Laminated

“Excuse me Miss – where’s Waldo?”

For a minute I’d forgotten where I was. In my mind I was driving through the redwood forest of California. I was composing a set list, or trying to track down a coffee place. I was playing to a crowd, and they were smiling, or looking thoughtful.

“I need to find Waldo.” The child standing in front of me is serious. I’m back at work in the bookstore/bar. It’s the annual Find Waldo competition. Kids come into every shop in Hudson looking for a tiny cardboard cut out of that guy who would’ve been played by Robin Williams if they’d ever made the movie…did they make that movie?

I just don’t get Waldo. I guess that’s the point of Waldo – there’s nothing to get. He’s a guy, in a cap and a striped shirt. Glasses – I think he wears glasses. I can’t pay attention long enough to remember what he looks like.

A young woman in the store said she was stunned to learn he’d only been around since 1987 – she felt sure he was a classic from many many decades ago.

No – he’s not. But he’s a classic now.

My June tour dates are fading fast. Every time I ask myself if it really happened, an email shows up in my inbox reminding me of that great press I had in Santa Cruz, an occasion (an article! In the SC Good Times weekly!) so momentous it needs to be commemorated with a lacquered wooden plaque. Would I like to take advantage of this LIMITED TIME OFFER?

It was an intelligent article by a good writer and I’m sure it helped the show. But for some reason the plaque people have seized on that moment and can’t stop reminding me I really do need to share it for all time with family and friends. My piece of wood is waiting.

Maybe this has something to do with me and Eric going to one of those Trees You Can Drive Through but not actually taking the challenge? After my shows in CA and Eric’s CA gigs, we had a nice little sidetrip to Mendocino and then drove up through the redwoods.

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There’s a lot of wood in Northern California. They’ve got to do something with it. So – commemorative plaques.

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After the first few emails, I started composing a response so scathing they would never darken my email account again.

But then – and this is sad – I started looking forward to the emails.

If I keep hearing from the plaque people, it means I really was somebody back in June.

Now I’m just Waldo’s keeper. It’s a responsibility.

The children like him.

More dates coming soon, including a solo UK tour in November. In the meanwhile this interview I did with WFMU’s Michael Shelley for the Please Kill Me site showed up yesterday. It’s not laminated, but I’ll take it!

The Green Green Grass of Home

First it was the grass. I’ve done some things I’m ashamed of and things I pray my father never finds out but perhaps the deepest shame I’ve ever felt was in receiving a summons from our village for not mowing the lawn.

The grass was just too long when I returned from traveling the last time. The regular old push mower couldn’t cut it. I wasn’t able to face the idea of buying, let alone owning, a riding mower. Yes there have been times I’ve pictured myself astride one of these beasts, grimly swerving and swooping the far reaches of the yard, mistress of all I survey…but I’m terrified of being that person too.

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I’d put out calls to lawn service companies but they were all “yeah, uh – probably in about a week or, sometime…IF the weather holds.” I even called the village and pleaded with them to not fine us. Apparently they will send a guy over to cut, charge you for that and a $100 fine on top.

I was on my way to the first yoga class in over a month, just pulling up in front of the studio feeling holy when the phone rang. It was the most rustic of the lawn guys: “So I’m outside your house right now.”

Wait – didn’t you tell me MAYBE you’d be around over the weekend – it’s Thursday?

“I’m here now, yeah this is gonna cost – I’d say $200.”

What? I was hoping more like …$100?

“Yeah, that’d be nice but – listen lady, liittle neighbor boy Johnny isn’t gonna cut your grass for ten dollars any more. Do you want me to do it or not?”

But…there’s ten and there’s…Okay, please just get it done so I don’t have to hang my head in shame anymore and avoid calls from my dad because he’ll hear the embarrassment in my voice.

Once I’d paid the guy I felt huge relief at the same time I realized if we’d just gone ahead and taken our punishment from the village, their guy would’ve probably charged $50 to cut and then the hundred dollar fine on top – we were out fifty dollars but it was worth it to not feel the scorn of Ray and Carol up the street.

Then it was time to start touring again. I’ve been in four rental cars in the past week and I don’t know who I am anymore.

First there was one to drive to NYC & Baltimore shows, because my Subaru is in the shop and the idea of driving Eric’s big old truck-type SUV just sounded too cumbersome plus the a/c isn’t working. I’ve done my time in unairconditioned cars and can never go back there again. Instead of the nice tidy little economy car I requested, they gave me (no extra charge!) a roomy Dodge Caravan, which kind of negated the whole economy car thing…There’s a nice review of the NYC show here. The Baltimore concert was odd but fun – hello, it’s Baltimore?!

To get to LaGuardia Airport, I rented another car rather than pay a fortune to park the big old truck (my car’s still in the shop or maybe it’s ready and I can’t face the bill yet) at the airport for a couple of weeks. I think this one was a Nissan Sentra. So anonymous and our relationship so short-lived, I had a hard time finding it on the street in Brooklyn when I met up with my daughter for lunch before catching a flight out west.

