The Homecoming

“You’re really great at your job,” the young woman said. It was freezing cold outside, a quiet Monday night in the bookstore/bar. Tom T Hall’s The Homecoming, the story of a musician’s life, played in the background.

“You mean BEING A ROCK STAR?” a tiny part of me wanted to shout. The rest of me smiled and thanked her and kept on washing beer glasses, polishing the bar, sweeping the floor. Earlier that day, I’d read fine writing about being on the road by Allison Moorer and Tift Merritt, seen Instagram photos from friends’ gigs in England and Germany and thought – even knowing what I know, how hard touring can be – that other people’s road diaries make me queasy with envy even when I’m out playing: “You had a dressing room?” or “You played at Shank Hall?” Except for when you’re up on stage (“You played on a stage?”) doing your best and giving your everything, that spectre of doubt – that you’re doing enough; that you are enough – is always there.

Am I crazy? I’ve been living for the moment I have a new record together – songs mixed and mastered and sequenced; everything lined up to go to the pressing plant and a release date and somebody to help me do publicity and the cover art and a photo. Now I’m starting to book gigs and it dawned on me just yesterday – this is happening. The thing I’ve been wanting for years (okay, I’ve really been wanting to publish a book, something I’ve never done, but I got involved in the whole agent and book proposal process and the publishing world moves at a speed that makes me think of tablets being chiseled one letter at a time); the thing – new work – that means I exist, that there’s a point to everything. It’s the way I know how to plot the course of my life, in three minute song increments; in multiples of twelve. In record albums. They used to come every two or three years: 96, 98, 01, 03, 05, 08, 10, 12. And then the last five or six years slipped past me. Some touring and playing in Eric’s band, a few solo shows, resurrecting the past a little here and there; working on writing, trying to become an author. I’ve started to compare my career to the walls of Five Guys Burgers & Fries – loads of glowing press, reviews, Best Ofs – and then you check the dates and realize they’re all from the last decade, and blurry with a mix of dust and hamburger grease.

I thank Greg Roberson, the Memphis drummer who came up to do some recording with Eric three years ago and said “Amy, what have you got? Let’s record something.” That was the start of this album The Old Guys that is finally finished and coming out February 23. 2018. I thank Eric my husband and producer for telling me “It won’t happen unless you show up.” Yep, this is like an award show speech, only the award is the one I’m giving myself – to still believe I can do this; to convince myself that anyone else will be interested; to care so much that the caring is its own reward.

One year before I turn sixty, and there’s no more music business, for me anyway. Or I don’t know how to find what’s left of it. I don’t know how to do anything but what I’ve done for thirty-five years now: write some songs that say how I feel, bring them to life so that feeling comes back again and again, and share them. I remember being twenty-eight, the age my own daughter is now, and saying “There’s no way I’ll be doing this – riding around in a van, playing in bars – when I’m FORTY.” Forty seemed the real there: that magic moment when all childish fantasy would fall away and wisdom prevail. So I had a kid. And realized I couldn’t stop. That being a mom meant even more reason to hold on to the artist part of myself, because that was what helped me make sense of being a mom. Of everything. As the parenting part has receded now it’s…this business of being older. And I thought I was “older” twenty years ago!

So maybe I am crazy. It’s the only way I know how to be, when I’m not pouring beer for people, or cooking meals, sweeping the floor, polishing the bar. Writing and dreaming of that moment when some girl says “You’re really great at your job” and I say “You mean this?” (gestures at guitar and microphone).

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The Old Guys will be released February 23, 2018. Tour dates coming soon. In the meanwhile I’m playing a benefit for Planned Parenthood at Bell House Brooklyn with Cindy Wilson of the B-52s & Kaki King, Wednesday December 6. And pouring beer & selling books.

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Heartbreakers

Tom Petty was my guy like I bet he was your guy. Bob Dylan is too godlike to be that guy. Listening to Bob is like looking at a locomotive streaming through a staggering sunset: how the hell did that happen, and how lucky am I to be here to see it? you shake your head wondering. Tom was the guy standing there raising his can of beer to that glory. He gave the whole scene scale and perspective, so you could be part of the majesty too.

If that sounds too humble for the excellence of what he did, consider the part of the picture just out of the frame – he’s balancing on a guard rail, at the edge of a cliff. In cowboy boots. Yep, he didn’t make all the hard work it took to be there our problem. It only dawned on me when I read Warren Zanes excellent biography of TP this time last year: in addition to the talent, that level of commitment, an absolute belief in the medium of music. The sacrifice and selflessness, along with appetite and ego, it took to get there and stay there.

