Ragged Recap

I’m having a hard time writing a recap of the rest of my tour, now that I’m home. I go from the high of feeling like I’ve accomplished something to exhaustion, to checking my stats on Amazon (the thing I told myself I wouldn’t do: stalled at ten reviews…up and down from #360 in musician memoirs to #45, to #623 to #119) going “it’s over. It’s all over. Better write another book.”

It’s partly weird and partly wonderful to be back working a few shifts at the bookstore/bar. I’m washing pint glasses and it could be two or five years ago where I’d think “when I get that book out…will I ever get that book out?” And then a friend comes in and says “your show was something! We’re proud of you! You’ve really been out there doing it” and I want to stop time. I did manage to do what I set out to. I still wish I’d had a publisher, but I did it.

I’m working at the bar and I see a stranger browsing. He picks up my book from the shelf, reads the back, leafs through. I want to shout “It’s good! I wrote it!” at the same time I want to lie down on the floor next to the microwave and never get back up again. Instead I busy myself checking books into inventory. The guy’s girlfriend buys a copy of Jeff Tweedy’s memoir.

I know I’ve said before that when things are great, there’s really nothing to write about. Who wants to read the words “Fabulous!” “They adored me” “Dream come true”? My eyes just glaze over when I read about people having an amazing time (see, didn’t the word “amazing” cause you to immediately turn off a little?) Or maybe there are only a few ways to describe happiness. Whereas misadventures are entertaining. In retrospect.

So I haven’t written for a while because it’s been, in a word: amazing. Visiting with friends Marcel and Mary in Chico. Stopping in at KALX Berkeley to chat with Dave McBurnie, and playing a great place in Oakland, Starlite Social Club. I felt like I’d finally arrived. Stayed with my pals Kate and Scott at their Airbnb in SF and we stayed up way too late laughing.  I met Richard Thompson and got to hear him and Eliza Gilkyson play in Santa Cruz, one of my favorite places in the world.

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Drove south down 101 to Super-rica Taqueria in Santa Barbara (thanks Erik Nelson for both the RT show and food recommendation). Fabulous house concert hosts Tobi and Clyde Kaplan in Los Angeles made me feel so welcome at South by South Hudson. Hung out with friends in L.A. and had a lovely time staying at Clyde and Tobi’s.  I was running cold and hot on the Liz Phair audiobook, but I really enjoyed getting to meet and hear her play at Largo. I showed her the picture of MY book next to HER book I’d taken in a San Francisco bookstore and told her I’d been on Matador too. Her eyes probably glazed over at that point because she’d just signed books for about two hundred people. I only wish I’d brought along my book, with a post-it on the page where I talk about her, but that kind of stuff never occurs to me and it would have no doubt been tossed on the pile with all the other gifts from adoring fans. 

So in Liz’s book she’s always flying first or business class and dealing with the nanny or manager or tour bus, so as I drive and drive you can imagine it fills me with jealousy even though when I told her how jealous I’d been back in the Matador days, she said she wasn’t having a good time then. We never know what kind of private hell people are in, even if they have the trappings that make life look so easy. And I actually have a blast driving myself, staying in decent places and hanging out with people and eating—I’ll say it—amazing food a lot of the time. Until I left a little late for that Los Angeles bookstore gig.  I was too comfortable, ensconced in my hosts’ lovely house and that’s the thing on the road, you have to keep on your toes. Relaxing means letting your guard down means taking your eye off the ball means—there’s always a price to pay.

It took almost an hour to drive a few miles, and the gas gauge was on empty for most of that journey. When I finally got to the shop, I flung my car into a too tight spot next to a disabled space. The gig went well  — I hadn’t realized we’d be outside, ah southern California. I did a talk with writer Pat Thomas, read and played and signed a lot of books which feels so good. Then I got a ticket on my car for…$363?! And I thought New York parking tickets were the top. Turns out the spot next to the disabled space was also a disabled space. Just pay and move on, pay and move on.

After a pretty drive back up the 101 and lunch with my old friend Paul at Madonna Inn, I started to drag. I was torn between wanting to make it to the Bay Area and not wanting to—with a carload of guitars etc there’s no easy way to have fun in a place where everyone tells you “under no circumstances leave even a half-eaten burrito on the seat of your car, you will be robbed.” It got dark—so dark—and I stopped in a cozy hotel with a fireplace AND a whirlpool bath but had an uneasy sleep. I realized why as I drove off early the next morning—I was just down wind of Gilroy, garlic capital of the world, and it really does smell like garlic, which I’ve come to realize I’m kind of allergic to. It’s worse than coffee to me, making my mind race and leaving me unsettled, every time.

