Nov. 16, 2002
The Great Touring Adventure
Last weekend, I went on tour. Well, I say "on tour." If you're picturing a romantic cross-country journey of adventure and self-discovery, I'm afraid you might be disappointed to learn that, for a girl with a day job, "on tour" means a couple of days off work in which to attempt to conquer the following picturesque American cities: Hickory, NC, Columbia, SC and Charleston, SC.
But hey, I'm always up for adventure, and a couple of days off work is a worthy pursuit in and of itself, so I hit the road on Thursday for Hickory, NC looking forward to playing a couple of shows and, with any luck, appearing in a publication or two and guesting on a local radio show. What they call, in professional singer/songwriter lingo, "establishing a regional presence." (You are supposed to establish a local presence first, but hey, the wind's in my hair, and I'm breakin' all the rules!)
On my way up the interstate, I stop to take a picture of my favorite billboard of all time. Every time I see it, I think, Man, I want a picture of that! So this time I've remembered my camera, and I pull over and put my hazards on just real quick-like to get my shot. Partly it's for Kenny because he has a thing for this ostrich he met at the GA Renaissance Festival (don't ask).
As I'm running back to the car, I see another car pulling over in front of me, and it's a nice guy just checking to make sure I'm OK. I feel really stupid explaining that I just stopped to take a picture of a billboard. He laughs and says, "OK, well, better safe than sorry!" I thank him profusely for stopping, since I do truly appreciate the sentiment.
The Hickory show is awesome. I play at this cool coffeehouse called Drips' where the owner, Chris, is a music lover, a musician himself, and a really nice guy. There were lots of people there (shout-outs to my Hickory homies! Yo, Dan, yo, Chuck, yo, Steven, yo Loch!), and they actually listened and engaged me in lively conversation about music during the break, and that always makes for a good night. I sold a couple of CD's, made good tips, and Chris gave me a free sandwich. All in all, what more can one ask?
Wait, I have an answer to that question. When playing in Hickory, NC, what one can ask is a place to stay that is also in Hickory, NC. But my place to stay was in Asheville, NC, an hour or so away. But hey, no big deal! Part of the adventure! I'd slept nice and late Thursday morning in the hopes that my schedule would be magically flipped to "road time" and I'd be all energized at night. But, truth be told, I've never been much for night driving, no matter how alert I think I am, and I'm always really tired after I play. Still, the drive wasn't too bad (I didn't hit any deer, at least, and I made it through the fog without driving off the side of a mountain), and I made it to Dawn's house by 1:00 a.m. Dawn was so sweet for letting me stay with her, and it was a relief to hit the sack. However, my sleep was short-lived because I had a radio appearance to get to at 8:00 the next morning - in Columbia, SC, which is two hours away from Hickory.
So, after a relaxing four hours of sleep, I hit the highway, bound for glory. (I love that expression, "bound for glory." On the trains in Atlanta, when you get on, a loudspeaker announcement says, "This train is bound for Dunwoody. This is a Dunwoody train." Or wherever it's headed, you know. Only there's a pause between "bound for" and the name of the station, and I always think "for glory" in my head, without even meaning to. It kind of makes me feel like I might be as crazy as the woman who gets on the train in Decatur and gets off at Five Points and preaches the Word of the Lord and says that she can't wait to get to heaven and have sex with Jesus, but on the other hand, it's a simple thing, and it makes me smile, so I think it's probably OK.)
At 6:00 a.m. I realize I need gas and pull into a BP that isn't open yet. I figure I'll just use my bank card and pay at the pump. As I'm doing this, another car pulls into the gas station. It makes me a little jumpy since it's still pitch dark. A man gets out of the car and says, "Hello!" and I get jumpier. It is never a good sign when a total stranger wants to strike up a conversation at a gas station. Sure enough, he starts telling me that he's on his way to Charlotte and that he doesn't have enough money to make it the whole way and that all he needs is to make it to Charlotte, that's all he needs. He actually sounds rational enough and seems very nice, and I guess I'm feeling generous 'cause I hand him a $10 bill, which should be enough to get him to Charlotte. He thanks me very effusively. I tell him I know what it's like to be stranded on the road, that I'm on the road a lot because I'm a musician. Not only is this an exaggeration, as you all know, it is a huge mistake because it inspires this guy to tell me that he is from Minneapolis and is distantly related to Prince. As he begins singing "Kiss" and dancing by the gas pump, he no longer seems so normal and sane, and I get seriously wigged. Still running on four hours of sleep and still in what feels like the middle of the night, I hurriedly disengage the gas pump from my car and get the hell out of there. As I'm headed back to the highway, suddenly a car drives up behind me, flashing its lights for me to pull over. I realize it's the same guy from the gas station, and I get really wigged! I get onto the highway and leave him behind.
