Blog Archive

A COLLECTION OF PROFOUND OBSERVATIONS AND UNIQUE INSIGHTS FROM THE DEEPAK CHOPRA OF ROCK’N‘ROLL…

March 24th, 2007

YO HO HO AND A BOTTLE OF RUM

Here I am back in NYC with a peg leg and water in my ear. One week in the Caribbean and I am exhausted. My bones are creaking like a pirate with an AARP card. My brain is still fuzzy from booze and painkillers – “painkillers” are what they call some vicious rum, juice and nutmeg cocktail they make in St. John. Point is I’m three sheets to the wind, scurvified and more than halfway to Davy Jones’ Locker.

So forgive this stream-of-semi-consciousness hallucination.

Proudest achievement in the Virgin Islands? Staying up till dawn my first night there and winning $57 at poker from a pleasant bunch of islanders meeting for their weekly game on the porch. When I say “two aces in the hole” I’m not talking about some Cruz Bay gay bar.

Favorite show? Island Blues in Coral Bay. A magical evening on the quiet side of St. John. First set before sunset was a hodgepodge of our “Building A Road” songs washed down with a set-closing rendition of “The Setting Sun.” Second set was kind of sleepy and interior until inspiration arrived with the wind – literally – coming off the bay. I’m sure my hair looked fantastic! Suddenly we’re jamming on our one reggae tune, “Nobody Love Me,” and the locals are going berserk. By the time we start the third set, they’re ready for anything. We finish the show with a dollop of “Rattle The Bars.” The two pirates in the audience flash gap-toothed grins.

Candace’s least favorite moment? When I hand the mike to a young man called Caleb at 3 in the morning at The Front Yard – a charming half-outdoor dive swarming with college kids on spring break and celebrating St. Paddy’s Day. Caleb wants to freestyle, I’m tired, and Tim is hammering a backbeat on “Dirty Fingerprints” – our quasi-religious soul ditty. Caleb goes on a bit, but he’s not bad. And, hey, I get a rest. Candace exacts revenge when she suggests that Caleb pass around a tip jar. (Let me tell you, those were some of the soggiest dollar bills I’ve ever touched in my life. Just hope they weren’t contagious.)

Most serene moment? Staring up at the stars from the back of Hannah the waitress’s pick-up truck while she drives Kevin, Candace, Tim and me back to Cruz Bay from Coral Bay. The perfect way to mellow out after a great gig. New York City felt pretty damn insignificant. Always good to be reminded of the truth now and again.

Best vocal moment? Shouting “Aargh” very loudly while the remarkable Tom Mason commandeers the band and sings his pirate epic “We’ll All Go Down With The Ship.” Who is Tom Mason, you wonder? Go to Nashville and ask around. They’ll tell you. Or mention Pru Clearwater, his Australian “teenage bride.” Angels in the tropics.

Best musical moment? Jamming on “The Way She Looked At Me” at The Front Yard. I think Riley and I were having sex for a minute there. Frankly, folks, I am tired of my voice and sick to death of my little narratives. Just give me a guitar, my band and three hours to jam out! Bonaroo, here we come….

Most photogenic moment? When the strapping Fletcher put on his green “That’s What I Like” T-shirt on St. Paddy’s Day. Worn with conviction and panache! Send me a photo, Fletch. Better yet, get Stacey to put it on and send me that. Strictly for merchandizing reasons, of course.

Favorite bar? Well, The Beach Bar, of course. Allan and Cat are the patron saints of all things wonderful in the islands. They’re the reason we’re there to start with. Allan owns the Beach Bar and hosts the St. John Songfest which is what introduced me to him in the first place in December. He’s also a damn fine songwriter. Cat Braaten is an amazing singer, songwriter, soul, talent etc. We played two very enjoyable nights at The Beach Bar. Cat sat in both times. I could go on, I will go on, I must go on, I’ll go on… at a later date.

Craziest coincidence? When I learned that Cat was “the white woman in Chicago” who stole a jingle spot from me that should have made me rich a few years ago. Well, if somebody has to be eatin’ good in the neighborhood I’m glad it was her! Still, to learn this news between sets in paradise after several painkillers… that’s the kind of thing that makes you believe in some great Cosmic Conspiracy that’s even more powerful than Dick Cheney. Hallelujah!

Sexiest moment? Sleeping in a king-size bed with John Young at the St. Thomas Marriott.

Best tans? Tony and Candace.

Most anticlimactic moment? Our Joe’s Pub set the day after our return. Water in the ear, exhaustion, poor monitor sound, plus a strategic mistake to try to kick the residency off with a mellow show. Rock’N’Roll Rule #165: DO NOT BEGIN A SET WITH A MELLOW SONG IF YOU’RE ALREADY TIRED AND YOU ARE NOT BACKGROUND MUSIC. Okay, the show wasn’t awful. It had some nice moments. I do remember Kevin playing a fantastic solo on “Cold Days of December.” Still, apologies to our NYC fans if you left disappointed. I promise the May 17 show will be far more upbeat.

Tropical lessons learned? Order the mahi, mon.

Final Prayer: That those tropical prosecutors give our good friend, Allan, a break. If you know Allan, please send positive emanations his way!

November 21st, 2006

ROBERT ALTMAN

I’ve never been a big Robert Altman fan. But I admire him.

He didn’t really care about stories. A refreshing approach in a town obsessed with by-the-numbers plot points. It’s amazing he survived at all.

I read an interview with him several months ago. He was asked to define what his style was. I wrote down his response.

“I don’t know about my style. I don’t know what style is. It’s one’s personality. And I don’t think it’s my responsibility to define what that is.”

That’s the most reassuring artist statement I’ve ever read.