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So instead of fighting bumper to bumper traffic north to SF for a noon rendezvous to drop off the amp my pal Tom Heyman had loaned me, I settled into a coffee place in Cupertino and that was a trip, coders to the left and right of me. By the time I got in and out of the bay area I was dragging again. It really dawns on me after years of country living—big cities are a lot of work. I’ve been to most of these places before and if I was unencumbered I’m sure I’d have fun strolling around and discovering things but all I see now are issues with parking, keeping stuff safe and conserving my energy. So onward I drive…

The sun was going down (so early!) when Mount Shasta loomed. My eyes just don’t work in the pitch darkness, with this massive mountain looming and trucks bearing down around every curve, so this time it was a rustic motel up on the side of a hill. The town of Mt. Shasta is really cute, reminding me a little of where we live. It even had an awesome natural foods store. The girl behind the counter gave me back more change than I’d started with and I realized legal weed has all kinds of benefits. The idea of explaining to her what she’d done seemed more trouble than it was worth so I just went with it—see, I could easily live in California! I had to get up early and spend almost two hours on the phone trying to renew my health insurance (Nov 15th was the deadline and weeks/months ago I’d thought “yeah, yeah—I’ll do it on the road, it’ll be so much easier then”?!)

Hit Eugene just at lunch time and was pleased to find the Vietnamese sandwich place Eric and I had enjoyed last June when our tours had converged in California and I’d accompanied him up to Portland. It’s those little moments returning to unremarkable places that can make a traveler feel at home.

I’ve watched Portland develop and thrive over the years. Always from a distance, I’m like a fond great aunt, shaking my head in wonder, remembering when it was more the ragged sepia Cinderella than the technicolor one at the ball. I love Turn Turn Turn where I played: it’s a record store, venue, bar and has a real community feel. Got to hear Scott McCaughey and see lovely Mary Winzig and old friends from back east who moved out here and never looked back. During my set, exhaustion was creeping in and I had to shake myself and remember how much work and effort it took to get here. Come on girl, I thought—do it—now. That can be the hardest thing with touring when you’re doing all the work of booking, driving, tour managing yourself. In amidst all the details and energy expenditure, sometimes you have to kick your own ass…

I opted to hang out in Olympia for the next day, just needing to get some work done (thanks Dan Aloi for working with me to get this excerpt from Girl To City in Slate). I strolled around the cute downtown with vintage stores galore. Got some sleep and was impressed the next morning, a rainy Sunday, at whole families in all-weather gear blithely strolling in the rain.

At this point in a tour, I can’t tell if I’ve gained weight or lost weight—my clothes are baggy in odd places from so much driving, then being performed in, wedged into a suitcase and unfurled again. I ate an enormous apple fritter in a charming Olympia coffee shop (okay, I’ve probably gained weight) and managed to work some more before driving up to Seattle.

The bookstore, Third Place, was wonderful, part used/part new books, with a nice bar downstairs. Kristi Coulter, who I met at Spotty Dog when she came to read on her own book tour last year, conducted a Q&A and then I played and read for a nice crowd of people who’d braved a rainy Sunday evening—hey, it’s Seattle, they thrive on the stuff. I got to meet Claire Dederer, fabulous author, in person and saw old friends I rarely get to see because I have struggled the last several years to book a show in this town. It was worth it to write a book just so I could come play here! 

I drove back down to Olympia afterwards, picking up this standby Hillsdale snack pack of crackers, salami and cheese so I didn’t have to try and fall asleep completely starving and drank the last of a screw top bottle of wine I’d carried from California. Drove to the airport in Portland listening to a great Richard Thompson live recording. Portland airport was beautiful. I got back to Hartford Airport near midnight and realized I’d forgotten which parking lot I’d put the car in and had lost my ticket. I felt like the most annoying person in the world on the shuttle, all the Connecticut people seemed so together and I was bumping into them with my guitars and laptop, trying to charge my phone so I could look at a map of the parking lots and remember…then it occurred to me to ask which was the cheapest lot – and voila, with the help of my Subaru keys I located my car, which was good because I’d gotten so attached to my rental car I’d forgotten what color it was.

The GPS took me back the strangest route, it freaked me out a little when I realized I was driving next to a dam and thought wait, there’s no dam that I know of near I-90. It was little back roads and so very dark. Then the freezing rain started. I realized as I passed Bash Bish Falls where Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York states converge that I’d taken the scenic route home – at two a.m. I did make it eventually. Eric was waiting for me. I think we ate pasta.

