Kickin’ Ass
I’ve been laying low from The Daily Journal of late ‘cuz I haven’t been feeling the music so much these last few days. Correction: I haven’t been feeling the music business so much these days.
The music’s still here, and still coming. I’ve been listening to a lot of Joni Mitchell and Nick Drake of late (which ought to give you some idea where my head is), but I did manage (as promised below) to write a new song Monday morning called “Extraordinary Day.” Optimistic, as you might guess (and/or expect). Which I generally am. Even if I’m exhausted and a little beat down, at least in so far as this rocknroll fantasy goes.
I’m excited for Saturday’s Boston show. The Kendall’s a great room. Some old friends ought to be in the audience (the long-since fired Planetary Publicity Group won’t be helping). And I’m spending the weekend with my friend Rob at his lakefront house in New Hampshire. Nothing beats the fall there. Plus, I’m riding Amtrak back and forth, which is always the most beautiful and relaxing way to travel. The Northeast Direct travels through Connecticut and Rhode Island, right along the coastline. That’ll be nice.
Come to think of it, if my criteria is good music, good friends, and some travel, I guess I’m kickin’ ass.
The “Summer’s Gone” Tour Assessment
I promised myself, and anyone who asked, that I was reserving judgement, delaying assessment, forgoing analysis of last week’s “Summer’s Gone Tour” at least through the weekend. So here it is, the stuff that’s not in the bio, the vulnerability that isn’t cool, but is essential…
As I built up to the “Summer’s Gone” Tour, it began to feel like a referendum on my music career. If the tour was a success, that is, if audiences were rabidly enthusiastic, I sold a trunk full of CDs, and conquered each town I visited, I would return to New York a victor, and continue plugging away at this slowly evolving career. If not, I’d quit, and content myself with playin’ parties, campfires, and maybe the occasional coffeehouse.
I often feel like a tree falling in an empty wood. Despite my jam-packed days — writing, rehearsing, making mailers, emailing, writing letters, sending out press kits, booking shows, networking — despite my enthusiasm, the thousands of dollars I’ve sunken into this dream, and all of my best efforts, this “rocknroll fantasy” (as I’ve taken to calling it) eludes me. I once thought I’d be Michael Stipe, or Michael Penn. I thought talent and ambition was enough. I thought I could cross through this morass of corporate pop cynicism on the strength of goodness alone.
I haven’t.
I called my answering machine at about 4 a.m. after last Saturday’s Charlottesville show. The show was a beat down. The venue was not a fit. The UVA kids came to drink and kvetch, not discover new music, whatever its intentions. I felt defeated, deflated, exhausted. And a little bit drunk. “You always wanted to do this,” I said to myself, hicupping. “This is it. This is what feels like.”
It seemed profound at the time, there below a crescent moon in the hills of Virginia. Now it just seems a little sad, a little melodrmatic. It reminds me now — as many things often do — of “Pippin,” a play I was in during my sophomore year in high school. Pippin is a prince with aspirations. He doesn’t know what he wants to be, but knows he wants greatness and fulfillment and adoration. He tries everything — farmer, painter, politician — but is constantly disappointed. After his first victorious battle as commander he says, “I thought there’d be more plumes.”
I’m not sure there are more plumes. There are astonishing sunsets the flicker and fade. There are islands in the Pacific filled with great bright light, dinners with family, drinks with friends, graduations, weddings, births, and death. And in between, there are good days and bad, sunny days and rainfall, and drudgery and delight — in less-than-equal measure.
So, the referendum.
Well, I won’t stop doing this. I can’t. It’s what I do. I write songs. I record them. I sing them for you. And I sing them for me. I’m tired, true. Tired of the Ryan Adams and the David Grays and the Pete Yorns succeeding on terms that elude me. Tired of slogging equipment, making mailers, playing half-filled rooms and feeling half-fulfilled. But I am not too tired to rest a minute, regroup, and get back to the task at hand. So I’m going out to the fire escape now, watch the sun set over New jersey, and I’m gonna’ write a song. For me. For you. For us. And for all that was, is, and will be.
‘Cuz best that I can tell, all evidence points to that sun rising again in the morning, just like it did yesterday and the day before, filled with brand-new opportunity.
See ya’ then.
Priceless
“Summer’s Gone” CD Single: $537.