When the sun finally comes up, I look into my sideview mirror and realize that my gas tank flap is open, that my gas cap is most likely gone, and that the only reason that guy was trying to get me to pull over was to give it back to me. Oops. I feel bad that I thought he was crazy and just wanted to sing to me some more.
When I get to Columbia, I follow the directions across the campus of USC to the radio station and immediately know something is not right. The show that is being broadcast into the waiting room from the DJ booth is not Americana, nor is it anything remotely singer/songwriter-ish. It is two college kids doing a parody of an advice show in which they answer every question with either "I think you should kill yourself" or "I think you should jump naked off the Empire State Building." I think to myself that if there is a frat boy anywhere on campus who's awake at 8:00 a.m. on a Friday morning, this is probably hilarious to him.
I wait for them to take a break, play a record or public service announcements or something, but it starts to look like that won't happen, so I go on into the booth and sit down. They give me the puzzled looks I'm expecting since clearly there has been some sort of mistake. When they finally do take a break to play a song, I ask them about the show I'm supposed to be on. A quick check of the schedule reveals that I am there on the wrong day. The show in question is actually Saturday mornings from 8:00 until 10:00. Great. So not only am I running on four hours of sleep, I will have to get up early the next morning and do it all again.
I will feel like an idiot later, but right now, I just need some sleep. I ask the DJ's whether there are any comfortable couches on campus, but they don't seem very knowledgeable on the subject of campus napping, so I strike out on my own in search of an appropriate quiet corner. The student center is a bust, and so is the cafeteria (well, OK, I wasn't really expecting a couch in the cafeteria, but there was a little lounge section that looked promising), but as I pass the library, I think, Well, at least I can find a study nook and sleep with my head on a desk. But there are couches! Bonus! I'm self-conscious and a little paranoid since I'm not really a student (although I figure I look like one with my Powerpuff Girls backpack and a guitar), but the couches are sort of tucked in a corner, so I sort of set up camp and try to look nonchalant. I decide to read my book for a bit and then fall asleep so it'll look more natural. (Who am I doing this for? Who do I think is watching me? Do I really think security is going to come over and ask me to leave? None of this is clear, but do remember that I've only had four hours of sleep.) I barely get the book open before I'm fast asleep. It's not great sleep, though, because every time someone coughs or drops a book or creaks a desk or walks across the floor, I jerk awake, positive that I'm about to be evicted from my nap. But despite the interruptions in my sleep cycle, I manage to get a good three hour nap before I wake up, amused to find that there is a student (or possibly an imposter like myself) asleep on the couch opposite mine. After a quick backpack search at the door, I'm on my way back to my car, which luckily doesn't have a ticket on the windshield even though I've been parked longer than the two hours I've paid the meter for. I'm still awfully sleepy, and it's raining. Just like it has been every day in Atlanta for a solid month. Just great.
Here I will tell you the secret about touring. The secret most non-musicians don't know about touring is that it's often actually quite boring. You're in a strange town, you don't know anyone, you don't know what there is to do, and you have an entire day to kill. Now, me, I usually like to just park downtown and check out the city. Walk around, window shop, find a nice place to sit and play guitar for a while, maybe buy a snack. But today it's raining. So clearly, the answer is to find a nice-looking coffee shop, the kind of place where they don't mind someone hanging out for a few hours just reading a book with a cup of hot chocolate, preferably with lunch options for later. So I drive around the maze of one-way downtown streets for a while until I find a little bagel shop. Perfect! I find a parking spot and put some change in the meter (total spent on parking so far: $2.50). I get some hot chocolate and set up at a back table with my book (White Teeth by Zadie Smith, if you're curious, which has gotten great reviews but which I don't like that much), proceeding to kill a good four hours in the Carolina Bagel Company.