But Tom wasn’t always right. I thought Tom got it wrong a few years back, and it kind of pissed me off.

It was that adorable, maddening scene in the Runnin Down A Dream documentary where Stevie Nicks is saying “and I said c’mon Tom, let me join the band” and Tom says, granite-like, “THERE ARE NO GIRLS IN THE HEARTBREAKERS.”

I walked around for days fuming after watching the movie. How could he say that? How could he deny Stevie? And all of us – the scenes between them, their performances together, are emotional highlights of the film.

 

THERE ARE NO GIRLS IN THE HEARTBREAKERS.

So that’s how it is, huh? Keep your crappy boys’ club! I kept thinking, like I’m ten outside my brothers’ pup tent in the woods. One of them stands sentry with a cheesy Gunsmoke rifle. I want in that tent, even if they’re only in there passing around Sgt. Rock comics. I want in that club!

But here’s where Tom was wrong. I thought about this a lot last night, as we waited through the agonizing few hours where maybe, maybe he was going to make it. I thought about it off and on through the hours after it was announced by his family that he was dead and I tried to sleep and kept waking up thinking “damn”.

There were always girls in the Heartbreakers!

Starting with American Girl, Tom Petty’s songs (or Petty & Campbell, but Tom’s lyrics) often focus on female characters. They aren’t objectified, and they aren’t caricatures. There are details that make them living, breathing women and they are usually in the process of busting out, finding themselves. Free Girl Now; Swingin; Mary Jane’s Last Dance. Walls from the She’s The One soundtrack could only be about a girl.Wildflowers.

Fill in your own here. He couldn’t have Stevie in the Heartbreakers, because that job belongs to all of us. The male rockers had their archetypes up there, but that softy Tom, that romantic Southern boy, let us gals write our own roles. We got to decide who we could be, rocking and free.

Anyways, it’s a theory. It’s the best I can do today, knowing that Tom’s gone.

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Tom & me. We’re all Heartbreakers, aren’t we?

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Goodbye Old Paint?

I try to refrain from talking too much about physical ailments here (okay, except for sinus miseries… and skin cancer surgery some years back…and…and). There are much heavier problems in the world than these fleeting discomforts.

But (yeah) since I came back from Chicago two weeks ago, I’ve been really distracted by an eye infection. Pain, swelling, doctor, drops – I’ve been down a similar road before, only this time I can’t shake it. Aside from the discomfort and what feels like gross unsightliness, this eye illness is challenging my entire perception of who I am.

I think I’ve just gone the longest period of time since I was fourteen without wearing eye makeup. (Men, unless you’re Robert Smith of the Cure or Keith Richards – you might not understand this; loads of women too…we don’t all have the Maybelline gene). For these past linerless, mascara-less days – and maybe it’s the eye irritation talking here – I’ve started to wonder if my entire life has been a construct –  I’ve only existed insofar as I could be drawn in with liner and mascara?

It’s not like anyone would look at me and think HIGH MAINTENANCE! or step aside Kat Von D. But blame it on those Barbies of my childhood, with their drawn on faces – even when nude they sported eyeliner and I’m kind of the same.

It’s like I don’t know how to see the world without the weight of paint on my lid or lash saying – even if only to myself – I’m here. I exist. The act of meditation that is looking at your own eyes in a makeup mirror.

“You don’t need all that stuff,” my dad would say. That was the point – it wasn’t for the world to tell me how I looked best. It was for me to become the character in my head. She looked a little bit like Catwoman or Emma Peel. Then Patti Smith or Gaye Advert (though I guess I landed more in the vicinity of Pat Benatar – I blame my rust belt roots…did anyone really dangerous ever come from Pittsburgh?)

Twiggy’s false lashes. The Laugh-In girls. Lipstick was my mother’s generation but eye makeup was mod.  Eye makeup was mine.  I didn’t even know if I looked better with it or without it. It didn’t matter. Black lines, the thicker the better. It wasn’t coquetry, it went beyond pretty to pirate. It’s the way I controlled the face I showed the world . It’s how I got ready to do battle.

