. The capper: the bag had, at some point been opened, and was half-eaten. People get hungry.

7/18/2005 - Decatur, GA: Here's an odd thing: In Asheville, it's called the Atlanta Bread Company, in Atlanta itself it's just called "We got muffins. . . ". Seriously, I have a new favorite performance venue; Eddie's Attic in NE Atlanta. An intimate space with a killer sound system, really nice staff, and that jewel of jewels; a crowd that comes to sit and listen to good music. Not to talk, smoke, get laid, eat, or make deals. How cool and rare is that?

One sad side effect of John Mayer's emergence from the Attic is that it is now swarming with young, sensitive guitarists, all strumming augmented jazz chords and singing about girls in breathy tenors, all trying to be the next JM. I'm not exaggerating. You can't swing a dead cat in there (frowned upon by the management, I'd imagine) without hitting a baby-Mayer. Imitation is one of the fruits of success, I suppose, and there are certainly worse people you could be out there imitating. A nice guy with a clipped British accent who bought a CD of mine after the show commented that there were three stages of song writing development:

1) I wanna get laid.

2) I wanna get paid.

3) I wanna get heard.

Pretty true if you think about it. Anyway, I'm really looking forward to going back next month.

6/26/2005 - St. Paul, MN: I love Minnesotans. I mean it, I do NOT fall in love easily and these people have won my heart. And NOT just because they gave me Best Performer! I'm very gratified by the award, but you can never let them go to your head. Remember what Bogart said about the Oscars: "Awards are like social diseases, screw around long enough and you're bound to pick one up somewhere along the way." No, the folk of ten thousand lakes have just charmed me outright.

First of all, I got lost. Voltaire said, "To sound the depths of your fellow man, let him know you are in need." You can always tell what sort of people you are among by telling them you're lost. Examples:

"Excuse me, I'm a little lost."

-Pacific Northwest: "Man, that is so aware! Be lost! Yes! Own that!"

-North Carolina: (tearfully) "As are we ALL! Glory above! But if you'll just come with me to this meeting. . . "

-Texas: "Damn boy! You cain't be lost in Texas! ALL roads lead. . .well hell, to TEXAS!!"

-New York: "Glad I'm not YOU!"

-But Minnesotans: "Oh yeh, ya just head on down 'ere towards the tractor dealership and turn 'fore you lose sight o' this here thing here.. . . . You're not goin' without havin' a little somethin, would ya? I got hot dish just come out."

Another thing about Minnesotans; they are all self-effacingly intelligent. Not "I saw C-Span2 last night" intelligent like my fellow Seattleites and me, but almost humble about being so well-read and practical. They'll always begin their statement with something like, "Weeell, I just read the morning paper while I'm at my business, ya know, but it seems to me. . . " which can then be followed by a concise explanation of the flaws in supply side economic theory.

The niceness and the intelligence are all rooted in the same place with another famous phenomenon; Minnesota liberalism. Minnesotan liberalism is not the bloody swath, "all things Bush are evil!" liberalism that you'll find many places. No, Minnesota liberalism is the church of Paul Wellstone and Walter Mondale. It is eminently practical above all else and is based in the same place as their constant offering of food. I suspect it has something to do with surviving all those -20 degree winters. Summed up simply, it's the "well, you otta help out, doncha know." ideology. When it gets that cold and you live that far spread out, you have a serious need of community. And when it comes to government, well, you don't lose that responsibility just because YOU thought enough of yourself to go out and get you a job that makes you feel all important! It's impossible to argue with.

The perfect Minnesota moment: Of course Prairie Home Companion is a a home-grown product there, and people take it seriously. Interestingly enough PHC is (I'm told by my campground companions) much more locally listened to on its Sunday morning rebroadcast than on it's Saturday night origin. Sure enough, Sunday morning at 11, someone in the campground pulled out a boombox, we gathered our canvas captain's chairs around from all our various festival campsites. Someone had made a great deal of coffee. And we sat and listened in attentive reverie to Garrison Keillor. It was about an hour in when I realized, "wait a minute! Sunday morning, sitting quietly, one guy talking, IT'S CHURCH! I'M IN FOLK MUSIC CHURCH!"

