Ha Ha, OK, Smarty-Pants. Well,
there’s no denying that this little update is long overdue.
As the tours have been going by, I have found myself avoiding it
for several reasons:
1. The ‘brief encapsulation’ that
could have been possible many months ago is now a moot point.
2. I don’t remember as much as I used to.
3. It’s good to be home forgetting about
some of it.
Beyond these, I see no reason at all to not continue
on. Just so you know, I did start a very detailed account of my
tour with the Mavericks back in April. The first part of it is posted
on Craig’s site, I believe. It is mildly interesting, if you’re
already bored, as many of us are, sometimes.
That tour turned out very well. I have been friends
with the fellows for quite awhile and it was good to finally do
some shows together. I was fortunate enough to only have to do three
to four song a night by myself; Paul, Robert and Jerry Dale joined
my in various incarnations onstage for the rest of the set. I was
able to travel to some new places in the UK that I hadn’t
been to before, and I was fortunate enough to do it in style on
the Mavs double decker bus. Here’s a sampling of an unfinished
diary entry:
Last night’s
show was terrific. The Olympia Theatre is an old and beautifully
preserved roundhouse in Dame Street, complete with Edwardian
ornamentation and wonderful acoustics. The whole place is
upholstered in a blood red velvety material that brought the
Muppet Show to mind. There were even opera boxes; I kept expecting
to get heckled by puppets. Unfortunately, my newfound digital
camera skills did not come into play.
I had spent the previous night of my
arrival in solitude as the Mavs were still in Holland and
I had no contact information for my friends in Dublin. I was
probably better off, anyway; after my trip over some sleep
was definitely required. I got some excellent Indian takeout
from a restaurant up the street and passed the night away
reading my bad airport novel and listeing to the clubbers
outside on the street yelling and smoking.
Which brings me to a heartbreaking news
bulletin: If you like to smoke cigarettes, watch your back
in Ireland. Beginning in March, the strictest anti-smoking
law I have yet to encounter was put into effect here. It’s
being brutally enforced in all public places that contain
employees of any type, to the extent that my wonderful Irish
label rep, Gill, is not supposed to smoke in her company car
during working hours. Looking forward to nice, woody pubs
with amazing musicians jigging away in an invitingly barbecued
ambiance? Forget it. Those days have passed. Guinness, Murphy’s
and shared smokables have always been a hallmark of any Irish
gig. Only the Stout and a foreign smell of bleach and perfume
remain. It truly brings a tear to the eye. The odd thing is
that there appears to be little public support for the law;
the Irish have a bit more spunk than Americans when it comes
to losing their civil liberties. Regardless, the seemingly
obvious logic of allowing smoking and non-smoking venues to
suit everyone’s preferences remains untapped, even here
on this wonderfully warm and amazingly accomodating island.
Maybe I just haven’t met enough of the right people
yet, but I get the impression that the Irish are about as
excited about this draconian mandate as I would be about having
John Ashcroft and George Bush over for dinner. Yuck.
Anyway, on to greener pastures. They’re
easy to found around here, fortunately. St. Stephen’s
Green is a lovely little park with ducks and a pond that provided
me with a sense of absolute calm in the center of Dublin on
my three hour jaunt through the city Sunday morning. I spent
ten minutes watching a father manage two small daughters and
a Stratfordshire Terrier all at once. The Stratfordshire Terrier
is an amazing breed of dog that I would love to add to our
brood at some point. The body is stout, the face absolutely
comical, the level of loyalty irreplacable. Just for kicks,
and especially dedicated to Nick Robinson, here are two photos
of our most reliable family members, Stan and Hazel.... |
The Mavs have an older audience than I have had
the opportunity to play for in awhile. I had a lot of very kind,
mothering ladies tell me that I had a lovely voice, I needed a haircut
and that I was invited over for tea any time I was back in town.
I capped off the tour with a solo show in London
where I was accompanied for the first time by a very agile and gentlemanly
cellist called Andy Nice. Our partnership was fruitful, so I asked
him to join me on my next run through the UK. He graciously accepted.
Indiana was released May 4th in the States. I
had in-store appearances at Grimey’s and Tower in Nashville.
There was a really nice CD release party and performance at 12th
and Porter on the 15th; I played with the Nashville band and tried
not to party too much because of an early flight the next day to
Detroit, the sight of the first gig of a three-week tour with Ron
Sexsmith.
I was accompanied on this one by my good friend
Stuart Cameron. Stuart smuggled himself accross the border from
Toronto without a work visa, rehearsed for an hour in and then hit
the stage, with brio. Like most of the gigs on the tour, he made
a lot happen with very little (acoustic guitar and lap steel) and
kept a smile on his face all the while. Let’s see, Detroit...
great show given the lack of preparation, great seeing Michigan
buddies, an unwise decision to drink Jagermeister. Chicago... good
show, lots of alcohol, Irish dancers. Milwaukee... hangover, played
in Shank Hall. Minneapolis... disappointing. Columbia... remarkably
invigorating for a lightly attended show, great breakfast at Eddie’s,
nice run. Denver... three days off, show light, traded CD for hand-made
candle with local artisan who was in a prog cover band. Salt Lake
City... Hot Shit! Very suprised to have fans in the audience, lots
of fun. Seattle... triumphant show, questionable weather, Stu bought
a belt. Portland... a stupid venue, good crowd, hung out with my
buddy Jay all day before. San Francisco... good show, sold out,
finally. L.A... pretty good, getting tired, nice day off with Natalie
the day before. San Diego... ? Tempe... cool drive across the desert,
117 fahrenheit, small crowd but nice. Tuscon...