The next car, from LAX, was a 2018 Toyota Corolla where the air conditioner blew hot air. Isn’t the point of a rental car the chance to be that normal person sitting in traffic in a car so generic you don’t consider making an impression on anyone or even yourself – in my aged Subaru Forester I always think there is at least an implied acknowledgement from other vintage Forester drivers but I don’t imagine current Corolla drivers feel the same…you buy a Corolla for the privilege of feeling nothing but safe and efficient, secure enough in your shopping wisdom you don’t need to declare your personality to the world.

I went to Burbank Airport to swap out this bum car, thinking I’d save myself the time and effort of dealing with massive LAX, but the nice young attendant said since it was such a small airport I’d have to wait for somebody to return a car. He suggested I treat myself to breakfast at the Denny’s across the way, and as much as I hated the missed opportunity for some real L.A. culinary treats, it was a southern California cultural cross-section in Denny’s, complete with Trump fans talking loudly about all the great things he’s done (“he took a nuke out of our ass, what more do you want?”) – is someone paying people to sit in public places and spout this stuff? I wonder.

When I went back to the airport there were still no cars. He asked why I was in California and I did the “oh just here for a nice trip, see the sights” bit, because it’s too complicated to go into the whole “I’m a musician – anyone I’d have heard of – no – my uncle/brother/I play guitar too” routine. But after standing around another fifteen minutes in a dull Burbank parking garage while all of California was being California outside, I broke down and said “Look – I lied. I’m a musician, I’m here to work and I need to get up to Ojai to play a party, they’re waiting for me. I need a car with a trunk, as soon as possible.” The young guy sprang into action and I was out of there in minutes.

To stay awake while driving to Ojai, I tried to remember every Los Angeles hotel or motel I’ve ever stayed in, beginning with the Tropicana for one night on the way back from Hawaii in 1979 or 80 (remember People’s Express $99 flights to Honolulu?); the Sportsman’s Lodge in 1996, Hollywood Roosevelt, Beverly Garland, Best Western Hollywood, LAX Hilton, that cool mid-century Viceroy hotel in Santa Monica when it used to be a seedy dump…happy I’ve been staying with my friend Ilene in an amazing Airbnb in Eagle Rock because even the bleakest fleabag by the airport is at least $150 a night now. I started drifting off and realized thinking about places to sleep is not a good way to stay awake while driving.

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Ojai was as beautiful as I’d imagined but in a different way – I’d pictured it perched on the side of a mountain but it is actually a valley. There were blackened trees everywhere and I remembered they had terrible fires here back in the winter. The show was in a fairy tale stone backyard belonging to Rain Perry who is a wonderful singer songwriter herself. Everybody enjoyed the show but I hadn’t gotten the borrowed amp to work so well and became convinced it was my electric 12 string that was messed up. Now Eric is not the greatest texter – I have sent him dozens sometimes without a reply, or maybe like a fellow Subaru driver I know there is an implied answer, a nod across the highways, and he will call me when he has a minute. But a message along the lines of “I think there is something wrong with my guitar” elicited a response in less than thirty seconds. My phone rang and it was “Right, you need to plug the guitar into the amp right now and…” It was like being back in our living room at home only Eric was in Marfa and I was in Ojai. One possible culprit was the sizable Joe Walsh Analog Alien effects pedal lodged in the back of the amp, in my haste to get set up I hadn’t bothered to remove various items stowed should I need them.

I drove back from Ojai the next day, the Ford Focus proving to be a much better car than Ford Focuses I have rented in the past. Not much power but decent and now that the air conditioning was working wonderfully, the temperature outside had dropped to the mid-sixties. I stopped for fresh juice and Mexican breakfast in a neighborhood spot in Eagle Rock – it was filled with young guys in soccer jerseys watching Brazil play Iceland (?) in the World Cup. I heard this beautiful song in an Apple ad: “I’ll tell you a story, `bout an artist growing old..some would try for fame and glory…” Who? It was one of those moments so perfect it could be an ad itself – me, the older artist in a little Mexican cafe, still dazed from my gig the night before, the young guys in their jerseys watching football on TV, this perfect song…Daniel Johnston. Thank you, whoever thought to use his song.

The Wild Honey backyard show benefiting Autism Think Tank made me happy to be playing in Los Angeles again – looking out the audience was a cross-section of old friends and great musicians and all-around interesting folks. I played a solo set and got to hang out and play a few songs with Ilene, Danny, Max, Billy and Robby (Oliver from the Brady Bunch, I’m not kidding!) the 7 Deadly Five  whose album I loved back in the 90s, every tune a hit, every line memorable (She Must’ve Got Her Monks Mixed Up…We Go Together Like A Hammer Goes With Matches) and the amp was working okay and I left feeling a pure joy like I never expect to feel in L.A.