More shows, at dear HiLo in our town of Catskill, the legendary Bop Shop in Rochester, and beautiful Cambridge Depot up north of Saratoga. I tried not to dwell on it being the end of the book tour, for the year anyway. How long can you tour for a book? I’ve only done albums, and they have a sort of natural lifespan…I love the reading excerpts and playing corresponding songs that I’ve been doing on this tour and feel like with work it’s something I could do for a long time. I hope to do some book shows in the UK at least in 2020, and here and there where I can.

A week ago we drove down to New York City to see Bob Dylan, and that show was a beautiful dream. An incandescent glow from the lighting, the band, the set list and Bob himself. Bob’s ass didn’t need kicking —he was on it. Putting across every word and note. The Bob I hear in my head was on stage in front of me at the Beacon Theatre. I wish I could relive every moment, especially When I Paint My Masterpiece, Simple Twist of Fate, Not Dark Yet and Lenny Bruce. And Pay In Blood. After two weeks of impeachment hearings, this song sounded extra prescient. Just like after the last time we saw Dylan, I rushed the next day to listen to Tempest, an album I missed completely when it came out in 2012.

I’m home now before we head to England for a bit . Thanksgiving was nice and quiet with my daughter visiting and a chance to do laundry, do some some cooking which I miss when I’m traveling. There’s a comfort in those household chores, the ones I resent so much until I’m away for a while.

I’m thankful for all the people who came out to see me, picked up a copy of the book or a disc. The clubs and homes and bookstores who had me play, and all my friends and loved ones for encouragement. I’ll finish now before I start to blubber with gratitude and cause the reader to snooze. I’d better go shovel some snow.

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West coast memories – pic by Tobi Kaplan

Early 2020 gigs/events

  • Fri Jan 3 • Peace Dale, RI • Roots Hoot House Concert info/tickets
  • Fri Jan 10 • New Haven CT • Cafe Nine (really excited that author Joyce Maynard will do a Q & A with me before the reading/performance) tickets
  • Sat Jan 11 • Hudson NY • Volume Reading Series info
  • Fri Jan 17 – Sun Jan 19 • Destin FL • 30A Songwriters Festival tickets

 

Sound Of The Pines

I flew into Portland and drove a few hours my first night on the west coast, fog and songs from Allison Moorer’s stunning album Blood swirling around me in my rental car. Eugene always seems like a good place to spend the night.

Next day I set off for California and not even a couple hours in I was flagging. Driving through Grant’s Pass or Medford Oregon, the climbs and descents and tall pines were hypnotic, the rental car too similar to my own car back home to have me on alert the way some unfamiliar cars do. 

“Are there any people in this part of the state who don’t drive massive trucks laden with fresh cut logs, finished boards or large bales of hay?” I wondered, searching for just one other car to give me that feeling of companionship you get out on the highway.

I finally gave in and exited at Wolf Valley, thinking I’d just pull into a gas station parking lot and shut my eyes for a few minutes. Wasn’t I just doing this a few days ago I thought…in Pennsylvania? Driving home after Pittsburgh I’d had to pull over four times to nap, before finally giving in and checking into a hotel near Bloomsburg at the ridiculous hour of 6 PM.

In Wolf Valley, I aimed to the right of a rustic service station, thinking it’d be more peaceful if I parked in front of a low white building with a hand-painted sign reading GIFT STORE. I didn’t imagine there’d be much traffic for gifts at two pm on a Wednesday.

I shut off the motor, locked the doors and leaned my head back and…

There was rock music coming from the low white building. I wondered what classic rock track was blaring, and marveled at the detail and depth of their outdoors speakers. Then I started listening harder— this was live music. A band was practicing in the “GIFT SHOP”.

I noticed an open door to the right of the gift store entrance. By now I’d turned the key and rolled down the window so I could listen. No vocals, but the drums and guitar were good and loud and —they were really playing. I couldn’t stop myself. I got out of the car.

Maybe if I just stood to one side I could see what was going on in there. But that didn’t feel like enough. Instead, I popped the trunk of my Toyota Corolla, took my Telecaster and a guitar cable out of the case, strolled over and stood in the doorway.

The room was shadowy so I couldn’t see who was playing. Just the sunlight from outside picking up highlights on the drum hardware. There was a lot of hair, and flannel. I think there were two people but there may have been three. They hardly even looked up. One in a ball cap nodded his head toward a spare amp and I went over, plugged in and switched it on. It was a Peavey.

