SMALL IN ALASKA, 5/02

It's hard to believe only a few weeks ago I was playing in the town of Soldotna on the Kenai Peninsula of Alaska. I'd be dishonest if I didn't mention that I performed in the senior citizen's center, but don't let that spoil the illusion. Alaska made a huge impression on me. I'm pretty sure I only made a tiny dent on it, but a girl's got to start somewhere.

I set out from Nashville feeling a little nervous, not quite knowing what to expect up and over...there. Yes, I'd gotten out my atlas, several times, and even read Joe McGinnis' sensationally entertaining book "Going To Extremes." Part of my trepidation had to do with flying Northwest, the airline probably most equipped to deal with violent passengers since they frequently cancel flights for no apparent reason. Thankfully the flight to Minneapolis was uneventful. Funny, how the anonymous group waiting at the connecting flight gate would become familiar to me during my few days in Anchorage. At times it resembled a low-budget movie with a gorgeous painted backdrop and the same twenty extras who kept appearing in every other shot. The guy I sat next to on the plane popped up later in Humpy's Restaurant AND behind the Avis counter downtown and the three women with perms and parkas waiting on line in the airport restroom appeared again and again, sometimes crossing a parking lot on the corner of 4th Ave., occasionally emerging from a bookstore on the other side of town.

Mundane details aside, the sight of the mountains as we flew over Alaska had me hyperventilating. I hadn't expected the sun to shine so gloriously, with white still everywhere from what had been a record-breaking snowfall a week before. It was truly dazzling. And the small cast of characters couldn't have been nicer. My seatmate, Jeanne and her son Alan gave me a ride to my hotel along with a running commentary, including pointing out the 2-block long "bad part of town." The lobby of my humble Comfort Inn was filled with towering stuffed grizzlies, mooseheads and totems, and an attractive handyman who was the first indication that up here I would be falling in love every twenty minutes. The men just seem so...capable. Handyman was giving me some info on Anchorage and pointed out that behind the hotel you could catch salmon "about this big," as he spread his arms wide. "How big?" I asked just so he'd do it again, and he complied. "But," he shook his head sadly, "sometimes you get people down there." "Ah," I nodded, "...bodies." I may have spent a little too long living in Brooklyn, since he'd actually meant other people fishing and luckily either didn't hear or chose to ignore me.

I ate a steak downtown that night because it seemed like the Alaska thing to do, and then caught a cab back to the hotel. "How's business?" I asked the driver. "Looks pretty dead out there." "This is the busiest night I've had in weeks," he answered, "thanks to you." I gave him the biggest tip I could manage.

The drive next day to the Kenai Peninsula was breathtaking, with mountains and water on all sides. It was hard to keep the car on the road as I swiveled my head constantly, trying to take it all in. Eventually the neck twisting became a little more frantic as I gawked at the sights and searched for a bathroom at the same time. Holding out for something slightly better than a frozen Portajohn, I distracted myself pondering how there could be so many ski tracks high up on the mountains without a single chairlift or skier in sight. I became convinced it was some sort of elaborate set dressing technique, until the locals cleared it up for me - helicopters. These people are serious about their outdoor activities.

In Soldotna I played for a mixed crowd of locals in said senior center, aware of the lack of alcohol as each song seemed to contain at least one reference to drinking. For some reason I'd thought there'd be a constant flow of beer in Alaska, to numb the pain. These people aren't in pain, they're in love! Everything else seems secondary to their connection to this place they've all, in most cases, chosen to be. My confusion, crossed with profound alienation and actual thirst, must have made an impression as the next thing I knew someone was handing me a Starbucks cup filled with foamy "latte" that tasted suspiciously like a Heineken.

After the gig a bunch of folks repaired to the friendly bar in town, after the bartender at the unfriendly bar decided she didn't want to serve anyone else that night - it was not yet 11 PM on a Friday. In my left ear a guy expressed repeatedly how the Exxon oil spill was one of the best things to ever happen to Alaska, really (perhaps one of the worst pickup lines ever), while a guy at my right worried about the soon to be decided on bill that could allow drilling in Alaska's Arctic wildlife refuge. I cast my vote with wildlife guy, at least for one more round of drinks. I knew I'd need my wits to find my way to the promoter's house deep in the woods.