Well, Tucson was memorable. The last night of
the tour generally requires some serious pranking, and Stu and I
lived up to our responsibilities. Pedal boards were saran-wrapped,
guitar straps were hitched up too high, keyboard keys were taped
together, terrible porn was plastered all over the stage, drumsticks
were replaced with carrots, sweaty cycling shorts were mounted behind
the drums and hideous shots of schnapps with vermouth were passed
out to unsuspecting Canadian band members. Fare-ye-well toasts were
made aferwards on the bus and we set out into the desert night.
Natalie and I flew home the next day and I tried
to get my life back in order before leaving fourteen hours later
for Manchester. Upon arrival, I began ingesting the amino acids
and multivitamins my wife had supplied for me and began feeling
very odd. I hallucinated through a screening of the latest Harry
Potter before collapsing that night. The jet lag from the Pacific
Coast was intense; I think I prefer going to Japan, where you lose
an entire day to account for the feelings of inadequacy.
I was overjoyed to see my old friends Neil Cossar
and Andy Nice in Liverpool. After another very brief rehearsal,
Andy and I hit the stage and did remarkably well. The following
day brought a few radio sessions and interviews, responsibilities
that would add to the very abstract demands of life on the road
throughout the UK tour. Andy was in top form for the whole thing.
He even drove for half of it. He is my hero.
After Liverpool, we moved on to Manchester, where
we played well despite being cut off early, losing one side of the
PA and being harangued by a promoter who shall be remembered only
as “The Poison Dwarf.” Scotland was next, I think; Glasgow
rocked and Edinburg was the worst show I have ever had, thanks to
an incompetent sound engineer and the piercing waves of feedback
he was unable to control. Birmingham was an excellent gig tainted
only by England’s loss to France in Euro 2004 and the violence
that ensued on the street afterwards. Much, much drink was consumed.
London was a bit disappointing because of a noisy crowd that made
it difficult to hear ourselves. Brighton was very nice; I met Andy
at his place and had lunch with he and his 6-year old son, Cass.
We played football in the backyard, drove down to the sea and rode
the attractions on the infamous pier. Oh, and the gig was really
good, too.
We played a lovely pair of old churches that had
been converted into arts centers in Colchester and Norwich before
winding things up with another smasher in Northhampton, after which
Andy was nice enough to drop me off at my hotel near Heathrow.
I slept for a good four hours before packing my
bags again and grabbing a taxi for the dreaded Terminal Four. British
Airways saw me through a very painless direct flight to Philadelphia,
where I had a joyous reunion with my wife who, thankfully, hadn’t
for gotten what I looked like. We spent the evening having an excellent
Mexican meal and strolling through the city. That night feels like
a dream now, one of those brief periods of time where jet lag and
romance coalesce perfectly into an unforgettable memory.
The next day Ethan and Whynot picked me up at
the hotel. After another two hour rehearsal at the gig, we girded
ourselves with some excellent complimentary food and played the
second headlinging show of the Indiana World Tour. Thing were a
bit shaky, but the folks in Philly were very understanding and warm.
The next day we sat in traffic before finally reaching Brooklyn
around 6:00. I went out for a good night of old-fashioned revelry
with the fellows before collapsing into Ethan’s bed with my
wife.
The next day we all headed up to Boston... well,
'headed' being the operative word. 'Crawled' seems more appropriate;
the normal three or four hour drive turned into seven in summertime
Northeastern traffic. The show went on, however. Things tightened
up a bit on our end, the only odd point of the show occuring when
Chris Robinson walked in front of the stage from the venue next
door. After another seven hour trafficy drive the following day,
we attained Hoboken, New Jersey. The gig was helped along by the
45 minute time limit and everyone headed back to Manhattan afterwards.
Ethan and I had a great conversation on the way
to Asbury Park the next day. The gig was the best yet. The next
morning I had an exceptional radio interview at WFUV and a nice
stroll through my old neighborhood that afternoon. The gig at Joe’s
Pub was even better than the night before, capped off with drinks
at 2A that went a little late.
I was waiting on the curb for a car to Newark
Airport the next morning at 6:00. After a frustrating connection
through Atlanta I arrived in Pittsburgh around 3:00. I checked into
the hotel and ordered around $75.00 worth of room service. The fatigue
I had been ignoring since Philadelphia was beginning to overcome
me. Drinking a bottle of white wine and eating a lot of pasta in
the afternoon was probably not the best way to prepare for that
night’s gig, but clarity of mind was difficult to find at
that point. I took a quick nap and headed over to the Club Cafe.