Website: $35. Postcards: $367.
Band: $375.
Rehearsal Space: $86.
Taxis: $24. Rental Car: $235.
Tolls: $37. Gas: $94.
Food: $126.
Lodging: $422.
“Summer’s Gone” Tour: Priceless
I Still Love You New York
Left South Hill, Virginia, around 9:30 this morning. Drove, drove, drove (listening to The Vines “Get Free” roughly every hour). Finally rolled through the Lincoln Tunnel at 6:30, and was forced towards 34th Street where, before turning west, I looked up to see the Empire State and New Yorker Buildings.
I still love you New York.
Instead of waxing eloquent the tour and what it all means, blah blah blah, I just wanted to express some gratitude. Above all, the last week has illustrated to me just how fortunate I am to have two great jobs that I love, great family and friends, and the ability to pack up a Rent-an-Escape and tour a bit. So, in no particular order:
Dad: Investor, supporter, and cellular travel companion.
Mom: Rearranged travel plans for Philly show, and got all of her friends out.
Christofer: Shot New York and Philly. Never misses a show.
Kevin: Booked Charlotteville and Chapel Hill.
Jon: Loaned me his guitar and DV equiptment. And rarely misses a show.
Jyl: Made Raleigh happen.
Luke: Hauled gear in, kept me calm, and dragged across campus at 4 a.m.
Stephanie: Cellular travel companion extraodinaire.
Ken: Ran the site when I couldn’t.
Michael: Granted me time off, and loads of support.
Mrs. Culp: Tought me how to sing harmony, and came out Wed.
Mr. Vanderslice: Tought me how to sing in a group, and came out Wed.
Mrs. Barry: Encouraged me to use words, and came Wed.
At the venues: John, Jesse, Cook, Kevin, Jeremy, Matt, Dan, John, Robert, Ryan.
Of course, thanks to all of you who came out, sang along, applauded, purchased CDs, said kind things, and made every mile worth it (you know who you are). And finally, I received lots of email support — thanks for the notes!
So It’s back down to earth. I have about 10 days ’til the Boston show (D.C. has been postponed), then I dunno’ what I’m going to do (other than the NYC Marathon). Whatever, I hope you’ll stay tuned…
Chapel Hill “Summer’s Gone” Tour Report
Econo Lodge, South Hill, Virginia. 3:05 a.m. Pointed the Rent-an-Escape north on I-85 about a 30 minutes after the show. With some 500 miles to cover before Tuesday night, I was anxious to make progress. I made it about 75 miles shy of Richmond before the adrenaline wore off.
So after a few hours of sleep in my $49.95 “Manager’s Special” (should I be concerned hat the night attendant was watching “The Shining” when I checked in?), I knock out Richmond, D.C., Baltimore, Wilmington, Philadelphia and into New York. See, you gotta’ break down every long race into little races, just like the marathon. One step at a time.
Chapel Hill was good people. The performance space was funky and cool. It actually looked like a cave, all be it one with Christmas lights and Folgers cans hanging from the ceiling. The folks at the venue were great. Real music fans, real appreciative, real helpful. The randoms who just happened to be there were cool, listening politely, clapping generously.
And all of my new friends from the South: Jyl, Jessica, Sean, Brian, Rebecca, Jessica, Chrissie, Lisa (plus her family) all came down and rocked out. I’ve gotten so comfortable
with these shows that I walked in, shook hands with the bartender, soundchecked
and got started straight away. I didn’t write a set list for perhaps the first
time in 8 or 10 years. I just rolled along from song to song trying to manage the
ebb and flow and mix up the strumming and the barre chords, the Gs and Es.
And I took song ideas from the audience. Brian suggested “Message in a Bottle” and
“Debris,” neither of which would I have normally done, but did. And Jyl wanted “Go Back to Sleep,” so got it. I played for nearly two hours, had an RC, took an after party photo, and headed out.
Thinking back as the South rolled away behind me, I’m still not sure what to make
of this whole tour. It had its failures. It was difficult. And rewarding.
Everyone’s kind words, support, smiles, and singing along, made this whole thing — all these miles and dollars and hotel beds and bad fast food — worth it. It was like life: hours of drudgery punctuated by flashes of light and joy. My final assessment is pending, but this much I know: the journey has been the destination. And getting there takes all the time.