I finally leave the bagel place when my head gets so heavy that I keep falling asleep on my book. I decide to go find the venue, just so I'll know where I'm going when it's time to do my show. (Number of hours until show: six. But there's no harm in being prepared.) I do find it and think, Great, I've found it. Since I know it's the kind of coffee shop that has couches, I check to see if they're open, but no dice. Still plenty of time to kill. So I find a parking space that is free as long as you don't stay for more than an hour and settle down for another nap. It's not great sleep because I feel really exposed sleeping in the front seat of my car, and people are shouting to each other across the street, and cars honk occasionally, and I am afraid that a police officer will walk up to me at any moment and tell me to move it along and let an actual shopper have my parking space. But I am just so tired, and it's so rainy and dreary, and I just can't bear to even be alive, and I can't believe it's only 5:00 and my show isn't until 9:00.
Once I've rested a bit, I decide to drive some more, maybe get outside of downtown where the parking is free and buy a Coke somewhere, get some caffeine in my system for pepping-up purposes. I see a friendly-looking neighborhood bar in a strip mall and think it might be a good place to find a quiet corner, despite the fact that every car in the parking lot besides mine is a pick-up truck with a gun rack. I go inside, where it is much too dark to see people's faces, let alone to read, and the two men by the door immediately start snickering and elbowing each other in the ribs. I go back outside. I get back in the car.
As I continue down the road, I pass a music store. Score! It's called Bill's Pickin' Parlor and looks like a neighborhood hang-out for old-time bluegrass musicians. Double-score! I can go inside, look around, maybe hear some bluegrass. Unfortunately, it looks as though I'll have to wait: underneath the sign that says "Open at 6:00" is a handwritten amendment that says, "Back at 6:30." I settle back into my car and flip through the local entertainment paper, the Free Times. They've included a paragraph about my show and a picture, which makes me feel all famous and special. One by one, men with guitars arrive in trucks and stand outside the front door in the rain, waiting for, I presume, Bill. Bill does return eventually, and everyone goes inside. I look around (not much selection, actually) and buy a couple of guitar picks for, like, 25 cents. The guys pull out folding chairs and start tuning up; they all know each other, and there's a comfy vibe in the room. I go over to the corner where they are to listen for a while. One of the guys starts talking to me, asking me where I'm from, stuff like that. It comes up that I play a little but that I'm just here to listen. He says, "Oh, hey, a lot of us are beginners. Some of us are real good, but we learn from each other. You should grab your guitar and join us." It sounds fun enough (as long as nobody expects me to bust out an impressive guitar solo, I'm good for a jam), so I get my guitar and come back in, at which point the following conversation occurs:
Bill: Well, now, if you're going to play, I need to get a couple dollars from you.
Me: Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was an organized event. Here you go.
Bill: See, there's a sign right here. Two dollars for the jam.
Me: Sure, no problem. Here's two dollars. If it's not too much trouble, can I get a receipt?
Bill: No.
Me: (Waiting for laugh and "of course, no problem," which never comes)
Bill: I said, "No."
Me: I don't mean... I mean, it doesn't have to be from the cash register or anything. Just a note on a piece of paper is fine.
Bill: We don't give receipts here.
Me: Oh... (Pause) It's just, I'm a musician, I'm on tour, and if I can get a receipt, I can write this off on my taxes. You know?
Bill: (very agitated at this point) We don't give receipts here! You want a receipt, well, we don't give receipts, and that's that!
Me: OK, sorry. (I slink off towards the jam circle.)
Guy coming in the door behind me: (handing over two dollars) Hey, Bill!
Bill: You don't want a receipt for that, do you? Huh? You want a receipt?
(They both laugh, the kind of laugh that is not meant to indicate humor but is a strictly "putting someone in his/her place" laugh.)