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Wild Honey photo by Julie Lynn

Then it was the grass. Okay, since I saw a billboard near the airport advertising Medmen, I’ve been wanting to go to a weed dispensary, but I was nervous, like I’ll do it wrong and (hello Dad) bring shame on the family even though in the end that fear never stops me from doing anything, probably has the opposite effect of making me the world’s most bumbling potential criminal.

I entered this discreet one-story building on a busy street at the edge of a residential neighborhood and stood nervously before the receptionist. She waited for me to pull out my ID while every card in my wallet tumbled out: MTA, CTA, donut club, coffee clubs, Catskill Library. Sweetheart didn’t even roll her eyes. She told me to go through and I wasn’t sure which door she meant and worried I’d do like at that bbq place in Texas, open the door to the broom closet thinking I was about to enter the fire pit. But I took a chance and it was just a room with some display cases. I told the girl I wanted this package with a drawing of a guy like an old prospector I’d tried at a friend’s. She smiled at me with a look of complete confusion. “Or sort of like one of the Smith Brothers? But alone?” In the end I just went along with what she suggested, like I do when tending bar for people who say they like IPAs but not too hoppy. I emerged into the sunlight carrying my regulation shiny black pouch and of course there was a cop sitting right next to my car.

Good morning officer. It’s 9:15 AM and I just bought drugs – all strictly above board of course. He regarded me with absolutely no interest through his mirrored shades.

I got in the rental car and remembered I needed to call the guy back home who told me he could cut the grass for $45 while we’re away.

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Knapsack

I shouldn’t have been there in the first place but I blame it on the Catholic Church, as I do most of my transgressions. Saks Fifth Avenue sits one block from St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan, and through my twenties and thirties when I needed solace, when I didn’t have anywhere else to turn, I’d spend a little time in a pew, then approach the altar and light a candle. Then I’d go shopping.

Not for anything much – maybe a lipstick or the smallest size of Nahema perfume. But growing up, my mom would let me pick something marked way down in the Annual Sale (I still can’t figure out what a Saks was doing in downtown Pittsburgh) and the luxury department store still loomed large in my struggling musician/mom/temp worker life.The cathedral was cold and uncomfortable, the soaring arches made you feel small and doomed to fail. Catholics are born losers, square one you come into the world a sinner. Across 49th Street, Saks made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I had it in me to be a winner – or if not a winner a woman who could pass for one. At least smell like one.

I don’t remember when I first saw the black and white gingham check knapsack. I only know I made it my goal to own that bag. It said Kate Spade on the small label sewn on the outside, which I was a little worried about – thrift shopping was where I found most ot the clothes and housewares I owned. Designer anything was not my style, unless I’d found it used, for three dollars – then it was a triumph.

But the cotton gingham, the attention to detail, the size of the check and proportions of the bag – it became an obsession. I was temping around the corner, at Sony or CBS, and I’d visit the knapsack. Like a painting at the Met, an object to inspire me, until the pay day when I walked in, like a regular person with money, and bought it.

And the knapsack made my life better. It became a part of me. I even wrote a song about it. I drew it for my CD artwork. Tried to wash it at a laundromat. After a few years it got shabby, and felt ridiculously small, impractical. Maybe I just outgrew it, but in number of uses, in form and function and the happiness it brought me every time I hoisted it on my shoulder or back – before it just started to hang there like a lump – the bag more than paid for itself.

I felt so sad yesterday when I heard that Kate Spade had taken her own life. The realization that she was only fifty five stunned me. She’d had her vision to create something unique and specific enough that it spoke clearly to a young woman like me – to a city-ful and then a world of us – when she was just a young woman herself. Younger than me – she’d seemed like a chic big sister! That gift to help somebody say “this is who I am” and feel good about that. Seeing how huge the company and brand became, you might think that’s like saying you feel a kinship with everyone who ever ate at McDonalds. But there was a time when it was special. Whatever it became, what Kate Spade created was special.

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Loading the van, 1996

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To Play Live Is To Fly

I know I need to watch myself but…

A nice guy named Dan Gross did the sound and filmed my show at Bop Shop in Rochester last month and he sent me a link to watch the performance and approve it if okay. They’d like to post it on their website – but there’s always something I would rather be doing than watching myself.

It’s hard enough doing these solo shows – you’re alone up there: vulnerable, exposed – but to have to relive it? To sit and watch? Oh my god, I should do something with my hair…why do I have to nod so much? What happened to the rhythm there? Lord I’d better lay off the burgers and fries – forever. And on and on.

Or I could take the approach of a coach, go all Chuck Noll with a grease pencil on the screen: “see that move there? Once, twice – okay. But you do it enough that we’re in nervous tic territory here.” And “do you call that long meandering aside a story? Focus, Rigby, focus!”

The beauty of playing is that time goes away; self-consciousness too. Unlike a record that is meant to be scrutinized, a live show is a pact you make with the audience – what happens between you takes you somewhere together and if it works, you don’t even remember how it happened.

Remember how Townes sang “To Live Is To Fly”? To play live is to fly, except for the parts where your undercarriage is bouncing all over the tarmac.

So there was always something I’d rather be doing than checking out this video.