I made it with the help of the moon and Francoise Hardy and spent the night in a cozy trailer, waking up early with hopes of seeing a moose silhouetted on the window blind. They prime you up here for seeing moose until they seem positively mythological. The Moose Crossing signs on the highway terrified me - what if a moose jumped out of the bushes? I wouldn't know how to act. When I finally did catch a glimpse of one he was chewing away on a dried-out bush, looking bored. He probably gets tired of being trotted out to impress every visitor.

Back in Anchorage I played in a dignified hall with the newly dapper and deeply hilarious Todd Snider. It was great fun, as was hanging out in a local bar later that night, shooting pool with high school teachers, female hockey players and half the staff of the Anchorage Daily News.

Spent my Sunday off sightseeing with Pat and Karen Murphy, sibling and husband of a friend "outside." Part of my Alaska experience was going to a huge outdoors superstore where I got a flannel sleepsack to protect myself from the slippery slopes of some cheaper motels' polyester sheets. I strapped on snowshoes and did some walking, learned about breakup in every slush-filled parking lot and even caught a glimpse of Mt. McKinley over 200 miles away. That night I went to the movies with promoter Mike McCormick and family. "The Rookie" was exactly what I'd hoped it would be, all sentiment and Dennis Quaid either grinning mischievously or glowering fiercely at the catcher before throwing a pitch. When I heard Duane Jarvis singing "There Is A Light" on the soundtrack during the victory ride through town, I could barely restrain myself from standing up and shouting "Yay DJ!! Dreams do come true!"

But my Alaska dream was already drawing to a close, with only one more day to take it all in and one more show to play. I took a walk in the state park near the McCormick's house and the path was pristine and deserted. There was one moment where I thought I was about to cross paths with a large black bear, but it turned out to be woman in a long dark coat and hat. And here I thought I was the only inappropriately dressed hiker. I walked on the frozen river near where the annual Iditarod dog sled race is run and it was absolutely silent and one of the most peaceful moments of my life. What can I say, it's hard to feel real excited about playing in a coffeehouse after being at one with nature. But that's what I did in Palmer that night, with a plate glass window behind me and light still pouring in at 10 PM. And a girl right near the stage criticizing my footwear before the second song ("Eww, those boots are so POINTY!"). Of course I tried to laugh it off and tell her the numbness was actually a comfort to me, but I couldn't help but feel like I just wasn't connecting with people. Except of course for the funny crappy relationship songs because those always go over. A mention of I-95 seemed to stir up long forgotten feelings of rage and futility in some of the crowd, and the song I'd written two days before in Soldotna helped some, especially having an adorably solemn 10-year old boy hold the lyrics up for me. And Todd was a treat, and couldn't have been nicer. But sometimes a gig is just another gig, even if it is in Alaska. And hell, it was the gig that got me here, so I ain't knocking it. I sold some CD's, drank some beer, and even contemplated sending for the rest of my stuff, and my daughter, and never leaving. Only a masochist could live in a place like this. I think I'm in love again...

[I saw a sign in Soldotna advertising "Adult Breakup Boots $12.99" and decided that was one type of footwear I could really use in my life. The next morning I woke up and wrote this song:]

Breakup Boots (A. Rigby)

I'm wading in and I don't like it

But it's that time of year again

Yes it's April coming round

When it all starts melting down

And there's nothing I can do to stop it happening

Most of the time I'm well-protected

I move along from day to day

But the winter was so raw

I'm a victim of the thaw

And I'm gonna have to get myself through this some way

So I'm putting on my breakup boots, I'm putting on my breakup boots

Where is the sympathy I need right now?

I look around, I don't get none

I guess everybody deals

With the way that losing feels

When it's over and it almost hurts to see the sun

So I'll go out, I'll act like this is good

I know the seasons gotta change

And I'll hold my head up high

Cause it's way too wet to cry

Hey I'll be alright but I might look a little strange

Cause I'm putting on my breakup boots, I'm putting on my breakup boots

Amy