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New wave coat check girl ’79 – photo by Julia Gorton

I lived for liner! I could never give it up, I thought. Even when I’m older – I’ll be Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, or Louise Nevelson! I definitely haven’t kept up that heavy hand. It’s been years since I wore false lashes (okay, maybe I backslid a month or two ago) and full-on black around my eyes but I’m still one for a smoky line. And the expert algorithm inside my computer screen sends pop-up ads to dance before me insisting there’s “A Better Way to Wear Makeup After Fifty!” “If You’re Sixty and Still Doing This, You’re Wrong!” If I click on them,  I might as well be dead.

Eye makeup after a certain age is like many things after a certain age: a habit. A reminder that you’re still here and you get to choose what feels good.  Flattering or not flattering, it’s a thing you do to make yourself feel like you. But who we are changes over time, if we’re lucky.

I’ve been wondering about all this in all that extra spare time I have now that I’m not wielding an eye shadow brush. I try to get some benefit out of these bad health moments. Learn any thing I can. Embrace the good. When I’m not putting drops in or hot compresses on my eyes, I’m astounded by the freedom; how life is truly simpler without makeup. No time spent putting it on, keeping it on, taking it off. There’s a beauty in just being you. Like a guy.

But I miss making that effort. The ceremony that divides life: here I am going to the gym or for a walk or to mow the grass – sunscreen. Now I’m headed to work, so I should groom myself – where’s my mascara wand? I went down to the city last weekend and I swear I felt more powerful not giving a fuck than when I try to look good. Were those servers or shop assistants being more attentive cause they thought “Badass” or were they just desperate to get me out of there quicker? These are questions I’ve struggled with for a while so it’s interesting to try it. BUT can I carry on the experiment when I actually feel good and am not struggling through a health issue?

How would I go on stage – I’ve often thought wow would I dare not put eye makeup on? I’m afraid I’ll disappear.  I look again to Patti Smith – her bare face, white hair – magnificence. Didn’t she have an awkward phase about ten years ago, to get where she is now? And like I said, I ain’t Patti, more Pat. I was born with a rust belt mom-on-a-joyride vibe that only a jail sentence would toughen up.

Just like dairy products languish in the fridge after a nasty cold, that eye pencil sits there staring at me by the vanity mirror and I can’t imagine wanting to put such an evil greasy substance anywhere near my tender, vulnerable being, ever again.

But I saw Chrissie Hynde on TV the other night, still defiantly sporting black on her lids. It wasn’t careful contouring and presentation, it was a flag – the opposite of white flag of surrender – it was “yeah I’ve seen the world; a lot of it”; more fuck you than fuck me; punker than pert cat eyes. I felt myself instinctively reaching for my eye pencil, like a samurai for her sword.

My choice, when I’m up for it again.

Or not. Maybe glasses instead? Forget about how I’d look – I’d actually be able to see.

 

 

 

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Into The Woods

“Any pizza is a personal pizza if you believe in yourself.”  Sign on a pizza parlor in Clarion PA.

Every year my family gets together in a semi-deluxe rustic lodge, usually in the wilds of Pennsylvania. These are my notes from 2017:

Help, I’m being driven mad by microfiber sheets and ceiling fans. Also a skylight with no blind to cut out dawn breaking twenty feet above the bed, and my whole family sleeping in somebody else’s house in the woods.

The family all together should mean peace and contentment, shouldn’t it? Over a dozen of the people I care most about in the world under one roof – so why was I tossing and turning and now sit wide awake at 5 AM wrapped in a polyester throw on a massive beamed porch staring out into the void that is the Pennsylvania woods? Why are my eyes sunken hollows?

Because I’m not working on my album this weekend and I feel like I should be working. Because I finally have a contract for my book and I’m afraid to look at it. Because I have a show on Friday (and two more later this month) and I hope I can remember how to get up and do what I in principle do but in actuality have only spent a small fraction of the year doing? Because it’s one more summer slipping away and my dad is very old – turning ninety in a few weeks – and that must mean my brothers and I are not actually in our twenties or thirties or even our forties anymore?

I know I’m lucky – except for my mom we’re all still here. But my dad seems frailer and smaller, and he used to be intimidating and powerful as only a dad can be. It’s been years since we had one of the showdowns these get-togethers used to inevitably lead to – me and him facing off in parking lots or on front porches of folksy bed and breakfasts; him asking when I was going to grow up and become respectably employed, and what about my daughter, how was I raising her – we’ve kind of laid all that to rest. I’d defend my corner with almost every fiber of my being, one or two threads reserved for thinking maybe he was right. Now he’s old and more accepting and to him I seem settled. Maybe I am settled? My daughter is grown up and I understand that all he really wanted was for me to be okay.