Like looking for the stove in my stylish Nashville Airbnb. They’ve got a little record player and a cute door mat that says “Hey Y’all!” and old posters of the town. But where’s the stove?

Then I’d rather play a show at Dee’s Country Lounge. And another at the Bluebird. I’d rather meet up with friends for coffee. I’d rather drop by the local radio station – when did Nashville get a cool community radio station? I’d rather love Nashville than look at myself.

Dan from the Bop Shop checks in – have I watched the video yet? I started watching and aside from wishing I’d had time to do something with my hair that’s kind of scraggly what with the humidity and the driving and fluctuating hormones, I remembered how much I’d enjoyed the show and that feeling was coming through in the clip. I even got teary during a song, just like I’d felt when I was playing. I promised him I’d get to the rest of it.

But first I needed to drive across half of Tennessee and through the mountains of North Carolina and play another show in Chapel Hill. And then I needed to drive back home but first I had to stop for the night somewhere outside Baltimore. A comfy hotel room and an evening to myself – the perfect opportunity to watch the rest of my performance (or at least enough where I could say oh fuck it, it’s fine, you have my blessing Dan!) but – hey, is that Hugh Grant and Julianne Moore in a movie from the nineties? I’d better watch that and – wait, isn’t that Diane Lane in Under The Tuscan Sun? Sure I’ve seen it four times but…I promise myself I’ll get back on it and finish watching the video, just as soon as I get back home.

But there’s one day to unload the car and then it’s time to head to England. And when I’m hanging out at our friends in Norfolk for a day, and Philip Roth just died and the arts editor of the Guardian asked me to write something about a favorite Roth book and I try to get out of it because they’ll have actual book writers writing, and then it takes hours while trying to make sense of Jumanji with my goddaughter Daisy, and then the next day I need to get to London to see Eric play a sold out show at the 100 Club, and the next day drive to Colchester and then Ramsgate and then the Leicester shows with him. And then there’s one day left to visit his mother in her new care home and his grandkids in the countryside and finally in some hotel late at night I fast forward through to the end of video and say “looks and sounds fine”. And now it’s up there.

And maybe someday when I have time, and even thinner hair and feel even less in shape, and need a music stand with lyrics on it because I can’t remember anything, and might even need to sit on a stool for part of the show because I’m eighty, maybe then I’ll really watch it and think hey I almost knew what I was doing.

Come along and help me make it happen:

  • Thu Jun 7      Catskill NY              HiLo   8 pm
  • Sat Jun 9        New York NY         Berlin 9 pm  (Felice Rosser opens)  tickets
  • Sun Jun 10     Baltimore MD       An Die Musik  Roots Cafe w/Geoffrey Himes  5 pm
  • Sat Jun 16      Ojai CA                    Rain Perry’s house email for info
  • Sun Jun 17     Los Angeles CA     Wild Honey concert  (w/Seven Deadly Five) 4 – 7 pm
  • Thu Jun 21    San Francisco CA  Hemlock Tavern (Tino Drima opens) tickets
  • Fri Jun 22      Chico CA                  house concert
  • Sun Jun 24     Santa Cruz CA        Michael’s on Main (Alex Lucero opens)  2 pm tickets

 

If I Embarrass You, Tell Your Friends

Driving west – Rochester. I listened to Jean Stein’s West of Eden and wondered about her, a sad end for an interesting woman, she jumped from a window of her Manhattan apartment last year. A lot of madness and depression pops up in her oral history of Hollywwood and Los Angeles, and over the whole thing hangs the shadow of her ending her own life. It’s one of those books I was excited about on release (she was responsible for Edie many years back) and I moved it around the bookstore, hoping it would catch someone’s eye but it never did.

Stayed at my friend Rick and Monica’s cool mid-century house – we had chicken from the outside grill, the first hint of spring in the air, and Monica helped me iron towels to turn into merch. My friend Ted was doing his first solo shift at the bookstore/bar, covering for me, and he called for help closing the register. I’d only just trained him the night before. I felt like an expert pilot on their night off, helping a frantic stewardess land the plane while downing imaginary highballs in the corner of a dusky hotel bar, the muscle memory kicking in: “That’s right, now you subtract the tips from the total and add in any checks – any checks? and that there will be your drop. That’s right – don’t panic – you did it.” It helps to remember things you’ve got down, when you’re setting off into the unknown. Starting off on tour is always the unknown.

Next morning I got up very early to drive to Cleveland. I had an appointment at 11 AM to screenprint some of my tea towels at a print workshop/collective. I realized as I pulled into town about 10:15 I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to go, so I went to the neighborhood where the Beachland club is, thinking it had something to do with there. I found a coffee place and cursed that I was wearing dark, heavy clothes – temperatures in the mid to high eighties just didn’t seem possible.

Found the workshop and a nice young woman set up the screen and really did most of the hard pulling of the ink with the squeegee while I placed and lifted towels. She was just so good at it.

