Sorry Charlie, 11/02

There's a dead cat in front of my house that the city promised to remove days ago. But the leaves keep falling, and soon they may not be able to find him. I got scolded by the orthodontist today for not wearing my, rather, my daughter hasn't been wearing her headgear. I didn't realize having braces was sort of like being in the Mafia - once you're in you can't get out and your children must follow. I went to see one of my favorite singer/songwriters last night and a quarter of the audience was drunk (while the other three of us were working on it). I constantly fight the urge to take a nap, and when I give in a telemarketer inevitably times the call to catch me at my most guilty and disoriented. I stop myself from screaming into the phone by remembering that a telemarketing position could be in my future since I'm done touring for the moment and DON'T HAVE A JOB! I remark to a gainfully employed friend that I wake up depressed, directionless and at loose ends since I came home from my travels. He replies, "That's how I start every single day of my life.

Don't believe anyone who tells you how hard it is out on the road. Being home is much harder. I think the majority of itinerant musicians want to keep this a secret, because once everybody knows what's "out there" there'll be no "back home" left to go to. Of course that's easy to say now, from the comfort and privacy of my own room. Even the most insanely demeaning, truly vexing or merely pointless moments of the past few months start to glow heroically when the biggest risk I face here is whether to trust the date on the pork chops at Kroger. Let me catalogue a few now, to stave off this insane longing to go out and do it all again. (I'll even include some of the good times - when it's all over it can be tough to tell the difference.)

St. Louis - Beware any "women in rock" night. Though I thoroughly enjoy the harmonies and songs of Slim, the local band who play first, the sound man (after dissing the slightly competent guy who used to work there) proves himself to be 100% incompetent by mixing my lone guitar and voice to the accompaniment of squealing feedback. He tries to compensate by muting my guitar every time I stop playing for even a second. I guess I could put a positive spin on it here and tell you the audience is supportive, and it's true - they're nodding (yes, let's kill this guy behind the mixing board) and clapping (their hands over their ears, to ease the pain). When it's mercifully over, just to show there are no hard feelings Mr. Genius hands me a recording of the night's show "no charge." I smile as I accept his gift, eagerly anticipating the moment when I'll fling it onto a moonlit highway at eighty miles an hour.

Glenfarg - I'm playing in the cozy bar of the historic and charming Bein Inn for eight eager fans and three obnoxious idiots. Guess who's sitting closest to the stage? Photos of Mick Jagger, Jeff Beck and Paul Rodgers in their prime look down as if to mock my career choice.

Glasgow - A cab ride from (or to?) hell when a possibly inebriated cabbie picks me up and cranks the volume of some innocuous-sounding folk music to an earsplitting level, the lyrics transforming into s&m-related smut with a pounding Celtic backbeat. Lights flash on and off inside the taxi while he whips around corners like a maniac, leering at me in the rear view mirror. I'm convinced I'm staring into the face of Satan, and that he has a Scottish accent, when suddenly we reach our destination, the lights and music disappear and he kindly wishes me a pleasant evening.

London - Jon Graboff and I duck into a promising Chinese restaurant in Soho before the gig at Borderline. But a lack of time and an unpleasantly pushy waiter lead us to order something tasteless and unappealing. A group of French people sit down nearby and ask for help in ordering. I try, in pathetic French, to dissuade them from getting the sorry mess we're eating but they keep pointing and gesturing as if it's the only thing they'll be happy with. We leave, feeling a touch of pity for them (and ourselves) mixed with admiration at the English's ability to get back at all of us so underhandedly.

Edinburgh to Hull - I ask a businessman on the train platform in Doncaster if this is where I catch the train to Hull. He laughs in my face, then asks what am I going there for? I laugh back and ponder the same question. Then remember that I grew up in Pittsburgh.

Stirling - They say this jailhouse-turned-venue is haunted. I'm playing solo when suddenly an electric guitar wails alongside me for a brief moment, in tune, then disappears. The whole audience hears it. No one is able to explain what happened!