November 10th, 2006

DYLAN SHOWDOWN

(After the Tirbute to Bob Dylan at Avery Fisher Hall on behalf of the Music For Youth Foundation. Starring: Patti Smith, Rosanne Cash, Phil Lesh, Cat Power, The Roots, Jay Farrar, Jill Sobule, Joan Osborne, Natalie Merchant & Philip Glass, Ramblin’ Jack Eliot & Jennifer O’Connor, Allen Toussaint, Warren Haynes, Lee Ranaldo, Sandra Bernhard, Al Kooper & The Funky Facutly, Medeski Martin & Wood, Bob Mould, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Lauren Shera, Jamie Saft Trio, Spottiswoode & His Enemies)

Ah, the strange interplay of collective and individual impressions. How each person in a room or concert hall or a country can have his or her own distinct perspective on an event and yet how some kind of collective consciousness is also shared and eventually evolves into a form of retrospective Truth.

Apparently the country has spoken. Although in fact only a relatively small but significant percentage of folks really changed their minds. But experts and historians must talk in terms of the will of the people

Why did I start with that? Well, I had to begin somewhere.

Last night, my Enemies and I were part of an unusual evening: a tribute to Bob Dylan at Avery Fisher Hall. It was strange for us in so many ways. Basically, it was culture shock. Pretty much everyone else on the bill was famous. We were playing to a large crowd of rich people. We were at Lincoln Center. We were only going to perform one song (though we did have the pleasure of backing a few other notable artists). And that song wasn’t even one I wrote.

My own singular perspective on the day and the night:

I am in a cab crawling across Central Park at a snail’s pace. It’s 11 o’clock in the morning. Candace calls me on the cell. They want us to start soundcheck now. I can’t respond because I’ve lost my voice.

I wander into Avery Fisher Hall with a brown chiffon scarf wrapped around my throat talking in sign language. This may have earned some respect a few hundred yards away at the Metropolitan Opera, but instead my band laughs at me. The shame!

I am lying in the East Green Room trying to get some much needed rest. A pretty woman enters carrying a pile of laundered military fatigues. She is soon followed in by The Roots plus attractive entourage. I scribble “hello” onto a piece of paper and hold it up with a smile. They smile back and crack a few jokes at my expense. The ice is broken. They’re cool friendly people.

I wander around the Upper West Side in my own cocoon of speechlessness. It’s a beautiful sunny day. I have some lunch, read about the elections.

Back at Avery Fisher. The famous and legendary are arriving so thick and fast that if Mahatma Gandhi stumbled in I’d just walk right past him and pour myself another cup of hot water for my Throat Comfort Tea.

Miracle! John Young is actually speechless. He just saw Allen Toussaint.

I always expected to be nervous. But I didn’t think I’d be terrified. I have no idea if my voice is going to work at all. It’s absurd. On this night of all nights! I can barely speak. I’ve never had much sympathy with divas and their “lost” voices before. Always assumed it was psychosomatic. But this isn’t! Hell, I’m not just terrified. I’m angry. The gods aren’t fair! We deserve to kick butt at this show. We belong here. I can’t live with some jaded Lincoln Center subscriber looking down her nose while I croak out some words I didn’t even write. Yeah, it’s Dylan’s fault too! I never wanted to cover one of his songs. Ever! Sure, I think he’s the greatest American lyric artist alive. And he’s probably the most underrated singer around too. In fact, the best person to sing Dylan is Dylan! What the hell am I doing here? And why did I blow my voice out? Because we rehearsed his damn song a dozen times on Tuesday and in order to sound righteous I had to scream out the last three verses. (Okay, we followed that with a long loud set at Banjo Jim’s…) And now look what’s happened. I can’t sing. I can’t speak. This is a lesson never to cover another artist ever again. Who am I expressing anyway? Them or me?

There is a VIP reception but I’m feeling misanthropic. I’m just gonna go down to the main green room and make myself some more throat comfort tea. Surprise! All the hot water’s gone. And the guy behind the food table doesn’t seem to be very bothered with my dilemma. Perhaps it’s because I’m not actually saying anything.

I am suddenly lost in the bowels of Avery Fisher Hall and I forgot my security pass. I’m going to cry soon.

I’m now hurrying through a marble lobby trying to catch up with Cindi Lauper and Jennifer O’Connor. They are being led to the VIP reception. This may be my only chance to find hot water.

We are climbing some stairs. Cindi Lauper asks if her bowler hat looks okay. Or is it too freaky? I point to the scarf around my throat: an international sign for “I’ve lost my voice” only understood by very famous singers and their entourages. Yup, I’m in with Cindi. I give her a smile and a big thumbs up. Cindi’s looking pretty damn great.

I have a plastic bottle of water in one hand, a vial of “Singer’s Saving Grace” in the other and a packet of Yogi Tea between my teeth. I am surrounded by paparazzi, the rich, the beautiful and the famous. I look imploringly towards a waiter.

I’m sitting on a padded bench holding a large glass of hot water and trying to open my package of tea with great concentration. Platters of champagne and caviar hover around me like irrelevant UFOs.

The show is about to start. I am standing in the wings amidst a crush of people I seem to recognize. Feels like a high school talent show starring: Philip Glass, Natalie Merchant, Patti Smith…oh there’s Al Kooper.

I’m on stage.

Joan Osborne walks out into the lights. A huge ovation. Tim, John, Tony, Riley and I accompany her on “To Make You Feel My Love.” Riley plays a lovely lap steel solo. Joan has a beautiful voice and nails the song. More rapturous applause. We hurry off the stage so that Natalie and Phil can get on. Okay, I can now say I’ve performed at Lincoln Center. Can someone call a cab?

I try to sing a few words softly in the wings. I sound like a frog with throat cancer. The Roots’ roadie laughs and asks if I’m still not speaking. He’s a very big guy, kind of heavyweight size. I put my hand on his shoulder and whisper into his ear: “I’ve just not been speaking to you.” He laughs even harder.

FLASHBACK: I am nineteen. I am hitchhiking to Istanbul. I wake up in the passenger seat of a lorry driving through a country once known as Yugoslavia. It’s morning. An eerie mist hovers over the countryside. The Slovenian driver smiles at me. We try to speak to each other. But we can’t understand a thing the other one says. We both give up and start to laugh. Sometimes you feel closer to people when you can’t really communicate with them. Yeah, talking is overrated.