When we were done I got in the car and automatically started heading for the neighborhood where Hazel and I lived her last year and a half of high school. Past a once derelict part of town that now appears to be taken over by Cleveland Clinic, then along Euclid past Case University, and up Mayfield through the quaint Little Italy street that thankfully still looked pretty much the same.

I found myself getting sentimental much of the time I was in Cleveland – it must be because it was the last place I lived with my daughter before she went off to college and I moved to France with Eric. We had a nice, simple old apartment across from beautiful Lakeview Cemetery and  I worked a series of pretty grim jobs to make ends meet while I got a new album out and started touring for it, in between taking Hazel to look at colleges and do that whole application process. It had snowed constantly, my van got stolen, and I spent most of my time alone, but we’d had sweet moments with our dial-up internet and watching TV shows and films from the DVD store on Coventry. I think I’d just gotten on MySpace…

A night off before my gig and Cindy from the Beachland took me out to eat at a nice bistro she’s involved with and I loved the Cleveland vibe of the bartender & the hefty plates of food – they do eat in this town! The next day I was driving around again and tuned into the Beastie Boys and then Roxy Music on a local radio station. I heard them talking about this interesting artist who’d been putting great albums out for years and who was playing at the Beachland that night – they were talking about me! Part of me was tempted to drive right to the station and pound on the studio door: “I’m here! I’m here, let me in” but I enjoyed hearing tracks from my album on the car radio, it rocked the Subaru so hard I almost started crying on Richmond Road.

The gig got off to a great start when the young guy who advanced the show greeted me at the door complimenting my boots and the streak in my hair: “It’s like Keith Richards – what, did you just decide to try something a little different?” he asked. Yeah, like not dying my hair, I said. It’s hereditary, I think – my mom had a silver streak in the same place. “Native American?” he asked – that was a first. “No, Italian.”

It was just a fun night where everything worked and I started to get into this playing alone thing because you can play whatever feels right for the moment and just go with it without feeling like others on stage are tapping their foot or looking at their watches. Not that they ever do but I know how it feels to stand around on the bandstand not wanting to look useless so I’m hyper-sensitve to that. And when you have a band, you’re together to create together, but when you’re alone, it’s only you. Some old faces from the past including my friend Mike DeCapite who surprised me – he’s from here, wrote a great book about it called Through the Windshield, and is the one who warned me of the loneliness of Cleveland but what can I say – the place feels like a home away from home in some ways.

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I have homes all over the country, really. That’s a beauty of going around and around again and again playing places – the visits layer up and the memories make the towns your own without having to endure the ups and downs of life as a local. There aren’t many cities I play that haven’t at one time or another been a candidate for “I could live here”. That’s part of what is so seductive about touring – you give a piece of yourself each time so you’ve got a stake in the place. Even if nobody else showed up to see you – you were there.

Back up to Rochester. It has that nice old architecture like Cleveland but is an easier size. The Bop Shop is a huge store full of records on top of a huge basement full of records. This is another place that’s figured in my life supportively several times over the last dozen years as has Tom the owner and our nice friends Rick and Monica to the point where Eric and I had it down as a possible spot to move to in America – “even if we have to go to Rochester, we’d be okay”. Still, I was worried no one was coming to the show except a few friends who were there when I walked in, and Norma and Richard who’d come from Ontario. I went down to the basement to get ready thinking “whatever it is will be fine”. I stared at this album cover tacked to the wall, an older blowsy lady named Belle Barth. She’s wagging a finger at the camera with a salty look in her eye and the album title is “If I Embarrass You, Tell Your Friends.” Without really wanting to, I made Belle Barth my new patron saint right then and there, and when I came back upstairs all the chairs were full. The audience was great and I really enjoyed playing and felt like I was getting the hang of this thing.

Columbus felt so far away – I had to backtrack through Cleveland. I finished West of Eden and started listening to Before The Fall, a thriller we’ve sold a lot of at the bookstore. A little self-consciously hard-boiled and philosophical (the author really has it in for hipsters)  but makes the time go by. After a few hours I wondered how the narrator could read the words in such a fast, clipped voice without swallowing their own tongue and then realized I had it on something like double speed. When I slowed it to regular human pace, I found myself drifting off, so had to speed it back up again.

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The Columbus show was in a suburban basement – it felt magic down there with twinkly lights and a nice crowd, many of them longtime fans. I used to go on the radio a lot in this town, WCBE was the station, but I have a few stinging memories too, like the local paper running my perky promo photo with the caption: Is it Amy Rigby – or Shelley Long? Back when everybody kind of hated Shelley Long. Also the time my car broke down just outside of town and I got towed to a weird hunting/tackle shop that supposedly also repaired cars and I felt sure I would probably never get out of there, just find work waitressing at Bob Evans and marry a hunter.

Anyways, Columbus fully redeemed itself. Belle Barth would’ve been proud. There was a reporter there from the Dispatch doing a story on house concerts, and I read a little bit of Bob Dylan’s speech from the Nobel banquet (not the awards show of course), where he says it’s easier to play for 50,000 people than 50 – that 50 is a bigger test of your honesty. I think about that quote a lot.