It was actually fun to play a solo gig after so many accompanied
performances. I celebrated by drinking more afterwards with Craig,
Barb, Cole Guerra (the very talented opener) and some old friends
from P’burgh.
Jesus Christ. The memory of dragging myself out
of bed at 6:30 the next morning to get a plane to DC is painful.
My hangover began as we landed in Atlanta and didn’t completely
subside until the completion of a questionable set at the Iota club
that night. I was so bedraggled and sweaty that I slipped out the
back door before having to simulate pleasure in conversation with
anyone. DC, I’m sorry. Will I ever stop letting you down?
The following week in Nashville was relaxing for
the most part. I got out of bed a couple of days after returning
and went into the studio with my brother Jason to record two songs,
one original for a kid’s compilation and one for the Everwood
soundtrack. It was a lot of fun and they both came out really well.
I attended one social event near the end of the week and felt very
uncomfortable, as if coming off anti-depressants for the first time
or, perhaps, receiving a coffee enema. The road glaze took awhile
to wear off. About the time it finally did, I went to Ireland.
I am happy to report that Erin Mckeown is alive
and well. She is sweet as ever and her career seems to be rolling
along at a comfortable clip. Most of the shows I supported her on
in Eire were sold out, and I, for one, am not suprised.
I made a stupid mistake of booking myself on three
different flights en route to Dublin so that I could stay with my
beloved British Airways. The connections were a bit rough and I
missed two flights. By the time I got to Dublin I was tired and
overcome with self-doubt. Erin and Anna, her tour manager, picked
me up and we drove straight to Letterkenny, a six hour jaunt that
aggravated my sciatica but allowed me to get to know my new lady
friends a little better. It turned out that we were staying at a
huge Radisson that was housing the gig and had a gym, swimming pool,
steam bath and sauna. I heavily indulged in all of these over the
next two days in an effort to regain my youthful charisma and positive
outlook.
Next we set off for Galway, which was nice to
look at but a bit rushed and hard to remember. Limerick was exciting.
Cork is one of my favorite cities in Ireland and also turned out
to be one of my favorite gigs. My suprisingly controlled intake
of alcohol was serving me well by this point and I was beginning
to feel like a champion again. We played a lovely little arts center
in Cobh that had huge windows opening onto the sea. Whelan’s
in Dublin was as good as it felt two years ago. I indulged myself
with Erin’s champagne and a few too many pints; the whole
damn thing was beginning to feel a bit too much like a field trip
instead of a tour and I took it upon myself to kick out the jams
a little. No one seemed too concerned one way or the other.
The girls said goodbye the next day. I did a few
radio sessions and spent the rest of the day in Dublin by myself,
which might have been the perfect way to regroup. A nice return
to St. Stephen’s Green and a fruitless shopping expedition
for Nat turned out to be just the right amount of decompression
before returning home.
Which I finally have. I’m now writing from
the sofa in my living room, which has an excellent view of two supine
dogs, a festively-colored kitchen and the same green couch I have
owned since 1995. I am looking forward to being here for awhile.
There’s a new batch of songs to finish that I hope to begin
recording for another record before the end of the year. Nat and
I are moving into a new house in December or January, as well, so
there’s a massive yard sale to be planned and executed before
we take off for Europe again in September. Next month we are supposedly
embarking on some sort of cleansing fast that involves fruit juice,
supplements, heavy colonics and a possible run at smoking cessation
for me. (Don’t give me any shit if I’m still doing it
next time you see me, though; I’ll only be agitated into smoking
more. Boo-Hoo.)
As I write, Indiana continues its very slow but
steady climb towards the top spot on the Billboard charts. It’s
being released in continental Europe and Japan on August 6th; New
Zealand, Australia and Japan are coming up soon after that. I have
always dreamed of a world-wide campaign such as this but am slightly
shocked at the amount of energy required in backing the fucker up
with a little touring. It always looked so sexy in the magazines
when I was growing up. I try to make it sound sexy for you all when
I write it down in these things, but I wonder if you have begun
to see the holes in the plot. Obviously, I’m far from being
in the middle of a Bon Jovi video; it’s still sexy, but I
guess too much sexy makes you feel a bit whorish sometimes. I try
to keep my mind on the journey and not the destination so that I
can honestly spare you all of this Noel Coward crap. I am not always
successful. Sometimes, in moments of weakness, I return to the business
plan I’m drafting for a gourmet market in my new neighborhood.
(“Claire, sweetie, don’t talk to me about DDT; of course
we have organic!”) I apologize if you have or ever do witness
me in the middle of being unsuccessful. Feel free to pinch me but
do not be alarmed if I respond with a bone-shattering roundouse
kick; or, perhaps, a solitary tear.
That’s about how it looks from down here.
It’s about time for another 95 degree smoke break on the porch.
Tennessee is melting and so am I, happily. Hope to see you sooner
than later, wherever you are.
Sweet Dreams,
DAVID
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