Al Kooper And The Funky Faculty finish their song. Ed, the production manager, gives me and my Enemies the signal. We all hurry onto the stage. There’s even some applause. Did my mother come without telling me?

I am singing “The Times They Are A Changin’” to a packed house at Lincoln Center. How is this possible? I’ve never even liked the song that much. I bought the vinyl album in London during my college years. I’d always skip the title track. I’d go to “The Ballad of Hollis Brown,” “With God on Our Side,” “When The Ship Comes In,” “Spanish Boots of Spanish Leather.” Those were the songs I really liked. What the hell is going on?

I’m finishing the first verse in a low baritone. “Then you better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone!” I take a pause. “For the times they are a changin’”. Some folks in the crowd have already started cheering. A trained parrot could have probably got the same response. These are Dylan fans and it’s two nights after election day. Well done, Spott, for gambling on a change in the political landscape to help your desperate artistic cause.

Now we’re playing the instrumental verse. Candace and Kevin hit their marks. I take a look around at Riley and Tony. They’re both smiling. Well, Riley is anyway. This is fun.

Oh God, I have to sing the next three verses an octave higher. Otherwise the rest of the song will be an anticlimax. I must sound righteous. I have no idea what my voice will let me do.

“Come Senators, Congressmen, please heed the call.” A huge cheer from the audience. My voice feels comfortable. But it’s the end of the verse that’s really the screaming bit. “It’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls…” Fine! We’re gonna nail this mutha.

Great applause. I unplug and hurry off the stage. Sandra Bernhard is waiting in the wings. “That was amazing” she says. Thanks, Sandra! I will always appreciate that. Even if you were lying. Always be nice to someone right after they get off stage. Save the truth for later. But, hey, maybe she meant it.

Warren Haynes turns to me in the wings. “You were sandbaggin’ us!” he says in a soft kind-hearted drawl.

And now my favorite part of the evening: Watching from the wings as the rest of the band accompanies Sandra Bernhard on “Like A Rolling Stone.” The adrenaline is still pumping. Sandra’s doing her introductory monologue. Kevin’s smiling broadly. The band creeps in with the accompaniment. They nail it, of course.

Brief reflection: Now I know for sure that Kevin and Sandra are not the same person. I don’t see Kevin that often and it’s always been quite possible that Sandra was one if his alter egos. I mean, he’s a celebrity gardener too. And numerous other characters. I even saw him call bingo once. So, I’d had this hunch. But not so. Kevin Cordt and Sandra Bernhard were on the stage at the same time. What a relief! I’m carrying around enough conspiracy theories in my head as it is.

The band comes offstage, all smiles. Like elementary school kids after winning a swim meet.

I am a broken yo-yo. The adrenaline is too much. One minute I’m watching Cat Power from the wings, then I’m up in the east green room as Lee Ranaldo of Sonic Youth listens in awe while the Roots rehearse acoustically, then I’m swigging tequila with Kevin, now I’m eating a cookie in the downstairs refreshment room where Michael Stipe is looking so intensely at his cell phone that he can only be text messaging God. And what’s he doing here anyway? Now I’m back up in the wings admiring Allen Toussaint at the piano, a picture of elegance.

Warren Haynes is onstage. Riley, Tim, John and Tony accompany. “I Shall Be Released.” It’s beautiful. Joan Osborne is one of the backing vocalists. I’m not that into old-school jam bands. But Warren Haynes is as soulful as they come, amazing singer and guitarist. I think the rhythm section has fallen in love with him. As for Tony, he lost credibility when he confessed his studdly beard is an homage to the Allman Brothers.

I’m back downstairs. A tall skinny guy with glasses hurries past followed by a tanned blonde lady. I follow them. Phil Lesh is late for his own performance. The band hasn’t even had a chance to rehearse with him. Phil walks onto the stage to rapturous applause. A lot of deadheads on the Upper West Side I guess. The bass is turned up loud. Warren Haynes and the band hang on for the ride. John and I watch from opposite sides of the stage. The five Enemies on stage kick butt.

I’m still standing in the wings. Tim and John are next to me. There’s a crush of people now. Many of the performers have gathered offstage to watch the next act, as if obeying some kind of unspoken collective wisdom that this is the band to watch tonight. “A Mighty Wind” comes into my mind for about the twentieth time.

Note: None of the performers have actually seen the show! Some of us have watched some of the artists from the wings, but without really hearing the lyrics or the even the sound that well. Most of the people around me right now probably have no idea that I sang at all tonight. Many of the artists on the front half of the bill have already gone home. But suddenly, there’s a crush.

The Roots play “Masters Of War.” They are in military fatigues. They stand on a high platform: a drum kit, an electric guitar and a suzaphone. The first verse is sung to the tune of “The Star Spangled Banner.” There are various other theatrical tangents into Jimmy Hendrix and funk. But the gravity of the song remains. It’s a ballsy theatrical insane rendition. A breath of fresh air. They get a standing ovation.

Patti Smith sings and lends the proceedings some dignity.

Ramblin’ Jack closes with “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” Jennifer O’Connor sings along. Last time I saw her she was singing in a Paris basement. Now she’s on Maverick with a critical hit. She’s a fine songwriter. Her talents are wasted here. When she comes offstage Cindi Lauper says to her: “You had the hardest job of the night, darling.”

Even Patti Smith can’t sing along with Ramblin’ Jack. It’s the last song of the night and the show kind of peters out. Patti Smith starts applauding before the song has even finished. That’s one way of making the wacky old dude shut up. “A Mighty Wind” comes to mind one last time.