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Cincinnati – most of my gigs there have been on the other side of the river in Newport, Kentucky which I believe is where Skeeter Davis comes from? A show where Todd Snider didn’t make it and I rewrote Beer Run to entertain the crowd, a show where Todd did make it and I opened and later got so stoned that I went around and around the big circular hotel next to the highway for what felt like hours looking for my room. Eric and I played in Southgate House upstairs bar back in 2008 and they said the phone had been ringing off the hook all day about the show and when we came back from eating dinner, Lisa from the band Wussy was playing a set and as we came up the stairs Eric said “That’s the sound of somebody singing in an empty room.”

Ten years later I came to play a Sunday night gig at the Northside Tavern, set up by Mark Messerly from Wussy. He and Chuck Cleaver of the band opened with great solo sets and where I thought I’d be battling bar chatter, it was a rapt audience who were with me on every word. Big tall ceiling that let the sound wash up and over, I was in a dark heaven.

A day off to do some driving, I made it to Kentucky north of Lexington.

“Are we on central or eastern time here?” I asked the desk clerk at the hotel I’d checked into to sleep and answer emails and promote the rest of the tour and do some booking.

“Uh – I’m not sure,” she said. Wow. I found a Kroger to get a salad and settled in with an Adam Sandler movie on TV.  There was even a pool and a hot tub.

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Next day I found a great coffee and bike shop in Lexington and then took a little drive around. They seem to have a great fear of speeding drivers in this town, everywhere were traffic-calming devices and speed liimit signs decreeing UNLESS OTHERWISE POSTED THE SPEED LIMIT IN LEXINGTON IS 25 MPH outlined in bright red or flashing lights. It made me wonder what had or has gone on here, are the citizens madman speed demons more than other places? I remember allowing myself to be forced into wearing cat ears on stage at a show in this town years ago when I was doing gigs with the late Duane Jarvis. I still think of DJ often, it’ll creep up on me in odd places like this – little flashes of killing time and having laughs in pockets of the US I never expected to find myself. Yet here I was, back again, looking for a hat shop because I remembered me and Duane buying hats in this cool old shop. I used the GPS to try to find something called Mad Hatter – could that be it? – but it took me to a quiet residential street, eerily deserted at two in the afternoon and I thought “you can’t repeat the past.”

Now I’m in Knoxville. It’s been a trip. I’ve got memories of here too – a gig with DJ in a church turned theater and a radio show in a tiny trailer out in the country. Opening for Bob Mould at the Bijou Theatre. Staying with Martha Hume and Chet Flippo, the great country music writers who are both gone, in their beautiful house outside of town, with Last Roundup and then the Shams – thinking, wow, writers own a house? I was obsessed with Martha’s book You’re So Cold I’m Turning Blue and Chet’s biography of Hank Williams Your Cheatin Heart, and then through Stephanie Chernikowski got to meet them and they were wonderful to me.

Anyway, Knoxville’s always been odd gig central and this time was no different.  I had dinner with Tim and Susan Lee who’ve lived here since the early 2000’s when I played in the deserted downtown square on a hot summer night. Now the downtown is booming, the lights of the Tennessee Theatre lit up for two nights with Jason Isbell, Richard Thompson opening –  the world has turned upside down. Steve Earle was down the street at the Bijou. I was scheduled for this noon radio performance broadcast live from the Knoxville Visitors Center in downtown. One of those “you never know who’ll drop in” and “hopefully it’ll be fast and painless” kind of gigs we do because, well – why do we do them? Cause I’m here and they asked…because I like community radio. We do them to prove we exist? Maybe Steve Earle will wander by and say hello. Maybe Richard Thompson will stumble in, whip his guitar out of the case and join me.

I arrived for the soundcheck and a couple guys were slumped in chairs in front of the stage area. Turned out they were the other act and were supposed to go on second because there were two of them and only one of me, but they were very sick and so were going to go first and then probably on to a hospital. I kept a few yards away from them and started to set up my stuff. One of them rallied enough to ask if my amp was a reissue or an original, and to start making all kinds of suggestions about how I should use the type of amp he had because he hated to see a woman or even just a person struggling with a heavy amplifier – through his illness he was a great humanitarian. The host of the show came in and told the guys maybe they really should go to the emergency room, and she’d be happy to have them on another time.

Then Red the host started putting reserved signs on all the chairs and I heard her telling visitors there’d be a few stools at the back, but that we had a large group coming in who’d be taking all the seats in front of the stage. Maybe Jason Isbell and the whole crew and band? Richard too, and Steve for old time’s sake.

“A middle school group from the Episcopalian School of Knoxville are coming in for a field trip,” I heard her tell someone else and then I started getting nauseous.

Suddenly the set I’d put together to span thirty years & a new album in half an hour could not work. These are children. What did I have to say to them? My new album is called The Old Guys.