Glasgow - I spend a Sunday afternoon in a ratty flea market, enjoying the sound of Glaswegian voices around me punctuated by occasional cheers from surrounding pubs - football is on. That night I open a show for Lucy Kaplansky in a beautiful old church that actually serves alcohol! The sound, the audience and my outfit are perfect. Amen.

Glasgow to Dublin - A friend is driving me to the airport at 6 AM so I can catch a Ryan Air flight to Dublin. He remarks, "Good thing you're not flying out of Prestwick." Next thing I know I'm on a train hurtling towards Prestwick, where I miss my flight by ten minutes. The next flight to Dublin is in 6 hours. I console myself in the Graceland bar, the only spot in the UK Elvis ever set foot. My last few hours in wonderful Scotland are spent curled up on a bench in an unsightly smoking lounge - at least the air is warm there. When it's finally time to leave, the people waiting for the Dublin flight consist of still inebriated football stragglers from a big match the previous day and an Irish step dancing team. The young step dancers can't control their feet, breaking into spirited routines at the newstand, in the ladies room and across the jetway as we board the plane. I've never been to Ireland before and this makes me a little nervous...

Dublin to Atlanta - I board my flight back home to the States and am instructed to stow my guitar in a closet in first class. I go back to my coach seat, and a little later one of the flight attendants comes up to me very excited. "Are you the lady with the guitar?" she asks. I nod, expecting her to tell me they had to leave it back at the airport or something. "Our steward in first class is SO excited to have you on board," she gushes. "He's been bragging to everybody that you're with us today!" I sit taller in my seat. "R-really?" I stammer, thinking that perhaps word of my fantastic show in Dublin last night has spread throughout the country. "I have to get one of your CD's, can you tell me what exactly you sound like?" I start telling her about my songs, certain that she, being about my age and a possible creative type, will relate. Soon another flight attendant is rushing back to us, beaming. "Is that her?!" she demands of her co-worker. "What's your name again?" she asks me. "Amy Rigby," I say, with a small touch of pride. "No - that's not her," she practically snorts with annoyance, and they both turn and leave me with my mouth hanging open. Turns out one of the Eurovision song contest winners is also on the flight. The next thing any of the flight attendants says to me is, "We're all out of chicken so you'll have to have pasta.

Newport, KY - I'm about to get in the car with my 14 year old daughter to drive up to Cincinnati to open a Todd Snider show. The promoter calls, frantic, to tell me Todd is sick - what do I think he should do? I agree to come anyway and play for whoever doesn't want their money back, though this thought makes ME sick. People stay, I play, it's a fun night.

L.A. to Seattle - Duane Jarvis and I play seven shows in seven nights. What's that thing I've learned to say since moving to Nashville, where failure is not the great conversation starter it was back in NY? "The people who came really had a great time."

Berkeley - I'm finding Wreckless Eric's "Whole Wide World" to be a turning point in many shows lately - the power of a two-chord song! At Starry Plough a chaotic-looking guy is so enthused that he jumps up to sing with me and sounds incredibly in command. He gives me a toy motor and odd illustrated book when the night is over.

Seattle - I have a hard time shaking off the discouraged feeling brought on by last night's show in Portland where we played to a tiny audience, half of them other bands waiting to set up for their (completely unrelated) show. I'd like to say it's passion, but it's really frustration that causes me to break string after string tonight. Still, the kind soundman, bartender and patrons are happy I'm here. It'd be easier not to care. I wanted to be here too, but now I want to go home. Afterwards in a piano bar called Sorry Charlie's, Duane and I sing "That's Life" along with the man behind the keyboard. It's just us, and him, but we all put something into it and maybe it's the bourbon but I suddenly feel fine. "Sorry, Charlie...only the freshest tasting tuna get to be called Chicken Of The Sea." Then there's the rest of us.

 

Amy