Two days later and I’m still trying to process. E-mails of praise from random strangers. Congratulations from friends. Some very complimentary mentions in a couple of blogs and reviews. No mention in the Billboard Review. And even a diss on a Fox News blog. Yes, I pick my Enemies well. Different artists in different reviews get praised, ignored or criticized. But the Roots win in the Red and the Blue states… Each person in the audience probably had his or her own little scorecard. Such a pity that art has to be a sport like that. But it’s inevitable with something like this. Of course, Dylan put it best:

“Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon
For the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who
That it’s namin’.
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin’.”

Lessons from the night?
1. My band rocks! With or without me!
2. Let it all hang out!

Thank you so much to Michael Dorf for inviting us to be part of such an unforgettable night. And thanks to Dave Bias for championing us!

July 24th, 2006

SUMMER OF LOVE

Just a few words of thanks, that’s all. Thanks to all our fans for coming out to a really enjoyable and packed show at Joe’s Pub. Thanks to the brilliant Kenny White for sitting in. Thanks to my Enemies for indulging Riley and me, and for learning another ten songs!

And thanks to our friends and fans who came out to see us in California. Another wacky Enemies trip! Particular thanks to Peter, Sophia and Sean for putting us up in lovely Laurel Canyon; to Peter’s mom, Lynne, for sharing her pad in Pacific Heights; to the very generous Dave McSpadden for putting up with five of my Enemies for a whole weekend and pretending to enjoy it; to Devon and Michelle for inviting us out West in the first place; and to Dave and Jude at KFOG for trying their best to support us in the Bay Area and for encouraging random strangers to see us at the Make-Out Room.

And thanks, Zinedine Zidane, for the memories…

May 16th, 2006

RUSSIAN NOVELISTS AND ECUADORAN BANKERS

So I’m in a bar in Soho with glitter on my face, wearing a cowboy hat. It’s a superhero party. Two days before the Kentucky Derby. Thanks to an e-mail from Lambo, a Louisville fan, I have decided that my name tonight is Deputy Glitters. Alas, Deputy Glitters comes in seventh on the Saturday but hey, what’s a couple of bucks?

A very handsome Ecuadoran man starts talking to me. Despite a strong gay contingent in my band I am not used to being hit on these days by members of my own sex. Guess I’m not so pretty any more. Kevin and Tony are much cuter.

Of course, I’ve forgotten about the cowboy hat and the glitter.

Anyway, the point isn’t that I get hit on by a very handsome Ecuadoran man. Frankly, it’s an honor, I’m not worthy of his attentions, and I only say he was hitting on me because various envious women in the bar assure me later that he was.

Is my life sounding dull and desperate yet?

Here’s the point:

My Ecuadoran friend explains to me, at my bidding, that he is a commodities trader for a very prestigious bank. In other words, not only is he beautiful, he is rich and he has a much better idea of how the world really works than I do. I might be intimidated. But tonight I’m Deputy Glitters.

He then says something very wise to me. When his investment choices start going badly, he stops trading. His instinct tells him that he’s lost his luck and he needs to focus on something else. Maybe he’ll do some research. Or eat peanuts. He understands that luck comes and goes and, no matter what you do, you can’t fight it.

A few days later I’m on page 27,000 of Tolstoy’s “War & Peace” and I come across a very similar piece of wisdom. The Russian Commander Kutuzov is being plagued by all his subordinates to DO SOMETHING. Napoleon and his army have just occupied Moscow. But Kutuzov believes the wisest course at this point is to wait and see. Of course, the French soon get bored and hungry and decide to go back to France only to freeze and starve to death on the way.

Why am I sharing all this?

Well, although I may be wearing glitter and a cowboy hat, and despite the fact that I am clearly emanating superhero waves, I have not been at my best recently. A bit of the performing monkey syndrome. Singing the same old songs and feeling tired and washed up. Resentful of all the annoying political and business decisions that humble little rock stars have to make in order to become even more broke. Luck hasn’t been with me.

Hence my recent blog silence.

So, here’s a few people I want to thank for recent services: Tolstoy, Mr. Ecuador, Zach from Northampton for his support and enthusiasm, Mim & Lexi Kahn in Boston, Lambo in Louisville, Shell in Minnesota, all the folks who came to the recent “Wild Goose Chase Show” at the Living Room (yes, it was weird, but at least I enjoyed it!), Derek Sivers at CDBABY for his fine ears, Amanda Case for her unfailing cheer even when her computer crashes, and – last but not least – my very patient Enemies.

March 15th, 2006

RIDING A BICYCLE

Back in the saddle and having fun.

We follow a very pleasant group of Englishmen at IOTA, outside DC. They are called Hey Negrita. Kind of an English take on alt country. They are tickled pink to be in the States on the way down to SXSW. “We even got served chips with DIP in New York” one of them raves. (Has England become Third World since I left?) They have a cameraman in tow. Having a blast. As it should be.

I am quite happy not to be trekking to Texas this year. If there are more than a hundred musicians within fifty square yards I start turning green. I would sooner be on Wall Street, surrounded by sweaty traders, watching my stock portfolio plummet. Okay, I don’t actually have one of those, but I like that word “portfolio.” Will have to find a song for it.

Anyway, back to Northern Virginia… We play a typical schizophrenic set. Off-Broadway, rock and roll, coffee house, blues, gospel, artsy-fartsy etc. Really, who needs satellite radio? And hey, we’re still pretty damn good. Kevin, that poor island-hopping television star, is tanned and rested. Our fans are effusive. And drunk. Another night of genius never to be recorded and soon to be forgotten.

A little side note here. I do get self-conscious sometimes when strangers or critical folks stumble into one of our sets and leave baffled and uneasy. Sometimes I get a report: “He thought it was all a bit too clever,” or “She thinks our songs should be like that other band,” etc. Alas, I completely relate to the phenomenon since it is a condition I suffer from acutely myself. It is called solipsism – a belief that the sun actually revolves around us. So, let me state for the record: If our little asteroid arrives in your orbit and you are not taken with it, let us pass through and explode somewhere else. We are on our own wacky journey, every show is different, we cannot please all of the people all of the time, and we are not running for President. On another night in another place at another time you might have loved us (such conversion experiences have happened before), but alas it wasn’t to be. The circus must go on.