I kind of want to leave after that; I definitely don't feel welcome. The friendly guy who told me to get my guitar has disappeared, and the only two guys playing have obviously been playing together a long time. One guy is "the voice" and the other guy is "the guitar," and they work very well together, playing old country songs. The voice guy really does have a great voice, kind of like Roy Orbison. I just listen and pick along, plunking out the chords: C,G,F,D. No surprises, nothing hard. So I'm not doing badly, and I'm not ruining the songs, but the two guys don't acknowledge me except to nod a brief "hello" when I sit down, and I get the distinct feeling, again, that I am not welcome here. I don't know why I'm not welcome, but it's clear that I'm not. Everyone in the building is over 50 and male, and they come here at least twice a week. These two guys clearly have a thing going between them. Am I interrupting? Is 6:30-7:00 "their" time? Do they disapprove of girls playing guitar? Do they think I'm a kid who liked the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack and now thinks she knows what country music is? I have no idea. I try to figure it out, as I sit there plunking chords. What if I played a song, something traditional? I decide that would make it worse. At this point I just really, really want to leave, but I kind of can't get up the nerve; it seems that they've finally forgotten I'm here, and I'm not anxious to draw attention to myself again. After a while, some more instruments show up (a stand-up bass!), and some women come in. I think, Aha! However, it soon becomes clear that the women are there to sit on the sidelines with their pocketbooks and smile encouragement at their men. Oh, well.
During a break, I get up to leave, and the two men, the ones who have ignored me the entire time, suddenly act all offended and say to the other guys, "Was it something we said?" Whatever.
I get to the venue and check out the set-up, talk to some people, drink a Coke. My friend Jill is driving up from Charleston to see me play, and I'm psyched because I haven't seen her in a while. And because I know that at least one person will be listening (it is impossible to overestimate the importance of this factor on the morale of a singer/songwriter).
Jill shows up during the third song, and I have a good time playing for everybody. Much to my surprise and delight, this turns out to be a sing-along crowd, so I have some fun making them sing harmonies with me. I get Jill up onstage to sing "We're All Marys Here" even though we've never sung together, not even once. All in all, it's a very fun show, and afterwards, I eat my meal ("will sing for food"), and Jill and I chat with two cool girls who go to the university. They are regulars, apparently. I pack up my gear, thinking about what a great night it's been but that I'm very tired and have to follow Jill to Charleston now and then get up at 5:30 a.m. again to drive back here and that I'm going to need a miracle to stay awake for all that driving. (Have I mentioned that I really hate driving at night?)
So I'm walking out the door, and suddenly one of the girls asks if she can pray with me. I laugh and go, "Oh, yeah," thinking she's kidding. MISTAKE! She's not kidding. She prays for quite a while, not exactly with me but rather for me. Now I know what is meant by the term to "pray over" someone. She prays for Jesus to make His presence known to me and to give me energy and to make me a believer. Sometimes I wish I'd never written "My Mother is a Christian"; I'd have saved myself a heap of awkward situations like this. I know people who try to bring me closer to God think they're doing something really nice for me, and I try to accept prayers in the spirit in which they are given. But at the same time, why do people think this kind of thing is necessary? Do I really seem like such a lost soul? What makes people think they can assume anything about my relationship with God? I really think things are fine between me and my Creator. My relationship with the church? Different story, not so good. But I don't see why that should lead people to assume that I'm not a spiritual person and that I don't have a relationship with God.
It never ceases to surprise me how different people's reactions to that song are. Some people relate to it because of their relationships with their own parents, some people think I need saving, some people think it's funny. My friend Bob told me the other day that it's one of the saddest songs he's ever heard, which is a reaction I'd never gotten before. And, yeah, sometimes I get prayers for my soul or people wanting me to come to their church, but it's worth it because I know I've written a really good song. I love knowing that people can listen to it and get different things out of it depending on where they're coming from and what they need.