We jammed for about an hour. I don’t even remember what songs we played. We never spoke. It was just…music. This is why I’m here, I thought. Because I play music. Maybe I’ll just send for Eric, tell him to get his bass and come to Wolf Valley. This outfit could use a bass player. We’ll just play stuff, express ourselves, work on it, get better. We might even be able to get a gig some-

I’d drooled on the headrest. The shadows were growing long across the parking lot, All I could hear was the wind through pine needles. The door next to the gift shop was closed. I got back on the road and headed towards California, and Thursday night’s gig in Oakland.

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Mount Shasta means California

https://www.kalx.berkeley.edu/news/amy-rigby-interview at 4 PM today

Girl To City on tour

  • Thu Nov 7     Oakland CA       Starline Social Club  tickets  9 PM
  • Sat Nov 9      Los Angeles        house concert
  • Tue Nov 12  Los Angeles        Stories Books (in conversation w/Pat Thomas + reading/ performance) 7 PM
  • Fri Nov 15   Portland OR        Turn Turn Turn (w/Scott the Hoople!)
  • Sun Nov 17  Seattle WA          Third Place Ravenna (in conversation with Kristi Coulter + reading/performance) 7 PM
  • Thu Nov 21  Catskill NY          HiLo
  • Fri Nov 22  Rochester NY        The Bop Shop tickets
  • Sat Nov 23  Cambridge NY      Argyle Brewing at Cambridge Depot tickets

 

BTB*

I just had breakfast in a tiny diner in Cleveland, actually the suburb east of Cleveland, near the part of town where my daughter and I lived for a brief time just before she went off to college and I moved to France with Wreckless Eric. The Yours Truly was a cozy scene, a few booths, a short counter, Rick James’ “Give It To Me Baby” over the speakers, a TV playing an adorable Animal Planet show about raising puppies. The coffee was good, I treated myself and ordered bacon AND hash browns. Everything felt right and then— there was a commotion towards the parking lot. Just outside the big plate glass windows, in full view of the entire place, a guy was breaking into a customer’s car. A few people ran outside, the manager called the police, for a second it felt like the guy breaking in was going to come in to the diner but then he took off down the avenue. I’ve probably seen too many movies because I watched the whole thing unfolding thinking “is this where I meet my end? This random diner? Why oh why didn’t I just drive on to Pittsburgh yesterday?”

I couldn’t face Pittsburgh just yet. I’m so tired, I didn’t have the strength to go that far back into the past. Cleveland is one layer of bark just towards the surface of the tree, easy enough to break a piece off, turn it over in my hands, crumble it between my fingers. Pittsburgh takes a chainsaw, or an axe, or one of those taps they stick deep into a maple to extract sap to turn into syrup. I can’t excavate Pittsburgh on this trip, when part of what I’ve been doing on this trip has been excavating Pittsburgh. I think I might have book tour burnout.

It’s been a great tour so far. I think the thing with outings like this (not that I’ve ever had an outing like this before, but similar to a tour with a new record) —don’t stop. Don’t take breaks, chill out, relax and have down time. Because down time is when you go…down.

Think about a perpetual motion machine—it feeds on its own energy. When you take that away, what’s left? Nothing. A void. That’s what I am right now. 

Don’t go down. I think of all the dear familiar faces and new ones I’ve met on this trip. Towns I have close relationships with I’ve gotten to drive into in a new way (look out bitches, get a load of me! Oh if only…usually more like hello, is it me you’re looking for?) There has absolutely been a feeling of accomplishment and I have to keep reminding myself it’s not the end of everything —it’s the beginning of something. 

I don’t know who will come in Pittsburgh tonight.  I wish I could go get a facial, or a pedicure but —my car needs an oil change. Maybe I need an oil change? I’ve done some hotel swimming and usually don’t go full bacon/hash browns but I miss walking. Too many hours in the car. In Girl To City, I wrote that rules of touring say never examine your life too closely in a dressing room mirror or at the end of a tour. What about in the waiting room of a Subaru dealership somewhere on the outskirts of Cleveland?

The only way to keep going is—don’t stop. I’ll see Eric in less than two days, for two days. There are serious fires out west, people being evacuated from their homes in Northern and Southern California. I fly out there next week. Is it okay to go?

It’s all leading somewhere…even if it’s just to the next book. That’s a lot, right?

*Book Tour Burnout

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Chicago The Book Cellar – still up! pic by Dave Miller

Order GIRL TO CITY here or see me out on tour. I’ll rally, you know it!

