Slim Jims, Dunking Chairs and Scuppernong Wine

My New Year began with a trip to the Northeast. It felt good to be back in my old apartment on Grand Street in Brooklyn, rehearsing with stylish NY cohorts Joe McGinty and Jon Graboff as well as multi-talented Pat Sansone and always-adaptable Paul Griffith. Joe hosted me at his Piano Parlour at Pete’s Candy Store in bustling Williamsburg (I remember when we used to skirmish with the surly, shady former owner over the price of a bag of pretzels - the place is now an adorable hipster hangout with a refreshing lack of attitude). The next day we carpooled up to Killington, Vermont, with Joe and Jon reaching the Canadian border before they realized they’d missed the turnoff. They joined us at the bustling ski resort eventually, where we did our best to entertain the less-than-demanding vacationers. This stop culminated with the janitor asking me for an autographed poster to hang on his trailer wall.

Northampton was a little tonier, and I hid my sheepskin coat in the trunk for fear of animal rights activists (of course the thing’s so old the sheep would be dead by now anyway, perhaps there’s a statute of limitations on these things). After stopping in at the sparkling new studio of one of my favorite radio stations, WRSI, I entered the dressing room at the Iron Horse to find it looking more old folks infirmary than dionysian diorama, with band members stretched out on couches sipping tea to fight the symptoms of a nasty flu. The crowd and the show was wonderful, with the great Mary Lou Lord performing a solo set and joining us for a song, but I drove back to NYC with several feverish band members in tow...

These seasoned yet fresh-faced professionals managed to pull themselves together for our show at the Village Underground. Mary Lee’s Corvette were wonderful as usual, Syd Straw was her charming, confounding and amusing self and my band and I played a darned good set that left us all gasping for air. The gasping continued when they started letting in the crowd for the Brazilian dance club that they turn this place into at midnight. Now that my daughter is nearing adolescence I can’t help but feel a strange mixture of protectiveness, envy, nostalgia and admiration when I see young women turned out in tube tops, tiny miniskirts and high heels. The guys’ reactions are much less complicated - they just gawk. The heavy breathing turned into a full-on death rattle when I went to get my car out of the West Village parking lot next door and suddenly remembered why I don’t live here anymore! I should’ve known how badly I was about to be overcharged when the guy in front of me lunged at the cashier’s booth and practically broke through the protective plexiglass while an audience gathered, laughing and cheering. Oh how I miss it all.

The next foray was to Texas with Duane Jarvis. We stopped in Little Rock at Sticky Fingerz Chicken Shack, an ersatz House of Blues (and since HOB has appropriated an entire sensibility I guess its only fair that they be ripped off in return) which was actually a really fun place to play. Duane worked out the kinks with his power trio including Paul and Raleigh, NC’s own Danny Kurtz and then all three of them joined me. Sometimes it can be a little disorienting, playing with a new combo every time I leave the house but I’m lucky to know so many great musicians. Each band has its own feel and this one was particularly fun in a garage-y way. We headed to Texas the next day, where a contretemps at a bar-b-q shack had me a little worried. Things started off badly when the harried counter attendant (that microwave was all the way on the other side of the kitchen) addressed Dan as “Ma’am”. DJ faced off against her over the fluctuating price of french fries and she reached for the phone. Someone in the growing line of curious locals mentioned Florida recounts and I half-expected Walker Texas Ranger to stride in. We got out of there with the correct change and hurried on to Houston.

A friendly crowd greeted us at the Mucky Duck including several older folks who seemed to like the rockers best. Next day we got to Dallas just in time to tape a Yahoo! concert. This was a professional operation w/several different cameras, real sound men (of course I realized too late how close those cameras were going to get - I should’ve put some make-up on! God sometimes I wish I was a man...) Some of Dallas’ most discerning music fans came out to the Gypsy Tea Room that night, including Bucks Burnett and comedy-man Pat Reeder - as well as our host, the indefatigable Mike Snider. Next stop was Austin, for a great show at the Saxon Pub. What fun to play Austin when it’s not South by Southwest. Here were all those gentle, smiling faces they show during Austin City Limits (rather than the haggard, world-weary conference crowd)! The audience included some of the town’s great musicians: Lisa Mednick, Kevin Carroll, Gurf Morlix, Ray Wylie Hubbard, David Holt - which made me especially proud. Can’t wait to go back to Texas...