I go in to pour a bowl of cereal and it’s just him and me in the semi-deluxe rustic lodge kitchen, like back when I was a kid, he and I always the early risers awake alone together. He doesn’t have his hearing aids in and I’m in a manic sleep-deprived state and we turn our bleary focus to a hand-painted plaque on the wall: “When I die, I want to be buried in the woods so my husband will hunt for me.”

My dad chuckles. “Did you see that plaque?”

I say: “I don’t get it.”

“Well, she wants him to have to hunt for her, like he’d hunt for a bear. It’s funny.”

“No, it’s not,” I say. I just can’t help myself, I’m fifteen again, I’m the resident troublemaker. The respect-your-father fibers from a few paragraphs back hover over me shouting “NO” but the rebel in me presses on: “It makes no sense. She’d be buried in the woods, and he hunts and kills, and she’d already be dead. It doesn’t work as a joke, or even a platitude.”

Dad gets huffy. “Well, people can think whatever they want.”

“Yeah, but they don’t have to paint it on a plaque, and hang it on a wall where I have to look at it and be annoyed.”

“Well it’s their house, and in my book that means they can do whatever the hell they want.”

And THE OLD TEAM IS BACK! He, defender of authority and territorial rights, respect for our hosts and in turn respect for HIM vs…me. He picks up his mug of decaf and leaves, and I begin to understand what it will feel like when he’s gone, because I won’t have this anymore. Our contentiousness is part of who we are and the love between us, and as much as I’ve struggled with and hated him sometimes, there’ll never be another person in my life who made me and makes me me like my dad.

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From McMahon cabin family slide show – home from NYC Christmas 1976, photo by my dad

“Come back dad!” I want to shout as I write this in my notebook. Let’s talk about the plaque some more. Or anything! Let’s hang out in the kitchen awake alone together just a little bit longer.

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Aforementioned upcoming shows

  • Fri Aug 11    New Haven, CT         Cafe Nine (w/Willie Nile)
  • Fri Aug 25    Willow Springs IL    house concert (email Jeff@gandtenterprises.com )
  • Sat Aug 26    Chicago, IL                 Bucktown Arts Festival

Cruise Control

Summer is a way of measuring time. A place marker, a pause button. Wait.

Summer is cruise control. The world rolls by as you tool along with the windows up. There’s a cold drink in the cup holder and a tune playing and this is what you hold onto: the pulsing bass, the ice cubes melting, your chosen speed.  A Mercedes is bearing down behind you – that’s their summer, so you slip easily aside to let them streak through. You don’t realize how hard you’re concentrating. You pass a huge shape on the right and think “truck” but that’s not you, you’re on your way somewhere else and you’re going to arrive eventually but you have to put in the driving and the miles.

This is my summer so far.

Bought two items of clothing that I have never contemplated owning or wearing before: a rain jacket and a pair of sport sandals.

Ugh – even the words make me shudder.  But every time I went to head out for a walk in the endlessly rainy weather, I thought “wouldn’t it be great to have a lightweight jacket with a hood I could just throw on?” Then the heat would come around again and I’d think “…sandals you can wear in the mud or even water…what do you call those?”

A big deterrent to getting on with my life wardrobe-wise has been my ingrained belief that I live an entirely different existence than the one I do. I realized this when I asked myself, as I tried on a pair of dreaded sports sandals “yeah, but can you wear them in New York City?” It pierced my soul to realize that this reflex question so tied to my sense of identity, the imagined self I carry my existence around in like a load of tattered dirty laundry in a sleek aluminum roller bag, was nearly obsolete.

I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve been to the city in the past year.

One trip to the city this summer was to play in Eric’s band for his show at El Cortez. It was a few weeks of work preparing for this show, a lot of new material and after Texas I was suffering with tendonitis in my left arm and hadn’t wanted to pick up the guitar.

It was exciting to play this new stuff, and fun to hang out with Doug the drummer and Artie who was playing the trumpet and bass. I worked through the discomfort and the warmer air helped as it finally turned to summer for real. I remembered how much I love playing piano and organ too. The tiki club in Bushwick wasn’t the easiest spot for a show, the stage was tiny and cluttered but we pulled it off. At the end of the night I slipped and fell loading from the stage – never a fun moment to be flat on your ass in public but the bouncer scooped me up off the floor and the mic I lost in the scuffle appeared a month later in the bag we keep stands in, so all was right.