  • Tues Oct 29   Pittsburgh PA    City Books  7 PM (in conversation w/Rege Behe + reading/performance)
  • Sat Nov 2       Newark DE       Rainbow Records  5 PM
  • Sun Nov 3     Wayne PA          Main Point Books  5 PM
  • Thu Nov 7     Oakland CA       Starline Social Club  tickets  9 PM
  • Sat Nov 9      Los Angeles        house concert
  • Tue Nov 12  Los Angeles        Stories Books (in conversation w/Pat Thomas + reading/ performance) 7 PM
  • Fri Nov 15   Portland OR        Turn Turn Turn (w/Scott the Hoople!)
  • Sun Nov 17  Seattle WA          Third Place Ravenna (in conversation with Kristi Coulter + reading/performance) 7 PM
  • Thu Nov 21  Catskill NY          HiLo
  • Fri Nov 22  Rochester NY        The Bop Shop tickets
  • Sat Nov 23  Cambridge NY      Argyle Brewing at Cambridge Depot tickets

Learning To Fly

You got the airplane off the ground! You’ve never flown a plane before but all those years of driving a car made you think eh, how hard can it be? Pretty hard, it turns out.

GIRL TO CITY book release day was looming and I was feeling pretty positive about this whole thing. Book release day, or Publication Day, was feeling like a fluid term, as the ebook had started showing up in people’s readers from the first time I uploaded an uncorrected advance version. But my copies of the printed book with the corrections made (although I winced on discovering a mispelling in the book: “excrutiating”. Not glaring but—wrong. Apparently you can keep correcting the file and reuploading into infinity but that’ll probably have to wait for a while…) arrived when I was briefly over in England, and so after a fun visit to Todd Abramson’s show on WFMU, I got busy filling the pre-orders. The pre-orders were really my version of crowdfunding, as this book publication business has pretty much drained my resources, so thank you those who pre-ordered! It also gave me the incentive to put together an album of old, unheard demos to go along with the book. That turned into a hugely positive experience. With Eric’s urging and patient help editing and mixing and mastering, I unearthed songs I’d completely forgotten that turned out to be- well I’ll let you decide for yourself, some of them are throwaway but I think some are pretty darn good, and I didn’t even have to be dead for this to happen! I’m alive. I think.

Possible cancellation of a date on the tour due to poor ticket sales had me feeling very low the day before the book release. It was ironic, because a few days before a writer had asked me for a quote about musicians and mental health— the struggles we go through. I’d written something fairly measured and trying to be upbeat about valuing ourselves and standing up for ourselves, but here was a bald example of the reality: you can work and work and feel good about your work and you know it’s good, but when somebody tells you “nobody cares—they don’t want you” well that hurts about as much as anything can hurt. You’re back in the school cafeteria wanting someone to look up from a table and see you and smile and wave you over, but they’re all laughing and carrying on and don’t notice you and you want to disappear into a hole in the floor. (in the end everything’s okay with the show. But when you wonder why musicians/artists are fragile characters, think about it. We are fragile characters who for whatever reason are compelled to put ourselves in a position that invites public scrutiny and judgment. If you have a manager you might be regularly spared a few hours/days of that kind of hell, and never know and that’s one reason why people have managers but—I don’t. A lot of us don’t).

So I was kind of a mess by the time I needed to head down to NYC for my book event at WORD Greenpoint. I’d gotten to know this store when one of my brothers lived around the corner and thought it would be great to do something in/adjacent to the old neighborhood, the last place I lived in the city. I was packing the car and trying to stay perky, and set off to drive down to Brooklyn about two in the afternoon so I’d have plenty of time for a 7 PM show. A few blocks from our house I pulled over and called the store, thinking it’d be good to know how many books to bring —not wanting to be too ambitious but not wanting to risk running out. “Well we have five reservations so, I guess ten books is probably good,” said the young woman on the phone. Ten? Ten?? I decided I’d been deluding myself all along —that literally no one in NYC was interested in anything I had to say about twenty some years of living there, that it was all so in the past, that I was so all in the past. I started heading towards the Taconic, my head spinning. I pulled over to tweet—“hey, is anybody coming? ANYBODY?” Got a little further and felt a breeze across the back of my neck, like the load was a little light in the back of the car—I’d FORGOTTEN MY GUITAR. The whole reason for the book, everything. I spun around in the Ace Hardware parking lot, drove back home, got the guitar, flew down the Thruway. The WORD people were really nice, I set my stuff up in the basement room they have for readings, and then realized I was desperately hungry, and that I should’ve brought some wine for everybody. I wondered why I hadn’t asked a friend to help me. It just hadn’t occurred to me how hard it is to get an airplane off the ground, cause like I said, I’ve driven a car for years…

Right around showtime, my daughter found me sitting on a stoop next to my brother’s old apartment building. I was eating cold beef stroganoff from a tub, drinking red wine straight out of the bottle (I wasn’t glugging, just sipping delicately, to go with the stroganoff.) “Nobody’s coming Haze —nobody.” 