Guess what! After that little diatribe, we have arrived in North Carolina: Chapel Hill to be precise. Well, it turns out that Django Haskins timed his entry into our orbit perfectly. His band blew me away. Sure, we had a good set. Maxwell/Mosher (former Squirrel Nut Zippers) were damn good too. But on the evening of March 10th, 2006, the Local 506 Club in Chapel Hill belonged to The Old Ceremony. I would say “humbling,” but that suggests a degree of self-esteem in the first place, and the word is very much overused anyway.

Thankfully, our mojo returns in Charlotte! Joe, Lea, Kelly and all the wonderful folks, fans, friends at the Evening Muse continue to show us a great time. We just plug in and do our thing. They provide the entertainment. Here’s an example. We pull out an oldie, “I’m In Love With An Angry Girl.” I descend into some pathetic shtick at the end of the song, then try to find my way out of it. I motion to a lady in the front row who stands up and walks towards me. I encourage her to slap me on the face before the end of the song. This is a ridiculous and potentially painful suggestion. What does she do? She takes my head in her hands and kisses me on the cheek. A stroke (kiss) of genius! That’s exactly why I love angry girls. End of story. The band should never play the song again. Did I mention that her boyfriend was wearing a kilt?

Thanks finally to Don DiLego and his chums for playing a beautiful and soothing set at the end of the night. One very talented cat.

January 18th, 2006

BIRTHDAY REDEMPTION

We are all eating breakfast in Massachussetts; french toast, a leak and dill fritata, fruit salad and coffee. We stare out at the snow in the sunlight and warm our toes by the fire. Martha Stewart never had it so good. These curveballs never fail to be astonishing. Thanks to our fine musical friend, Jose Ayerve, we are staying in a rural 19th century mansion where he is housesitting. His boyfriend, Michael, has the chef thing down.

Boston, the night before… A lovely little concert at Johnny D’s in Somerville. Fab sound thanks to Dana. Old friends in the audience. Good to be playing music with my band of lunatics.

Northampton: we play a couple of songs for Johnny Memphis, legendary DJ of WRSI (“The River”). The discerning fella includes “Building A Road” as one of the “TOP TWELVE ALBUMS OF 2005.”

Yup, it seems like the old road has been traveled. Time to build a new one. We took our little show here and there in 2005. Now I look back at the Reviews page and it strikes me “Gosh darn, people liked us!” Nice to make a turn into the new year on someone’s top twelve list (besides the Attorney General’s).

The show at The Iron Horse, Northampton’s first-rate club, is surprisingly well-attended. We play a respectable/schizophrenic set and drive home.

Riley, Tony and Candace sing me “Happy Birthday” in the van just after midnight somewhere south of Hartford. I conduct with some McDonald’s French Fries which I wish I hadn’t purchased. (Why was the “Value Meal” more expensive than the three items purchased separately? I have blown the band’s profits on an international conspiracy to get me fat!)

My birthday show at The Living Room in NYC: Although the room is packed to the gills – people standing at the back desperate for a seat – the folks at the table directly in front of the stage decide to re-enact the Continental Congress during the first 3 or 4 songs of the set. Blab blab, blab blab. Cellphones are even involved. They don’t even stop after I stand on one of them. Some people need to have rules of etiquette tattooed onto their…pyjamas.

All the same, a fab show. 2 brothers in attendance. Michael and Nigel. They didn’t seem embarrassed afterwards. Who needs a Grammy now? The Youngest Child has finally made good.

October 21st, 2005

THE LONG WALK

On the 17th of October, in the year 2005, twenty actors converged in the Maya Deren Theater of the Anthology Film Archives in the East Village of Manhattan. This is one of many happenings that occurred that night in the great metropolis of New York; a beautiful Monday night, following a week of rain.

They had come to read THE LONG WALK, a feature screenplay by me. I said a few words to the audience and then the reading commenced.

THE LONG WALK is the story of New York City on one Friday night. It follows three journies.

A young Jewish man, just engaged to an Orthodox woman and forced to obey the laws of the Sabbath, walks from the Lower East Side to the Upper West Side in a pair of brand new shoes.

A young Greek woman storms out of the her tycoon father’s wedding and goes on a tear through Manhattan.

A black mother, who hasn’t had sex in fifteen years, is taken out on the town by her best friend.

Journeys….

Yes, the title of this screenplay is inauspicious. I have no idea if this film will ever get made. I hope it does. Perhaps I will find a naïve producer, or an impressionable young director. Perhaps I will go crazy and decide to make it myself on a shoestring.

I had never intended to perform my own songs. It really happened by default. Nobody else was willing to cover them. Will I have to direct this film for the same reason?

No matter, I fear the journey will be arduous. Each of the stories in the screenplay is touched with a form of grace. May the same be true of my own.

When I wrote the song, BUILDING A ROAD, I had no idea that I was satirizing my own life, not to mention the band’s subsequent tours on the song’s behalf.

Well, now I have THE LONG WALK…

Thank you again to all the fabulous actors who gave up their time for the reading. And a big hug to Tony Patellis, in particular, who drafted much of the talent and directed the evening.

October 5th, 2005

HINDSIGHT IS NOT 20/20

Another hard tour. Too many empty rooms, too many miles, too many load-ins and load-outs.

The price of gasoline soars. The price of rock and roll?

In the wake of Katrina and Rita, the nation faces a desperate music shortage…I-Pods lose their juice…Long lines of angry consumers clamoring outside the clubs desperate for a music fix…Spottiswoode & His Enemies accused by the President of opportunistic price gouging…

FAVORITE MEMORIES OF OUR SEPTEMBER TOUR:
Noon, Greenwich Village, New York City: a typically auspicious start…the van we have rented is too small; our departure is seriously delayed as Tony, Riley and Tim try to fit many large irregular blocks into a tiny square hole.