I worked. Hudson is full of visitors now. The bookstore/bar ebbs and flows. I never expected to be serving customers for so many years at this place, but I still love it, even when staff changes and drama and vandals squeezing tubes of oil paint in the art supply section have me tearing my hair. When I have no shows to play, or haven’t just come from playing a show, with a toilet brush or mop in my hand at the end of a bar shift I ask myself is this what I do? I know there’s more. It’s just that music and writing feel like an illusion sometimes, and I don’t do nearly enough of either of them but what is the right amount? And you have to work on new stuff – and live, to find something worth writing about – to go out and do it again. I think.

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Backyard

Nature: Sitting in the backyard, looking at the trees, birds and flowers. Mowing the grass. Walking through our neighborhood, or a nearby village or nature preserve. Sitting along the Hudson. Home. It is so lush and beautiful all around this year. Riding my bike at dusk when the air feels cool – I’ll never get tired of that feeling. I’ll forever be twelve on my bike.

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Tanglewood

Concerts: Mahler at Tanglewood and Yo La Tengo in Central Park (I already told about Dylan at Hutton Brickyards). Two of the great outdoor music spaces, one old composer I don’t really get and one of my favorite bands at their best. I enjoyed both experiences immensely. Walking down Fifth Avenue on the sultry Summerstage evening, I asked Eric if he could picture us as an old couple living in the city. See – my delusion remains intact! We’re shabbily urbane and suavely decrepit with the Sunday Times in a shopping cart, maybe a cute little dog – “Lunch at Boulud?” I ask in my fantasy, as we shuffle along, back to our elevator building.

We watched: Better Call Saul Season 3. Orange Is The New Black. Long Strange Trip, the Grateful Dead documentary. Nashville, living for each new episode. Broadchurch the same.

I read: Love and Trouble, Claire Dederer’s spot-on memoir of growing up a randy girl. I didn’t just read it, I crawled in her head or she poked around in mine. David Browne’s Grateful Dead book. James Salter’s Burning the Days. At our local cafe the HiLo, that has become an extension of our living room we love hanging out there so much, I’m making my way through a tiny old copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, a book I loved in the past. It’s this edition, from the communal bookrack in this place I’m enjoying, as I picked up a pristine copy in the bookstore the other day and it held no interest. I’m praying nobody pockets the book, though I know how it ends.

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I was drinking coffee and writing in Moto, the Hudson coffee shop an extension of our kitchen, and nodding my head to the Turtles “You Showed Me” when it was wrenched off and a surface-pretty voice started singing “YOUNG and IN LOVE” over and over til I thought I would scream but there was something in the music and the way she said it that made me have to find out who it was. Lana Del Rey. I went in to work and put on the Turtles.

My two big destinations this summer – a new solo album and the book I’ve been working on for almost a decade (I found the notebooks from France when I was getting started for real, 2009) – actually came into view. Eric and I have spent days in the studio aiming to wrap up this recording of my songs we’ve had going for a few years. They are all hanging together and it feels like an album. The Old Guys is the title. And finally, it looks like I have a publisher for my book. I’m afraid to say anything more than that for now. The record I will put out myself early next year. I can see a beautiful star-filled sky on the horizon when I think of both of these things finished and out in the world.

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Two drafts and a proposal – sorry, trees.

It’s only late July though. Still on cruise.

Lightweight

Please, make it stop.

I am drowning.

I clearly thought I was better than I am.

Every week, I go further under, and I try but I just can’t get out from beneath this weight.

For years, I imagined what it would be like to be the person I find myself today,  and the sad fact is — that person is a fraud.

A pretender, someone who claimed to love reading, when really — all she wanted was a tote bag.

Okay, not just the tote bag. I wanted the apartment on the Upper West Side, the big sunglasses, the lox and bagels from Zabar’s. A short story now and then, or a restaurant review.

Not the crushing weight of constant analysis: political, cultural, moral. That’s right. I am not up to the task of being a subscriber to the New Yorker.

But I don’t have the heart to cancel my subscription.

Honey, remember how we always talked about moving to Northern California? Why don’t we just head out there, y’know — just…go?