Two days later I left Nashville for the West Coast feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders, literally. I am usually blessed with health and vigor so with even the slightest hint of neck and back pain I was reduced to a whimpering mess. Downing several extra-strength Tylenol on the plane, I arrived in San Diego fully expecting to (gingerly) tear off my winter garments and bask in the sunshine, but due to a freak cold spell was forced to layer on what little I’d brought in the way of warm clothes. Safe enough in my barely adequate rental car (no cup holders!) I set out to explore the city, my bohemian radar seeking out the hipster Mexican breakfast place and “transitional” section of downtown. I then found my way to Balboa Park which was incredibly beautiful with Spanish architecture and gorgeous palm trees. I could barely appreciate it as I was only able to turn my head about 20 degrees to each side. Coincidentally I crossed a very pretty bridge to see a large banner hanging directly overhead that read “TORTURE” (through the ages). I made a plan to return the next day, and did a slightly shaky but fun set at The Casbah with Tony Gilkyson, Kip Boardman and Alex LoCascio. I felt practically like Chuck Berry with my band of L.A. ringers joining me, although I saw no cash til after the show!

With visions of impalers, gougers and dunking chairs in my head I set out for L.A. I met up with my old friend Roger Trilling and we had a great time shopping for tangerines and pistachios at the tiny farmer’s market in South Pasadena. I headed over to Spaceland for my soundcheck and show and felt almost at home, possibly the first time I’ve had that feeling at an L.A. club. It was a good show and over way too fast (see review here)! I had the next day to spend driving around one of my favorite cities. I called Bob Neuwirth for sage advice and took in “The Pledge” at a Santa Monica movie theatre, saw Tammy Faye Starlight at the Knitting Factory and ate great Chinese food in the real Chinatown. My neck was almost back to normal at this point - for as little as I try to care an L.A. show is always cause for stress.

Next day I drove up to Berkeley. The bill at the Starry Plough was a “Vagina Monologues” of sorts with Tina (of the B-Sides) and the cool Penelope Houston also on the bill. Tina brought the house down with a very un-ironic “Take A Little Piece Of My Heart” and Penelope’s songs and presence were even more than I’d expected from this punk rock icon. She had a veritable kiosk of girl music for sale, which she does at every show and also online at penelope.net. It was really an honor to meet her and I have so enjoyed listening to her albums which are filled with wickedly adult songs. I played what was my first solo show in quite a while, and the audience was very kind and supportive. I broke a string during my final song, a cover of Kirsty Macoll’s “They Don’t Know” and was urged to finish acapella, which I did - feeling for a second like Kirsty herself was actually giving me the nerve to do something I’ve always been terrified of.

I hightailed it back down the 5 to Joshua Tree, stopping off in Old Pasadena for a little stroll and to try on some Prada shoes at the classic art deco Saks (I wonder if they’re still there...they were sooo marked down...I swear they would’ve gone with everything I own). I got to the desert as the sun went down and the stars came out and it was like arriving on another planet. I checked into the Joshua Tree Inn and loved my cozy little room, it was only later that I learned it was Gram Parsons’. I played a casual set for some lovable desert characters at Jeremy’s Beatnik Cafe and then returned to the Inn. I sat quietly for a little while and next thing I knew, though I tried to stop myself I was taking my guitar out of its case and strumming and singing “Hickory Wind,” a scenario doubtlessly played out every night in this very spot (night manager to wife, “Yep, must be about midnight. They’re playing “Hickory Wind” in Room 6.”) Afterwards, I slept the sleep of the innocent and the just (for once). Woke up wondering where the hell I was.

As hard as it was to leave this very seductive place I found myself back in the car, heading up the 5 to San Francisco. It’s scary when you start recognizing the clerks at convenience stores along the highway. Fueled by Subway and the Bakersfield AM radio station I pressed on through some very heavy rain. As the country station faded out it was one talk show after another, with all the discussions centered around “Hannibal” - amazing how shifts in the zeitgeist happen so quickly, hell the movie had only opened 3 days before and it was already a national phenomenon? I shuddered at how even cannibalism could become just one more canned marketing mechanism.