“It’s gonna be great!” she said. I wondered if this really was my daughter, never inclined to be Little Miss Sunshine. “You’re gonna have fun. You’ll see.” (I could say something here about the joy of having a grown child, how lucky I am, but I might start sobbing and never stop, so I won’t.)

And I did have fun. So much. There were people there. Family and friends and people who’ve come to my gigs for years. They bought books, every book I had.

The nearly cancelled show was back on. The pre-order orders were going out. Press was starting to roll. People were posting that they were reading the book and loving it, that they were tearing through it.

And then I was standing in the spot where I’ve poured beer, put books on shelves, mopped, served customers for over seven years. When I walked in everybody had clapped, like I was Joni Mitchell coming into the Forum. Then I was playing songs and reading from this book that didn’t exist for real until just a few days ago. People were smiling and nodding and laughing and cheering for me. I was flying.

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Taking off from the Brooklyn Queens Expressway

Here’s where I’ll be playing songs and reading stories, and in a few instances chatting with other writers about the book and music and life:

  • Thu Oct 17  Hoboken NJ           Little City Books   tix
  • Fri Oct 18    Vienna VA              Jammin Java w/writer Rob Brunner  tickets 
  • Sat Oct 19    Wake Forest NC   Piedmont Laureate presents @ Listening Room 7 PM
  • Sun Oct 20   Columbia SC        Curiosity Coffee Bar(Emily McCollum opens) 3 PM info
  • Mon Oct 21  Atlanta GA           Writers at the Wrecking Bar w/Chad Radford info
  • Tue Oct 22   Nashville TN        Grimey’s instore   6 PM  free
  • Thu Oct 24  Memphis TN         Bar DKDC 8 PM
  • Fri Oct 25    Chicago IL             Book Cellar  7 PM free info
  • Sat Oct 26    Madison WI          Kiki’s Righteous House of Music info
  • Tue Oct 29   Pittsburgh PA       City Books  7 PM   free reservations
  • Sat Nov 2    Newark DE            Rainbow Records 5 PM
  • Sun Nov 3   Wayne PA               Main Point Books 5 pm free
  • Thu Nov 7   Oakland CA           Starline Social Club  tickets
  • Sat Nov 9    Los Angeles CA      house concert
  • Tue Nov 12 Los Angeles CA     Stories Books w/Pat Thomas 7 PM  info
  • Fri Nov 15  Portland OR           Turn Turn Turn (Mike Coykendall opens)
  • Sun Nov 17 Seattle WA             Third Place Books Ravenna w/Kristi Coulter 7 PM
  • Thu Nov 21 Catskill NY             HiLo  8 PM
  • Fri Nov 22  Rochester NY         Bop Shop Records tickets
  • Sat Nov 23  Cambridge NY       Argyle Brewing at Cambridge Depot tickets

 

I Wrote A Book

I did something I rarely do yesterday — I went to a bakery. I needed a piece of pie.

“Do you have that very berry pie?” I said to the young woman behind the counter. “You know —that…pie?” I’d already looked in all the cases and hadn’t seen the gleaming, voluptuous crumb-topped specialty of the house.

“No sorry, not till Wednesday” she said.

“I need pie now,” I said. “I wrote a book.” 

She pointed towards the muffins and cookies. “Those are good, too.”

“No, I need pie. I wrote a book.” She was helping another customer by then.

I hurried home and did the best I could with raspberries, some granola and organic half and half. Then I brought a hundred packages to the post office.

“What, do you have a band or something?” the nice lady behind the counter asked.

“No —I wrote a book.” 

I realized it was my answer to everything.

The house is a complete mess. So? I wrote a book.

I haven’t been to the gym in a month. Yeah, well – I wrote a book.

This promoter is worried about ticket sales, and that one never answered my emails— wonderful! I wrote a book.

Our tax return is due next Tuesday? Ha, I wrote a boo- (maybe it doesn’t work in every instance…Wait, he’s still president, and I wrote a book? Yeah, definitely doesn’t always work, but those are the exceptions that prove the rule).

I’m going on tour for the next several weeks and I’ve done that so many times before but this time will be at least slightly different because…I wrote a book.

And the same frustration that plagues me sometimes with releasing music and touring will come back on me twofold now because…I wrote a book.