3am, Country Hearth Inn, Charlotte NC: sore throat, trying not to wake up Tim or Candace, I return to a freezing air-conditioned room and discover my bedspread has been appropriated.

11pm, The Pour House, Raleigh NC: outnumbering the audience, we still rock out! Alas, the four folks in the room have obviously not attended Audience Training School to learn that the smaller the crowd the greater the obligation to cheer loudly! Instead they clap so timidly it just seems like we are embarrassing ourselves.

1am, Smith’s Old Bar, Atlanta GA: exhausted and depressed after a virtually empty show, loading the van, only to be asked by one of the five drunk members of the audience if I think the guitar player is up to snuff. “Yes, Riley’s crap,” I respond.

7pm, Radio Café, Nashville: band dynamics reach a new plateau as one (nameless) member of the band screams at another (nameless) member of the band during soundcheck. You just never know who’s gonna get angry with whom any more. The alliances shift faster than you can say Prince Klemens Von Metternich. (Apologies…this reference to 19th century European Realpolitik may only be understood by our illustrious bass player and a few random web-surfers from Mittleuropa.)

10am, Days Inn, Lousiville KY: bleary-eyed, pushing a wonky loading cart out onto the steamy 3rd Floor gangway, only to be offered heroin for breakfast by a dark man in a dark T-shirt.

Midnight, Tasty World, Athens GA: having battled off various deafening sonic explosions on stage and having watched the four members of the audience magically disappear, we play a quiet song and are overwhelmed by the noise of canned Salsa music from the club upstairs.

Midnight, Bomb Shelter, Birmingham AL: a pleasant soiree is being spoiled by an extremely loud table of patrons who happen to be sitting directly in front of the stage. I manufacture a conversation with a man at the back of the room. When I can’t hear his answer I scream into the microphone for everyone to shut up. This particular strategy is taken directly from THE TOURING MUSICIANS HANDBOOK, chapter 18: “TIPS FOR POLITE ENGLISH LEAD SINGERS.” Works like a charm.

1am, Evening Muse, Charlotte: a drunk fan in the front row screams during the poignant finale of our porno-rag ditty, “Gettin’ Realistic.” She makes such a racket that the song would be ruined except that, miraculously, she rhymes!

The lines should read:
I’m getttin’ real
But I don’t know how I feel
‘Cause still I miss my foolish dreams

Evening Muse Version (10/1/2005)
I’m getting’ real
I LUV THE GLOCKENSHPEEL!
But still I miss my foolish dreams

Quirky, stream-of-consciousness, surreal! John Lennon, Luis Bunuel, Salvador Dali would all approve. As for the judges of the scandalous “John Lennon Songwriting Competition” (No, I have never entered, but I have friends who have won!), well they’d probably think it just doesn’t make sense.

6:30am, National Car Rental, New York City; bruised pinky from wayward keyboard stand, excessively sleep-deprived, missing the rental contract, screaming into my new cell-phone…

Basically, blog-readers, touring is a soul-destroying cocktail of humiliation, self-loathing and cosmic emptiness.

But a few days pass, I look back and I think… that was kind of fun. Folks, it was NOT fun! It was awful. But like some mad Captain Ahab I pine for another chance to wrestle with the great beast.

I finish with the lyrics to our new song, WILD GOOSE CHASE EXPEDITION:

We’re on a wild goose-chase expedition
Down to the middle of nowhere
Nowhere

We’ve brought supplies and lots of ammunition
But we’re very confused by the brochure
The brochure

When the sun comes out
We’ll sing and we’ll shout

We’re carrying so much silver
It’s weighing down all of our saddles
Our saddles

We’re floating downriver
A crocodile ate both our paddles
Our paddles

They’ve erased our tracks
There’s no way back

(CRAZY INSTRUMENTAL BRIDGE… THROUGH THE JUNGLE)

When the moon is bright
We’ll shoot on sight

We’re on a wild goose-chase expedition
Down to the middle of nowhere
Nowhere
Nowhere
Nowhere
Nowhere
Nowhere…

Septmerber 2nd, 2005

Lyme Disease And Hurricanes

New Orleans is underwater. This is not a Third World Country. It’s a Biblical country. Why do they think there are so many God-fearing people here? This is a land of pestilences, cataclysms and abandonment amidst tantalizing plenty.

A tiny little deer tick, probably in a verdant Wisconsin glade, had the good sense to bite me. Serves me right. My one moment of peace on the whole tour. Away from the band and the logistics juggernaut, away from the performing monkey routine, away from humanity. A beatific moment of reflection. A deep silence. Looking up through the ancient Kurosawa trees…

The fever didn’t set in till we were back. Nor did the hurricane. A week ago we were still on the road, New Orleans was still The Big Easy. Now, our shabby little tour looks even smaller in the rear-view mirror than I expected. Delirium and rain.

To be an artist, you have to make choices. I still avoid them. Yes, even now a dilettante. Wanting the whole cake. Be profound. Be silly. Be beautiful. Black and White. Color. Don’t be confined. But an artist is a product. Like a character on a soap opera. Supposed to be predictable. And then we know what we’re buying…

Must pick the best arc and hope the Big Writer above throws along a happy ending.

Can’t even choose how to write this blog. Self-involved journal entry? Stylized picaresque? Or something that can actually be an honest statement?

It will be all of the above. Must endeavor to keep the right balance. The personal recipe. As with music. It will average out.

The story of our August tour was family.

The family of the band co-existing in our own un-filmed Reality Show. Through moth-eaten motels in Youngstown, OH; drunken heckling in La Crosse, WI; an empty mojo-depleting record store appearance in Buffalo, NY; numerous highway squabbles over logistics and directions etc.

The extended family taking us in and providing shelter: Tony’s brother Lou and sister-in—law Trissie in Chicago; Candace’s whole posse in Chicago; my brother, Nigel and sister-in-law Connie in St. Paul; Tim’s Dad in Minneapolis. And a surprising number of visits from various significant others at random venues.