Is it really worth it to do that change of address thing for the post office? I mean, how much mail do we really get anymore? We can probably find some nice people to sell the house to. This area is totally coming up. All kinds of people are looking for places to live around here, people like us. Ones who, y’know, read? Stuff like the New Yorker? That and the Greene County Examiner?

I feel better already. Just knowing I don’t have to chuckle knowingly at another cartoon. I mean, I could if I had to but — life is short and it’s kind of a relief knowing I’m not as clever as I thought I was.

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Love and Saint-Marcellin

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You’re on your way to Austin when you read that the state of Texas is suing the city of Austin for refusing to enforce the anti-sanctuary city bill. Remember that you put your finger on the map and said “I want to go here”.  Luck and timing aren’t really your strong suits.

*

You and Elizabeth McQueen who’s opening the Austin show sit in a happy hour bar and have a quick bite before playing. She’s forty, you’re fifty-eight. You talk about children, making music, what it’s like in Austin these days. She is closer to your daughter in age than she is to you.  You  remember when forty seemed like shouldn’t it be time to give this up? That’s when you moved to Nashville and realized you were only getting started. You still feel forty.

You need your glasses to: drive, read, look at your phone, read a menu, make sure your Instagram photos are actually in focus, string your guitar, check your makeup, put on your makeup. You’re not forty anymore.

*

You get off to a little bit of a rocky start in Austin, forgetting the words to a song you’ve sung hundreds of times. How come the audience is on your side? They are here for you. You wonder why you don’t play a gig every single day of your life.

*

After the first show, you open the calculator on your phone to add up the money in versus money out – how much you made from the gig and merch and will need to make on this trip vs. car rental, hotels, parking at Newark, gas. An amount comes up on the screen from the last time you closed up the bar after your Monday night shift and you think of how sometimes working those shifts you wish you were out doing gigs and now here you are, but doing the bar shift is so much simpler with no expectations or pressure – “let me make at least as much as a bar shift each night and anything else is gravy,” you decide.

*

The opener in a tiny room in a bar in San Antonio is a pretty young woman in Mexican dress who plays to a full room doing mariachi covers and Linda Ronstadt tunes. She’s sweet and has a beautiful voice but you just kind of wish she wasn’t there. When she introduces Poor Poor Pitiful Me as “another Linda Rondstadt song!” you caw from the corner of the room “It was written by Warren Zevon, not Linda Ronstadt! Know what you’re singing, it’s your job!” in the voice of an embittered crone. “I opened for him you know! He was kind. He’s dead now!” the crone shouts. Thankfully realize the voice is only in your head and you’re just patiently nodding along and smiling, up until the final song where she plays that Mexican standard Ay Ay Ay without a trace of irony. Resist the urge to start drinking. Have fun playing to a handful of fans and take the opportunity to play songs you don’t usually play and leave out the ones people always ask to hear.

*

Navigate the barbq ordering process in City Market in Luling – the restaurant part is big and bright with a counter but there’s a dark door that says ENTER HERE TO ORDER and there’s maybe a hint of flames and smoke back there but you’re a little afraid it’s all a big joke on first-timers and you’ll walk in to a broom closet while the whole restaurant laughs. Ask at the drinks counter and they say “Yes, go in there and order your meat.”

An old man in a snappy fedora and immaculate white shirt sits at a nearby table chatting with some strangers. “My wife says she’s giving up barbq,” he says as he munches on a sauce-laden rib. “Something on the news about carcinogens? I say for God’s sake we’ve all gotta die – let it be from something we love!” You’re half-sure the man is an actor hired by the barbq place, or the state of Texas.

*

After lunch, you see two men about the same size – one black and one white, the white one with a cowboy hat – carrying an antique table along the sidewalk. You try to figure out the story –  are they lovers, robbers – maybe you’ve watched too many episodes of Hap & Leonard?

Stroll on the shady side of the street and stop into the antique mall. You’re browsing the old linens and leopard-printed shoes and admiring a photo of a black gospel group in flashy outfits when you catch a glimpse of an older woman across the counter: she’s a little rough and weatherbeaten, like Thelma or Louise (whichever was the older one) a decade or two on – you realize you’re looking into a mirror.

The white man in the cowboy hat and the black guy come back in. The white guy looks like an older rancher. The black man is the proprietor of the antique mall. His wife appears from behind a rack of sequined costumes. You recognize her from the gospel group photo. “Is that your husband?” she asks, about the rancher who’s buying some chairs to go with the antique table.