The lesson of that moment is, I think, the lesson of Minnesota: you will CREATE your own community. Whenever, wherever, using whatever elements are available. All this notion of manufactured community, co-housing and so forth, is nonsense. When forced to, you will do it organically, the way it ought to be. Thanks to the folks on the prairie for a great trip.

6/24/2005 - Indianapolis, IN: "Do you know the words to any Mellencamp?" Just like being expected to do Buffet if you're in the Keys or Springsteen in Jersey, Johnny Cougar is Indiana religion. Of course, you have to be careful about such things. Depending on the bar and the crowd, ripping into "Margaritaville" or "Jack and Diane" if you're anybody BUT Jimmy or John could be considered sacrilege and purchase you a quick ticket on the express train to Ass Whoop, IN. Don't worry though, Indy folk will go nuts for blues, country, rock, or just about anything else that you put out there honestly.

Another note on touring: Venues change! The sensitive coffee shop that you booked on your last swing through town couldn't hack it and is now a biker bar where a signed picture of David Allan Coe has replaced the autographed Kalil Gibran cover.

"And they asked the Prophet 'what of love?' 'Hell, Mama loved me all through her prison term!' he said to them."

6/10/2005 - Hickory, NC: There are goth kids in Hickory! Goths! In Hickory! What could there possibly be to "goth" on in Hickory?! "Textile mills pollute the air. . . AND SATAN IS MY MASTER!!" Something like that? I have no idea. But there they are in Drip's Coffeehouse; angry and sad about something.

Drip's is one of my favorite places to play, even if the crowd is not always there to hear music and is sometimes politely inattentive. Can't blame them. There's lots of great reasons to show up (good eats, challenging art and a real west-bank-coffeehouse feel) that have nothing to do with tonight's traveling minstrel.

6/1/2005 - Seattle, WA: I long ago resigned myself to the fact that wherever I go and wherever I live, I will always be a Seattleite in exile. Voluntary exile, yes, but exile nonetheless. I lived in the Emerald City from 1996 to 2003 and in many ways still regard it as home. Of course you don't miss a place, you miss people, but I've got plenty of those there as well, including some of the best friends of my life.

Being back over FolkLife weekend reminded me of all the reasons I left and all the reasons I will one day return; traffic that takes an hour to move across the West Seattle Bridge, but a vibrant downtown when you finally do. Watching my beloved Sonics win. Watching them lose a heartbreaker to end their season. The Cinerama. The lines around the Cinerama. Taking the Bainbridge Ferry to the Island and back just for the view. Gas heading for two and a half a gallon. A school system that's in a lot of trouble. Vibrant young people with backpacks full of hope.

Whenever I click my heels three times, I'm always going to end up under the Needle.

5/21/2005 - Dallas, TX: After my first time in Dallas playing Wildflower, I have discovered a few things about Texas:

- It's hot. I mean blazing hot. I mean Africa, we're-a-mile-from-the-sun hot. And it comes and gets you first thing in the morning. There is no warming up period throughout the day. The sun peaks over the horizon and it is immediately 85 degrees.

-Texans have a saying that they come back with any time a non-Texan like myself has the audacity to complain about the heat. "Yeah, but we're not shoveling it!" This apparently means that the fact that it never snows in Texas and thus there is no shoveling of snow is somehow supposed to make up for the fact that I'm standing in the middle of downtown Richardson and my fingernails are sweating.

- After exiting from the tender singer/songwriter contest to find the Dallas Maverick Dance Squad gyrating on the plaza and then going to get a steak and ending up at a semi-Hooters establishment called Bone Daddy's, I have come to the conclusion that in the mind of the Texan there is nothing so sacred, so lovely, so simple, that it could not be improved by putting a scantily clad woman in front of it. Preferably gyrating. If the new Pope were to make a tour of Houston, I truly think they would surround him with dancing nuns wearing only habits and tight black bikinis.

- Ian Dickson is the next big thing as far as Texas songwriting goes. Check him out. Abi Tapia had THE song of the festival with "I cried wolf". Karen Mal's "When I was 3" made me call my four year old daughter from the road and do my best to make sure I'm not wasting this magical time. Nick Annis wins the professionalism award for keeping it together under the crappiest of circumstances. Caren Armstrong is a lovely support person to play with, and Al, Bill, et al made us feel nothing but welcome and top-drawer, for that weekend, you're part of their family.