So many oases on our broken road. Feeling sorry for yourself? Take a dip in the St. Croix and eat a bratwurst. Have some ratatouille and a tomato tart in Chicago. Oh, and home-made pie for dessert. Go to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field care of Lou Lauria. Better, sit six rows behind the Cubs dug-out care of Jimmy Wright. Still feel like a loser? Okay, so maybe you do. But you’re with Cubs fans at Wrigley Field. You’re in good company.

And, once again, there are angels who seem to come from nowhere: Bruce Pryce, the patron saint of Niagara Falls who pulls out all the stops to promote us (those once treated like lepers now treated like royalty); Pete at Club Helsinki in Great Barrington (yes, I know sound-guys often like us but I’ve never seen one dance while mixing us); The “Friend’s of Bob” in Lafayette, IN (home-made cookies in the green room after driving through endless cornfields).

Touring is a dense and exaggerated version of life. We all have our ups and downs. On the road they come thick and fast. It can burn you out. It can lift you up. And the other way round.

Coming home on the Taconic Parkway, 2 in the morning, Candace driving, me in the passenger seat, counting all the deer by the side of the road. At least thirty in the moonlight.

August 5th, 2005

Yes, my Enemies hate me so much they forced me to take the Greyound bus to Baltimore while they took the van. I don’t smell that much! Got to Mount Vernon Square just in time for a cranky soundcheck and then stuffed myself with a hamburger before we took the stage. Blistering sunshine. A very kind member of the audience leant me her shades. I guess she hated seeing me squint. In any case, a really pleasant outdoor show. Great folks at WTMD. Thanks also to Erik, my fellow youngest child, for listening closely. I hope when you get older you don’t decide that we’re terrible and embarrassing. We never used to be a family-friendly band, I promise!

Master Plan: Infiltrate The Triple A Market and then immediately start playing avant-garde chamber death metal.

August 3rd, 2005

When I was twelve and thirteen, I kept a daily diary: “Got up, had breakfast. Double maths followed by French. Geography and Free Period. Took bus to the playing fields. Scored a goal but got substituted…” I was a regular Samuel Pepys. (Samuel Pepys was an English diarist of the 17th century – one of those supposedly important Englishmen that only people in England have actually heard of.)

Anyway, I think I was already keenly aware that it was all one day going to come to an end. I had to write an inventory of all the forgettable events in my life or they would just get relegated to oblivion.

By the age of fourteen I was more cynical: We ARE all heading to oblivion so why bother. I stopped writing in my diary and opted for a quiet know-it-all depression. I tried unsuccessfully to write songs. Alas, I had to wait till my early twenties before I wrote anything even halfway decent. And since then I have been churning out songs fairly continuously. A lot of crap obviously, but a good one here and there.

So, despite my cynicism, I never really gave up the struggle against complete nihilism. I was writing a diary in a different way; a diary of emotions, opinions, characters, confessions and so forth.

I remember once dipping into my Dad’s copy of Carl Jung’s autobiography (please, no Sting hate-mail!) and reading the introduction. Jung was waxing rhapsodic about the “inner life.” He wasn’t going to tell the story of his external life (the banal “what do you do for a living?” shtick). Instead, he was going to track the emotional trajectory of his life – the more meaningful story. Forget the surface. Go for the core.

Well, in my guitar-noodling way, I have found songwriting to be the easiest way to do that. My songs have kept a thread running through my life. The closest thing I have to a journal.

So, it should be against my religion to blog. Blogging could be the death of my songwriting. Have I reverted to a pre-pubescent diarist? “Played Lousivile, got in the van to Philadelphia, talked about Mexican food…” Should I embrace all the surface details again? Blogger #500,232,444?

Or is this a sign of mid-life happiness? Am I enjoying myself so much that I have to put it all down before I forget?

Not sure.

The following few memories are of the recent July tour with my despicable entourage:

I am very hot. Perhaps in a coma. It seems I am in an outdoor food court in downtown Washington DC singing to several dozen civil servants while they drink Snapple and eat turkey wraps. A poster for the event describes our genre as “friendly folk.” I consider playing our punk polka song: “How The Civilized Will Be Punished.” Opt against it. Don’t want to be mistaken for an Islamo-Extremist.

A very pleasant evening in Northern Virginia of all places, Clarendon to be exact, the home of the IOTA club. The Sad Little Stars have made this sad little star extremely happy. Rachel and Max are simply the cutest and most talented couple on the planet. No disrespect to Brad and Angelina. Their music is beautiful, hip, charming and HIGHLY recommended. Still, I can’t forgive them. The opening act should never upstage the headliners. Reprisals must be taken. Trying to decide which of my Enemies I should fire. The answer is immediately obvious. Tim AND Riley. As soon as we get off the stage they show up on the TV accompanying Preston Clarke on the “Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.” How did that happen? They’re even telegenic! Ugh.

I finally get to see Kevin play at Mr. Henry’s on Capitol HIll, his weekly Friday jazz gig with the Kevin Cordt Quartet. Decide that I must soon write a list of all the reasons I despise him. Yes, I’ll start with him and then move on to the other Enemies. Something to look forward to…

The Fan of The Month Award goes to Don in Charlotte, North Carolina. We arrive at the Evening Muse just in time for our midnight set, thoroughly exhausted. Don is standing outside the club, beaming, and wearing a home-made T-Shirt with the caption “Let’s Be Enemies.”

Recurrent Nightmare of The Trip: Candace mates with her new Apple Laptop and names the child (who looks a lot like John) “Wi-Fi DeBartolo.”

I have escaped that suffocating sextet and am drinking a Virgin Margarita at a Mexican joint in East Nashville. I strike up a conversation with the man next to me at the bar – Troy Lynn, an elderly pharmacist who was in the US military in Japan right after the Second World War. We have a fine chat. He mentions he has a grandson who’s a soldier in Iraq. I ask delicately what he thinks about the Iraq War. Troy suggests that there’s no use in Monday morning quarterbacking. I decide not to push the subject. Lucky for me since he then buys me my drink and my dinner! “Hell,” he says, “I figure an itinerant English musician needs all the help he can get.”