*

Checking into the hotel in Houston, the desk clerk says “You don’t look anything like your photo” after you hand her your ID. That is your blessing and curse – where other people are apologetic about their bad driver’s license photo, even your worst ID picture looks more glamorous than you ever could in real life.

Still, you check the website of that night’s venue for the set time and see they’ve used a stock photo of a microphone instead of the picture you sent. Imagine this means they’re challenged at putting photos on their website and not afraid your photo is so offputting that it would literally repel customers who’d otherwise be interested in the show. But wonder all the same…

*

In some of the clubs, there are photos on the wall of all the performers who’ve played over the years. You see friends and musicians you admire; ones you’ve crossed paths with; a singer who quit your early band before she ever played a show with you and her head had to be cut out of the group photo and replaced with a different singer. You marvel at how many of these musicians are still hard at it, and how many are gone. You see your own face from twelve years ago, looking defiant. That’s how long it’s been since you toured solo. You’re not forty-six anymore.

*

It’s sweet how in every town, at least one or two people ask how’s Eric. You tell them he’s in Leeds, or Leicester. But he’s with you too because – when you’re not playing, and even sometimes when you are, everything you experience you think how he would enjoy it, or not or what he would say.

*

There’s a piece of cheese you’ve been carrying in your bag since you left home – Saint-Marcellin from the fancy store in Hudson. You keep meaning to throw it away, but every time you look for a trash can you can’t find one. At the Airbnb in Austin you don’t want to be the guest who left an old piece of cheese in the bathroom wastebasket, so you carry it to the next place, and the one after that. You promise yourself NO MATTER WHAT – how late at night and hungry you get, YOU WILL NOT eat this cheese.

*

A workman in a high visibility vest comes into the club in the tiny town of Crockett – it’s an old feed store where Lightnin’ Hopkins played often – and asks if you play the blues. You don’t want him to think you’re going to sit down and pull out a bottleneck or start wailing soulfully, so you say no. During your set, you realize you do play a form of the blues, because so many of your songs are about life’s challenges. Maybe the situations are too mundane to merit soulful wailing, but they’re real. The workman is probably home asleep in front of the TV.

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*

Finally find a trash can in Crockett and dump the cheese.

*

Your friend Scott gave you a stack of CDs to listen to. It feels almost nostalgic now, CDs. You pop in the Continental Drifters, it’s a collection of covers you heard them sing a dozen times and haven’t heard in years. Driving the back roads towards Dallas, you sing along with Peter, Susan and Vicky; Robert, Mark, Carlo or Russ. You’re in the Cowsills, the Bangles, the dBs; Hollies, Flying Burrito Bros and Fairport Convention all at once. You’re a Drifter too.

*

Stay in the Belmont Hotel after your Dallas show.  It’s deco splendor on a cliff overlooking the city. You go for a swim in the Mexican-tiled pool on Mother’s Day morning, the sky a deep blue and no humidity –  you feel like the richest woman in Dallas

Realize you were treated with respect and appreciation by every place you played on this trip – you are the richest woman in Dallas.

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You’d thought it would be fun to stay at Austin Motel your last night, but the price has doubled from what you and Eric paid last year. You look on Hotwire and score a 4 1/2 star hotel cheap, the only catch is it’s outside of town. Fifteen minutes from downtown, you check into a mountainside villa of Italianate luxury and splendor, and wonder if the whole thing is a ruse, a kidnapping plot (by whom? for what?) as three male models help you out of your car. There are suits of armor in the lobby, ancient crests, fountains, marble and frescoes – and none of this existed two years ago. Because it’s Austin, everyone is super-friendly. You’re possibly the only guest in the hotel. When you come back late at night, your bed’s been turned down and your guitar has been carefully placed on a luggage rack. It’s a little creepy. But the sheets are incredible.

*

Your friend takes you to see Brian Wilson in Austin – not the first time you’ve seen him but you’re sitting twenty feet away from the man and his fabulous band and from the first notes of California Girls, you’re overwhelmed by love – for music, Brian, your friend Scott who brought you here, every player on the stage. You feel very lucky to be here. Al Jardine is right in front of you too, singing Wake the World and Add Some Music To Your Day, these are all songs from records you listen to endlessly because they feel. so. good. Blondie Chaplin comes out and he is music. Seeing a show in Austin, like playing one, is a pleasure. Damn it, no matter how much it grows you still love the place.

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No matter how little it makes sense, and you think you should do something else, you still love music most.

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