Twelve year olds – on a field trip. Do you remember field trips at that age? All I can think of is boys, how field trips were opportunities to be with them in circumstances different from the classroom. The forts and museums and farms we visited were merely sets to walk around in, to judge your position in the hierarchy outside the classroom. See that woman in a ruffled cap churning butter? Uh, kind of. Mostly I’m just hoping Jeff or Sonny or Tommy will notice me. I’m wondering why Mary Beth is sitting with Karen and not with me.

So I was about to be the lady churning butter, only up on a stage. I started crossing songs off the list – words I couldn’t say in front of twelve year olds, sentiments or ideas that translate perfectly to a room of people in their fifties, forties, even thirties and twenties but – tweens? What would Belle Barth do? Trust me – she would’ve stayed in Miami, or Frisco, or Vegas-no, Reno. She would’ve been out the door and canned her agent.

While this was all going on I got a text from a friend at work that she wasn’t covering for me that day as I’d mistakenly thought, so suddenly I was scrambling to cover my bar shift back in New York while I was dreading going on stage in Tennessee. I remembered all the times I’d been shelving books or pouring beer thinking “And when I get back out there, playing my songs…” and here I was about to do just that but had forgotten about the bizarre circumstances performing artists find themselves in on a regular basis. I had to stop myself from thinking just how peaceful it would be at the bookstore right then, I’d put on Arthur Russell and take chairs off tables…

Instead I got up in front of the tweens and the passersby and I actually felt warmth and attention from the whole crowd, even the kids. Maybe I was just churning butter in their eyes, their crush reflected in my pickguard. Maybe I was bawdy Belle Barth – “If I embarrass you, tell your friends” , a salty older lady they’d kind of tell their parents about later when pressed for something, anything about that field trip to downtown Knoxville. But I got through it and added another layer to the map of possible places: here, here I can really, really become myself.

on tour-9

Take Me With You When You Go

Hello, it’s me.

Does anyone remember – me? That old bag, who used to regale you with tales of the road or, more often, what it’s like being stuck in a garage with an army of bicycles, a load of wood offcuts, empty guitar cases and wicker lawn furniture that takes up a lot of room, serves no purpose, but is impossible to throw away?

I know, I get it – times change. Old stalwarts like me, and wicker, outlive our usefulness. Things move on. Tom Petty’s gone. And yet. The world needs witnesses. The doers need those of us who notice the being done. It helps if we can lend a practical hand along the way, and I think I’ve managed that well. Without leaving indentations on people’s thighs, that I know of.

Which is why I found myself giddy with excitement when I heard the Ms. and the Mr. firing up the touring machine. Surely, I thought – but I leaned up against a wall smoking a cigarette when I thought it, just so, y’know, it wouldn’t look like I cared or anything – surely, somebody needs a bag again? An aide de camp, a trusted friend, a hold-all…I threw my nylon shoulders back, put a brave smile on my face…and waited.

February and March passed. They were gone without me. April, he left and I sat sentry while she shifted boxes around and mailed out records. I heard them explaining to people excitedly that they’d released new solo albums and would be on their own separate tours and – I worried. In my world, they belong together. Oh it wasn’t them I was concerned about. They’d be fine, I mean they were doing this thing on their respective lonesomes for years before they got together. My fears were selfish: namely, who would get custody of yours truly?

I pictured them each on their individual trajectories: he in road warrior mode, burning down city after city, she taking a lighter approach, or maybe she just wasn’t as successful at booking herself.  Whatever, her dates had gaps, but she swore those would be filled with writing and what she calls research but I’ve come to learn involves smoked meat, grapes, sporty activities or lurking around bookstores. Either way, they’d be criss-crossing at least a part of the globe, and surely one of them would take me along as part of the journey.

Maybe they had hammered out a plan already, deep in the night or at one of those coffee places they keep in business when they’re home. I could see the rota: two weeks in the Subaru with her, maybe a trip to Blighty with him (I’m not sure why it’s called Blighty – I intend to find out. Bags don’t use the internet so, the only way to get answers is to go there. I hope he can see that.) All these possibilities…

Which is where I find myself this morning. I see their cars sitting in the driveway. She’s  Ohio-bound, and he has a NYC show tonight and then the UK. See, I know what’s what. I could recite both of their itineraries from memory. They need me – together; separately. They. need. me.

And I don’t know who I am without them both.

Did I fall asleep? I heard an engine, and wheels. Twice.