Anyway, we make it to Jill's house at about 2:00 a.m. (and it's a good thing I have her taillights to follow because I can guarantee that I wouldn't have made it on my own. It's all I can do to keep my eyes open), and I cringe as I set the alarm for 5:30. Somehow I just know there is no possible way I will be able to wake up at 5:30 and drive for an hour and forty-five minutes. Sure enough, this is exactly what comes to pass, and Jill wakes me up at 7:45 so I can call Uncle Gram right before he goes on the air. I tell him that I'm not going to make it, and I feel like the worst kind of irresponsible slacker. He says it's not a big deal, but I'm very disappointed; I was looking forward to my first live on-air appearance. I'm still exhausted, so I go back to sleep as Jill leaves for work; we arrange to meet for dinner later.
I sleep for most of the day, waking up occasionally (Eli comes home and tells me about his nuclear submarine training, which is quite fascinating), and finally get up for real around 3:00, afraid I won't have time to use the ticket to the USS Yorktown at Patriot's Point which Jill has so generously purchased for me. I call her at work, and she agrees to meet me there so I can have more time to explore the aircraft carrier and the submarine.
The USS Yorktown and the submarine are really interesting and historical and full of gadgets that are cool and fascinating if you can maintain a detached attitude. I can't quite, though. I keep looking around, thinking, Wow, this stuff was state of the art back then. This stuff was all designed to kill people, multiple people at once, and now it's an exhibit that we're proud of. Why? And some of the soldiers in the pictures look like they can't be older than sixteen. And this submarine is really cramped; I hope Eli's isn't this miserable. (Jill tells me later that Eli's job is basically to push the button and end the world if someone tells him to. As a "last resort." I'm still trying to get my head around that. What does that mean? A last resort is something you do to try to fix a problem if absolutely nothing else works. Like, if you can't lose weight by going on a diet, you try liposuction as a last resort, like, it's absolutely the last thing that you would try because there are risks involved, but if nothing else worked, you'd consider it. But what would ending the world with one of our modern state-of-the-art nuclear weapons possibly fix? What does it mean that we would use nuclear weapons that we keep on a submarine as a "last resort"? That if Saddam Hussein sets off a nuclear weapon, we go "Oh, yeah?" and set off another, more deadly one? Or that if Saddam Hussein acts like he's going to set off a nuclear weapon, we beat him to the punch? Like, "Oh, I don't think so! You don't get to end the world 'cause we're the SuperPower, so ha-ha-ha-ha-ha"? I mean, really, what could possibly be the situation in which pushing the button - as a "last resort" - is acceptable? Isn't anyone freaked out about nuclear war anymore? It used to be such a big deal, and now nobody really talks about it. I didn't even really understand that that's what a "nuclear submarine" was technically for. But now that I know about it, I'm a little freaked.)
But I feel bad thinking these thoughts because I know that a lot of people I love are or were in the Navy and feel very strongly that serving their country in this manner is the right thing to do, and they are great people, people I love. But I don't know how they ever got onto ships or into submarines like these and lived surrounded by weapons all the time. I just can't ever quite grasp the mindset that violence is a viable solution to conflicts, no matter how violent others may be prepared to be. (Now I'm afraid that I will get hate mail about how if I don't understand the military, then I'm clearly not a patriot and don't value my freedoms and it will serve me right if Saddam Hussein creates an international dictatorship of terror in which I will have to cover my face at all times. Probably from the same people who will urge me to pray about my relationship with Jesus. And my friends and family will be all disappointed in me and take this as a knock against them. But it's not. I love you guys. OK?)
Just as I am about to get really depressed about all of this, two things happen:
1. I go up onto the deck of the aircraft carrier, and there are porpoises in the bay! There are at least seven of them, and they come closer and closer, and they're leaping out of the water, blowing loudly (I've never heard porpoises blow out of their blowholes before; it's so cute!) and falling all over each other like kittens. I watch them until they disappear under the boat.
2. Inside, there is a machine that will flatten a penny and put a design on it for 50 cents! (Plus the penny.) Jill tells me that these things are everywhere and that she can't believe I've never seen one before, but I swear I've never seen one! I've put a penny on the railroad tracks before, but this is that idea taken to a whole nother level of genius! I need to find out how much it costs to commission one of these. I'm thinking Lindsay Smith pennies, my face instead of Lincoln's... (I'm gonna get more hate mail now. I don't really think I'm as important as Abraham Lincoln, I swear!)