I spent the next afternoon with my pal Ruthie, driving down the coast past Santa Cruz to the town of Watsonville and KPIG radio station. It was fun playing and chatting on the air, and the seasoned hosts stunned me by pulling out an old Marshall Chapman album with a song called “Rode Hard and Put Up Wet”! They then cross referenced this with an incredible piece of music called “Broomstraw Philosophers and Scuppernong Wine” by one Larry John Wilson, who I gather is still kicking around Nashville and who I intend to hear the next time I come across his name in the paper. He’s been rode hard, too...We gaped at an incredible sunset all the way back up to San Francisco. I played nothin’ but love songs at Cafe du Nord that night (with Ruthie joining me for her public singing debut on “Let Me In A Little Bit”) and enjoyed hearing Rico Bell and his Snake Handlers and drinking cocktails with Mike DeCapite.

My flight to Seattle the next day included incredible views of Mt. Shasta and pretty much the whole of northern California. As I drove my new, improved rental car towards Vancouver they were closing the 5 north of Seattle due to a bomb scare. By the time I’d downed a burger and fries at Petosa’s family restaurant things were moving again and I crossed the border without a hitch. Vancouver was all I’d heard it to be, with incredibly fresh, cheap sushi in plentiful supply. I retired to my room to watch the Barbra Streisand special, thinking it might be healthy to overdose on showbiz schmaltz before I faced the unadorned earnestness of Folk Alliance.

Next morning I followed a sea of Guatemalan cloth to the Hyatt Hotel. This was the rare conference where I felt well-groomed in relation to the rest of the attendees. The momentum built throughout the day as handbills for unofficial showcases gradually covered every square inch of conference center wall, stairwell and elevator. Not really sure what the criteria was at this thing for judging what’s worthy of the “folk seal of approval” I definitely felt out of my element. Nobody here cared that I’d seen the Clash’s first U.S. concert, or once had beer spilled on me by Nick Tosches. I did my best to give off a friendly “gee, I’ve never been to Kerrville but not for lack of trying” vibe but the relentless fiddle reels and enthusiastic jamming in every stairwell sent me back to my humble room for a Backstreet Boys video fix. Upon my return to the Hyatt things were getting ugly at the elevators. There just weren’t enough to transport us all to the showcases above. A “last train out of Krakow” feeling prevailed as I shoved my way into a stuffed car, made much worse by the fact that most of us had some sort of instrument strapped to our bodies. I think there was a double bass as well. Of course there was room for one more as a smiling man with a Taylor guitar strapped high on his chest burst in at the last moment and began chopping chords and singing “Sir Duke”, fully expecting all of us to join in. Okay, so I sang. It was just...easier that way.

But I finally saw Todd Snider and it was a thrill. I heard one of my favorites, Jimmy LaFave (the room was too crowded to see him) and old pal Troy Campbell Young. Had a great Thai dinner with a nice group of people and played for a small but appreciative audience. The night ended with Greg Trooper and Eric Taylor and I swapping songs and passing around a bottle of red wine with some bearded Russians. Next morning I woke up with a hangover and a slightly deeper understanding of Phil Ochs’ gold lame suit...

When the guard at the border crossing posed the question, “Are you bringing anything back from Canada?” I had to think for a moment. I wasn’t sorry I’d showed up at Folk Alliance. But its charms and uses were lost on me...at least until next year!

The next few days were a car-free blur. The idea to ditch my rental Miata in Seattle was born out of economic necessity (Northwest and Northeast car rental prices are criminally high) but I found sitting back and letting someone else drive and therefore control my destiny for a short time to be a relief. I had fun at Sunset Tavern in Seattle and a string-breaking extravaganza at St. John’s Pub in Portland. Insulted a Southern woman on the 6 AM airport shuttle (Me: “Gosh, Atlanta just doesn’t have much to look at in the way of history anymore, does it?” She, icily: “Maybe that’s because you Yankees burned it to the ground.” Oops.) Sat next to a large man on the plane who ogled my Marie Claire magazine as if he’d just been released from prison. The second leg of the trip my hefty seatmates dipped Slim Jims in soft cheese and fed them to each other. Sadly, that’s going to put me off beef jerky for a long time!

To be continued..

Amy