Discovery: We can play to a Blue Collar Crowd! Perhaps my favorite show of the trip takes place at Doc’s, a sports bar in Evansville, Indiana. They love “That’s What I Like,” my verbose waltz about women. Because it’s so honest? Or are they responding to the time signature because of their German immigrant heritage? We have to play it twice. We dust off a new tune, “I Paid My Dues.” An elderly gentlemen at the back of the room shouts out “I paid my dues too!”

The sunset over the Ohio River right after our riverfront set in Louisville! Sublime after a week of insuffereble heat. The headliner Mofro is a mellow jam band with soul. Have never been a jam band fan. But being outdoors on a beautiful night like this it all makes sense. Thanks to WFPK.

A drive from hell. Traffic jam in an Ohio cornfield. Thanks to Nora at the Blue Dog Cafe in Louisville. Our van got the exotic multi-grain bread. But the other van took all the cookies! I shall not forgive John, Tim and Riley for this affront. I know they were cackling all the way to Philadelphia.

Suzanne, thanks for staying up into the early hours to let us all crash in Fort Washington. We are terrible guests. Thanks to your Dad too. Nice that he bonded with Kevin over his garden. (Note to self for list of things I hate about Kevin: everybody else adores the kooky gardener/trumpeter/violinist renaissance shmuck.)

A serious note: While numerous people mourn the death of culture, the collapse of the music business etc. there are hard-working imaginative people out there who are moving forward. The World Cafe Live facility in Philadelphia is a breath of fresh air. WXPN lives in the same building. It’s very symbiotic. Dan Reed, the program director for WXPN came East from WFPK in Louisville where he remains legend. These two stations are state-of the-art pioneers of non-commercial radio. And now great supporters of ours. In an era of radio payola scandals, they are helping to keep things real. WTMD in Maryland is another fine example. Thanks to stations like these, original artists can actually build an audience!

A fab lunchtime set at Word Cafe Live. Broadcast live on XPN and on the web. Various friends, fans, relatives, girlfriends, boyfriends across the country call up afterwards to say how great we sounded. Liars! An edited version of the show, Wolrd Cafe hosted by David Dye, should be syndicated in September. Dreams of Empire and Tabloids.

Drive to Rehoboth, Delaware… Sorry, Tony, I agree with John. The milkshakes at Jake’s were better than the hamburgers. (Tony can be very sensitive about the things he champions). And one more thing, Tony: The Yankees don’t stand a chance.

Apologies to the folks who turned up at The Living Room for our return show. I was surly and tired. But you try spending ten days on the road with these idiots!

April 4th, 2005

Ah, yes. The South! Two and a half weeks of bliss. Miraculous occurences by the handful.

I am in Elvis’s karate shrine (The Hi-Tone) in Memphis and my pelvis is gyrating as if by magic. Years of acupuncture, stretching, cold English baths, were never so effective. My chakras are realigned.

I am in Nashville, singing one of my many classic ditties, “Olivia.” Most appropriately, I apologize for the song’s tale of adultery and murder. Some Johnny Cash sound-alike shouts out from the audience:“Them’s good southern themes.” At last, a fellow poet. I just had to leave NYC.

Mr. Timothy Vaill, our exotic drummer, eats four pork barbecue sandwiches in a row while comparing the Memphis yellow slaw to a Keith Jarrett concert he once saw in a dream in Amsterdam. I do feel sorry for jazz musicians.

Little Rock: The Legendary Shake Shackers have just blown out all 14 of our ear drums. But I did like the way that charming lead singer pulled confetti out of his pockets while spewing beer onto the mesmerized crowd. Note to self: “If in doubt, spit on fans.”

My only memory of the SXSW festival in Austin: Candace, 3 o’clock in the morning, combing the aisles of WalMart, ostensibly for an AeroBed. Nothing in the store was left. Very much reminded me of the film “Twister.”

Nothing I write can live up to the genius of Mr. Fred Friction, the remarkable poet from St. Louis, who opened for us at Rudyard’s in Houston. “I Spent The Rent On Transvestites and Wine,” the best song I heard on the whole trip. Can’t wait till Dido covers it. His accompaniment on spoons while I sang “I’m In Love With An Angry Girl” was nothing short of historic. The bootleg of the live recording will sell one day at Christie’s for millions. But no one will know that Freddy was lying on his stomach the whole time, playing himself like a demented crustacean!

From somewhere in Cajun Country: “Holy shit, John Young, our logistical genius, has just encrypted all my songs with his strange phone gadget.”

The Oysters of Abbeville!

Riley is now truly a rock legend! The bastard has stolen all my mojo.

I will get weepy if I write too much about the hospitality in Birmingham, Alabama. Lisa, Gary, Greg, you are forever in my heart. Thank you for the arrowhead, Bart!

Lesson 1 from Charleston, SC: I am not James Bond. Even after a couple of martinis. Even the magical Willi Jones can’t make it so. Lesson 2: Cordless microphones are like 5-string bass guitars: they may look impressive, but they damn well ain’t rock’n‘roll!

Tony Lauria, our once sane accordionist, has lost his mind! He has been speaking in a Southern patrician accent for 72 hours “straight” – a world record for a lad from Long Island. Most repeated line (37 times): “A li’l diffrunt fer Chaaaaahlstun.”

The most beautiful vision: Kevin chowing down on Steak and Eggs at a Huddle House somewhere south of Richmond after three hours of sleep in yet another Marx Brothers motel room.

Glory Glory Hallelujah! A gospel show on Easter Sunday (right after midnight) to four very nice hippies in Carrboro, NC. Another gospel show, the same day, to a packed Living Room in NYC. Thanks for the welcome home. I like New York all over again.

Spott