After I meet Jill in the parking lot, I notice, much to my dismay, that I have a flat tire. We go to the gas station to put air in it, and I have to buy a 25 cent peppermint patty because they won't give me quarters for the air machine unless I buy something. It seems to be OK after we fill it, so we go eat. Jill takes me to this awesome seafood restaurant, but there's a wait, so we wander through the covered market and around town; Jill tells me tidbits that she remembers from the Ghost Tour she went on. I buy some awesome, tacky, touristy souvenirs for my friends who have birthdays in November (and no, I'm not going to tell you what they are; you're just going to have to wait! Hee-hee). When we get to eat, it's delicious, and I finally get to taste the famous Charleston she-crab soup (quite tasty and also quite rich).
After dinner (and a brief incident in which we discover that I have locked us out of the apartment, flake that I am), I go to bed, up too late again and dreading the drive back to Atlanta. I have to leave at 6:00 a.m. because I have to work the Sunday matinee performance of the opera. Ugh.
The drive home is really fun because my tire is flat again. It's not totally flat, just slowly leaking, so I pull over every 30 miles to put air in it, buying a granola bar, a Coke, a bottled water, and a box of Tic-Tacs in the process because I keep running out of quarters. I make it back to Atlanta just in time, and as soon as I'm on Atlanta highway, everyone who passes me is honking and pointing to tell me that I have a flat tire. It makes me think that perhaps it's wrong to think that people in small towns are nicer to strangers than people in the city; no one else has done that all day, and my tire's been flat more often than not. I manage to pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex with only the slightest gasp of air in that tire (I feel the axel clunk painfully over the speed bump), change clothes, and take MARTA to the theatre.
So that's the end of the story, the end of the tour. For those of you who've wondered what it's like to go on tour by yourself, this is what it's like. Some car trouble, some mean people, some loneliness, and LOTS of down time - but great people, new places, and, usually, great times onstage.
I was on tour almost every weekend in October, and when I finally had a weekend during which I didn't have to drive to North Carolina, I... drove to North Carolina. To go to the Carolina Renaissance Festival in Charlotte! I got a ride with Bob Peterson, so I didn't have to drive to Charlotte by myself again (thanks, Bob!!!), and Matthew left a comp ticket for me at will call (thanks, Matthew!!!), and I had the best time! To be honest, I haven't been in the best mood lately. The change of the seasons from summer to fall is always hard on me, and the constant rain for two months did not help at all. But on Saturday I felt totally cured! The sun was shining, and it was so warm out that I actually regretted my choice of long-sleeved shirt. I realized that I hadn't been to a Renaissance Festival just to hang out since I was in high school, and it was such a blast! I got to ride on an elephant named Judy! I got to sit and watch shows without looking at my watch or feeling guilty! I got to say "OK" and "Dude!" and "Totally" and curse all I wanted! I got to get my hair braided like a pretty pretty princess! And I got enough jaunty tunes in my head to keep me in a good mood for the next three days.
So now I realize that the secret to happiness is not to be a full-time touring singer/songwriter; the trick is to be independently wealthy so that when you travel, you can do whatever you want! So if anyone wants to give me a huge chunk of money or anything so that I can live out my childhood fantasy of being a beautiful princess with a magical unicorn to ride, that'd be great.
Lindsay Smith's Gossip Corner: my best friends Kelley and Allison just got engaged!!! I introduced them (well, put them in the same room together, anyway), so even though I didn't intentionally match them up or anything, I still get bragging rights. Congratulations, guys!
What’s in my stereo at home:
mix tape prototype (I joined a mix tape club, and November is my
month. If anyone wants to trade mix tapes, let me know, and
I'll send you a copy. Here's what's
on it if you want a preview)
What’s in my car:
radio (Album 88)
What's in my CD player at work:
I'm not at work. Yay for being able to do this stuff on my
own time!
Oh, P.S. I finally finished White Teeth at a Subway in Charlotte, NC the weekend I played at the Evening Muse, and it was worth reading the whole book for the last chapter. Seriously. She did a great job with the ending.