But if you don’t like my music—or any music for that matter—you might still like my writing, and here it is! In this book. That I wrote.

You might buy Debbie Harry’s book or Liz Phair’s instead of mine (see I just lost readers right there—“Debbie Harry has a book? Debbiiiieeee! Love her. Liz! Oh my god, she is am-azing. Amy who? Never heard of her, so how can she be any good?”) but we can all still stand face-out side by side on at least one bookstore shelf and I couldn’t have said that last year because, well Debbie’s and Liz’s weren’t out yet and mine wasn’t done yet but now it is. 

Because:

I wrote a book.

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Amy Rigby’s Girl To City: A Memoir is out now and she’s out reading & playing 

The Accidental Tourist

I flew back to New York yesterday after a quick trip to England and decided I’d see if I could snag a good hotel deal in NYC because I’m going to be on WFMU this afternoon and that’s just across the Hudson River from the city. In one way I was dying to drive home just to get home, but after a transatlantic flight, that nearly three hour drive is tough, and then to have to turn around and drive back down not even a day later? Yes, let me treat myself to a Friday night hotel deal, get some sleep, take my daughter for a birthday lunch in Manhattan and then cruise through the Holland Tunnel to be on the radio at 4:30 pm Saturday afternoon with my old pal Todd Abramson.

A hotel near the World Trade Center should be interesting, I thought. Maybe I’ll even be able to park down there, I thought, remembering how it used to be before everything changed. That’s the problem with my New York memories a lot of the time – they are SO in the past. In my mind, it’s still 1993 down here. Okay – everywhere. But New York especially.

It kept me perky, getting my car from the parking place at JFK and heading in the other direction from the one I usually take to drive upstate. The GPS took me on the Belt Parkway – ooh, I thought. The novelty of the Belt Parkway! At nine PM on a Friday night, it should go smooth.

It did. It was sweet, feeling the contours of the immense land mass that is Brooklyn. The contours felt the same, reminding me of driving to Coney Island in the last century, when my daughter and I would find a parking space way down where the tumbleweeds rolled, in the shadow of the parachute jump, to save a few dollars on parking. The contours were the only thing I recognized – high rises everywhere. A polish to it all. The majority of cars peeled off for the Verrazano Bridge (they haven’t changed the name! They haven’t changed the name!) and then I was Hugh Carey tunnel bound…and Gowanus was gleaming. The lower Manhattan skyline was unrecognizable, Hugh Carey kinda sounded familiar but it would always be the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel to me – there was geography in a name back then, that actually told you where you’d get to if you went in one end.

I came up out of the ground in Manhattan and located my hotel, a serviceable looking Holiday Inn. Okay, now to find some parking. I hadn’t even considered: the World Trade Center. I’m an idiot. This is a place people travel to from all over. It is a memorial, a museum, a shopping mall, an office complex. Even in the old days, lower Manhattan was not quite a grid, all the geometry gets squeezed down into a pencil point at the bottom. I worked my way around the WTC and cruised up and down a few streets where parking was restricted to tour buses and government official vehicles. Eventually I went down Murray Street – good old Murray, even the name is like a favorite old character on a beloved sitcom. In front of Flash Dancers strip club, right near where there was once a recording/rehearsal studio – maybe there still is; around the corner from where I briefly lived with a dark and desperate character (hey read my book, it comes out on Tuesday!) I found what looked like an actual spot with no restrictions if it was after 5 PM Friday and before 7 AM Monday morning. Wow.

I made my way around the memorial back to the Holiday Inn and swayed up to my room on the 31st Floor with a load of – guess what, tourists! I felt like the silent ambassador of New York City, willing all the people sharing the rickety elevator car, who were speaking in languages I could only guess at, to have the time of their life here. To never forget. To know what we have here, if we could only get along.

I grabbed a sandwich from the type of bar I would usually not bother setting foot in, completely generic, sports on several TVs behind the bar, but I enjoyed it immensely. The bros drinking beer next to me, the guys behind the bar from Mexico and Brazil. It all felt right.

When I woke up (too early! jet lag!) this morning I bundled up for some brisk air outside and walked around the WTC museum, partly looking for coffee, partly needing to check on my car to make sure the parking situation hadn’t been a mirage. I felt so lucky to be here, lucky to be alone with the city as it was still too early for tour buses and throngs of people. Eric was back in England and though I would’ve enjoyed seeing it with him, this was my little moment with the city I had loved like I’ll never love anywhere again, because – I became myself here. That’s all there is to it. I know as we get older we start to sound boring saying “you should have seen it back then,” but we’re really saying in part “you should’ve seen ME back then.” It/I was magnificent.