Hey, where did everybody go? Anybody?

hello goodbye show

Amy Rigby on tour

  • Thu May 3   Cleveland OH   Beachland Tavern (w/Johnny Dowd) tickets
  • Fri May 4    Rochester NY    Bop Shop Records 8 PM
  • Sat May 5    Columbus OH   Hogan House Concerts  tickets
  • Sun May 6   Cincinnati OH  Northside Tavern (w/Mark Messerley & Chuck Cleaver)
  • Wed May 9  Knoxville TN    WDVX Blue Plate Special at noon/Sweet P’s BBQ  6:30 PM
  • Sat May 12  Nashville TN     Dee’s Lounge 8 PM
  • Tue May 15 Nashville TN     Bluebird Cafe (w/RB Morris, Bob Woodruff, Jon Byrd) tix
  • Thu Jun 7    Catskill NY         HiLo
  • Sat Jun 16    Ojai CA               Rain Perry’s house concert
  • Sun Jun 17   L.A. CA               Wild Honey Backyard Concert (w/7 Deadly 5) tickets
  • Thu Jun 21  San Fran CA       Hemlock Tavern
  • Fri Jun 22    Chico CA             house concert
  • Sun Jun 24  Santa Cruz CA   Michael’s on Main  2 PM show tickets

Wreckless Eric dates too many to list! Find them here

 

Don’t Follow Him, He’s Lost Too

Nine pm on a Saturday night in an English seaside town, Eric and I eat in Harry Ramsden’s fish and chips restaurant across from the seafront. We’re just like the other couples sipping large glasses of wine (the English equivalent of a “small glass” is a half pint) and tucking into their cod and chips and mushy peas, only Eric doesn’t drink, and told the waitress “no mushy peas”. (I tried the mushy peas and agree they belong only in a color photo or black and white film.) We’re just like the other couples making occasional conversation while the overhead speakers dotted in among the modest chandeliers play the type of music good old Harry would have liked back in the day.

“And he gave it all up for a girl – from Pittsburgh Pennsylvania” a male and female ensemble croon in a chorus repeated often enough to sound like a threat.

We’re just like the other couples, only we’re not. We’ve just finished five weeks of touring together, Eric playing in my trio, driving all over England and before that the northeast US. We’ve loaded in, soundchecked, rocked, talked, loaded out, found hotels or friends’ houses; somewhere to eat, somewhere to change clothes; decent coffee, bad coffee. We’ve listened to music or silence, or each other, or the drummer. We’re just another couple but we’ve lifted amps, packed guitars, unpacked guitars; wadded dirty clothes back in our suitcases, shared deodorant, shared Manuka honey and echinacea, waited patiently while the other did interviews on the phone.

Maybe the other fish and chip couples are ambulance drivers together. Maybe they’re doctors or own their own fish and chip shops and them coming to Harry’s is like us going to see Loudon Wainwright or Television.

“One bill or two?” the waitress asks. “One’s good – we’re married,”  I say. She seems surprised. What did she think, this was a Tinder date? The least romantic second date ever? A business meeting? It’s Saturday night on Easter weekend – who goes out looking for love, or makes deals, then?

“Ah, you married.”

Walking back to the hotel along the seafront, we remind ourselves to slow down and do our best to stroll given the wind, the rain and the temperature. We come up behind another couple a decade or two older. They amble along side by side in their overcoats. He’s wearing big white gloves. Almost gardening gloves. The gloves glow through the mist against his dark coat, attracting the moonlight.

I am transifxed by these gloves. The man strolls in his overcoat, appearing comfortable next to a woman who’s got to be his wife, they are so similar in height and gait.  But his hands in the gloves are doing a ballet. Behind his back, he clenches, he flaps, he flattens one palm and circles one wrist with the other.

“He’s signaling us, Eric!” I say. “He’s sending messages of distress: Help, I am being held against my will. This woman is not my wife. Alert the authorities. Help. Me.” He is so solid, so secure as he strolls along, but his hands say otherwise. Maybe it’s not distress – maybe it’s pure self-expression. He wishes he could be out on the seafront in a ballgown or a tutu, on a skateboard or smashing up stuff, but he can’t, so he takes his hands in their white gloves out to play.

The hands flatten and flap again and I revise – definitely distress. The couple turn into a building entrance and climb the steps. The hands flutter – we should follow them! She’s taking him to a dungeon. I mean, they’re going up stairs but there’s probably steps going down somewhere in the building…

See how I can do this? I can go off on an imaginative tangent, just like Robert Christgau. When he writes a review I’m not sure if he’s the man in the white gloves signaling what’s really going on with him, or whether he’s me trying to interpret the man in the white gloves and getting it all wrong. All I know is that it was fine when he’d conjecture about me as a single mother, my work, my songs, hell even my breasts. It was fine cause I was hungry then – I wanted what ever any critic would say about me as long as it felt sort of like a compliment.

But I don’t feel that way anymore. I don’t want his praise that feels like a put down. I don’t want him talking about me in terms of my first husband who, bless his heart I have not been married to for twenty years. I don’t want him praising while panning and damning my partner, my husband, by saying he’s kept me too busy to do much work on music when he’s done nothing but encourage me to work. I don’t want him dismissing my hardworking husband for taking the easy way and living on the past when he’s done nothing but try to outrun the past.

I don’t want his readers thinking something’s a rave review when it feels hurtful and personal and dismissive.

Sure he can say what he wants. But I don’t have to feel complimented when I really feel angry. I don’t have to wear floppy white gloves to express myself.  And I don’t have to follow the older guy in the floppy white gloves. I write my own story, thank you.

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