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Hear me talking about my memoir Girl To City on Todd Abramson’s show on WFMU sandwiched between Ken Burns & Debbie Harry.

 

People Need Books Need People

“Hi there, I’m an author and I’m here to do my reading tonight?”

He was handsome, well-dressed and nobody knew what the hell he was doing in the bookstore/bar at five PM on a Wednesday.

“Are you sure it’s here and not the library?” I felt for the man. I wanted to make everything be okay and successful for him. I started running through possibilities like I used to do with my daughter when she was little and didn’t want to eat at a restaurant (oh look, they have chicken tenders, you love those! And grilled cheese, that’s good…or how about spaghetti?)

“It’s probably at the library, or maybe the wine store?” I said. The author’s event wasn’t listed on our website and there were no posters up and he wasn’t on the local library website and I checked two other neighboring towns and he wasn’t on those either.

“Yeah, I didn’t get around to sending posters,” he said. “Or info for the website. But I’m sure my people will show up, I mean, I’m from around here.”

The owner of the store was so nice and set him up with a table and a stack of books which had mysteriously appeared weeks before with no mention of an event. The microphone was prepped and ready. Shelves were rolled back, chairs set up. He sipped a glass of wine and told me a little of his inspirational story while he waited for the people to arrive.

Did any people arrive?

I wanted to be in a chair so that magically other people would fill the chairs for this event nobody had heard about. But I had to go home. It was the end of my shift, I’d been there all day and— I had my own book to publish.

It’s been years working on this book. I poured my heart and soul into it, without even meaning to. I just wanted to write it all down, my coming of age in New York and music and motherhood. I had wanted to do it for a while but I turned fifty and then started writing for real. If I made sense of it for me, maybe it might make sense to someone else.

I hoped for a publisher to work with, to be doing all the mechanics of book production and even some promotion. I found an agent. We were turned down by every publisher because none of the publishers had ever heard of me as a musician. I was no Patti! Or Kim! Or Chrissie! Or even Carrie? They were missing the point. So I decided to do it myself. I hired an editor. I got my college roommate who takes amazing photos and is a brilliant designer to turn one she took of me in the 70s into a cover.

My book is coming Oct 8
Coming Oct 8

I started booking a book tour.

When I had a few dates confirmed, I finished the book for real.

Now the tour looms. I don’t want to be like Mr. Handsome Inspirational Author, telling my story to a roomful of chairs, with a few beer drinkers on the side tolerating my message.

Years ago I thought “wouldn’t it be great to be in bookstores, with my guitar and my book! Finding a whole new audience of readers who also might like the songs I write!” I’ve got the guitar, and the songs, and I’ve got the book now. The destination becomes the journey, or is it the other way around?

Will there be an audience? I know I have people…

Out there.

People?

  • Tues Oct 8   Brooklyn NY        WORD Greenpoint   7 PM   free
  • Fri Oct 11    Hudson NY           The Spotty Dog   7:30 PM   free
  • Sat Oct 12   Northampton MA Parlor Room  tix
  • Sun Oct 13  Cambridge MA     Atwood’s   9 PM   tix
  • Thu Oct 17  Hoboken NJ           Little City Books   tix
  • Fri Oct 18    Vienna VA              Jammin Java  tickets
  • Sat Oct 19    Wake Forest NC   Piedmont Laureate presents @ Listening Room 7 PM
  • Sun Oct 20   Columbia SC        Curiosity Coffee Bar   3 PM info
  • Mon Oct 21  Atlanta GA           Writers at the Wrecking Bar info
  • Tue Oct 22   Nashville TN        Grimey’s instore   7 PM  free
  • Thu Oct 24  Memphis TN         Bar DKDC
  • Fri Oct 25    Chicago IL             Book Cellar  7 PM free info
  • Sat Oct 26    Madison WI          Kiki’s Righteous House of Music info
  • Tue Oct 29   Pittsburgh PA       City Books  7 PM   free
  • Sun Nov 3   Wayne PA               Main Point Books 5 pm free
  • Thu Nov 7   Oakland CA           Starline Social Club  tickets
  • Sat Nov 9    Los Angeles CA      house concert
  • Tue Nov 12 Los Angeles CA     Stories Books  info
  • Fri Nov 15  Portland OR           Turn Turn Turn
  • Sun Nov 17 Seattle WA             Third Place Books Ravenna 7 PM
  • Fri Nov 22  Rochester NY         Bop Shop Records
  • Sat Nov 23  Cambridge NY       Argyle Brewing at Cambridge Depot tickets