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12/02/2005: "the missing tour section between the pacific rim and the hamburg crumble"

NOVEMBER 1 20005


Halloween was successful. Sofie had done up the kids to make up for last year when we were hit with the news of her mom dying and had to fly back to denmark.

So this year no detailed was spared. Luka was a punk rocker. Sof did him up in a spiked necklace and metal riveted bracelet. She sewed a bunch of zippers on some stove pipe black pants too. Then she bleached the anarchy symbol on the back of a black t-shirt and wrote the clash on the front with ‘London calling’. She mohawked his hair and sprayed it blue. A touch of mascara under the eyes to top it off. He fell right into character like an actor, only I think it was an easy part for him to play. He then set to break dancing, punk rocker style.

Talula was a fairy princess. Sof dolled up her dress by sowing all kind of silk swirly things on it, added removable sheer wings, a magic wand that glistened, and an amazing hand made crown made out of golden metal wire and crystal jewels. It was a real royal crown.

I threw on a skull wall decoration I found at a club in san Francisco last year. Done.

We skirted the hood in a posse with brad denbore (thermos from doo rag) and his kids, done up as a gypsy and a Japanese cowboy. Both our littlest ones were born on the same day.

When the kids buckets got too heavy for them to carry, we spent the remainder of the evening over at patti’s mom’s house, which is the house rainer died in. this place has always been the spot we gather during the holidays. Big family hoo doo and tons of home made Mexican food.

That was that. Home then. Linda ray dropped off a sign to protest the arrest of the two folks that were trying to help a severely hurting father and son during their time of need trying to cross the desert from mexico last summer. Too many migrant workers die along the way since the desert this side of the border is way more treacherous and hotter then the one they are familiar with in mexico. It’s a constant heartbreak.

As we were cleaning up the house a bit, an interview came over the local community radio station (kxci). It was kurt Kirkwood talking up his new solo record. There are some weird things about the parallel existence of our two bands over the years. It mostly doesn’t figure or make any sense or real connection. I can’t even go into it. But it is there to even if I don’t know what to do with it. It’s like 2 different parallel worlds that can never really meet without disastrous ramifications. The clincher tonight was him talking about Montana. I have been making plans to retire there and open up a truck stop for wayward bands that travel that endless spans between seattle and minneapolis.
I found the location there in Livingston. And already have the name: TRIPLE 2 TRUCK STOP. A homage to the Tucson triple T truck stop, and to the fact that every phone number in Livingston begins with 222. A good omen, I think.

So there he was yammering about Montana.
There was a time when we almost got to be friends.
His brother has the same birth date as me. And I liked hanging with his brother chris when the chance was there.
Then there was the time we both released a record with a strikingly similar cartoon cover. That was weird. He drew his and I drew mine and they both had cartoon clouds.
They were released at the same time. And there was a phone call from kurt once, asking if I would be interested in playing guitar for the puppets.
That did not ever really play out though.

And I think Bettina was instrumental in getting them signed to a label she worked for called london. And now she has her own label I record for called thrill jockey. There’s other stuff too, but that’s the jist of it.

So that was Halloween. A little scary fun. A little ghostly.
And kind of haunted.

This morning I got the kids off to school. They had a candy hangover and were restless and rambunctious. I still needed to pack for my plane leaving in a few hours for more solo tour. got the kids to school late again.
This happens every day. I suck that way.
But it was good to have that extra time with them and its kinda cool to have it walking through school when the halls and playground are all empty and quiet.
It gives our conversations more of a memorable surreal tinge. I think we like that.


Then it’s time to head off to work.
Good work if you can find it, but the commute is hell.

Sof drove me to work and I always get to the airport late.
They always attempt to lecture me about being that late especially in these times. I can’t care about that. I can only fake caring if I have the energy. And they always manage to get me on the plane anyway, which is one of the reasons I live in a small town. To be late for the plane.

If I would add up all the hours that I would waste my life there waiting for a plane from getting to the airport early, I would just slit my wrists. Airports suck.
They are called terminal for good reason.

Tonight will be Chicago with john parish’s new band and doug mccombs’ opening solo set. I have not yet secured a hotel for me there either. Or spain tomorrow. Some things just fall through the cracks. Too much to manage with all the kids and family poking in to get me to do things.

So I am at odds. What should I really shoot for these days anyhow? I have no idea. I have no ambition.

I heard Kirkwood talking about the same thing on the radio, but it felt like he was lying to himself. Or at least wrestling with the notion of whatever this job description entails.
Maybe I am too.

Maybe I should track him down to have a talk. Maybe just about nothingness at least. Although when he was asked about what local tucson music he might be aware of, he just mentioned seeing calexico in Austin.
That was funny and haunting too.


- - -


I arrive in Chicago.

I amble down alone to the baggage claim.
It takes a while for the bags to come out.
Just the circular motion of the belt. Folks standing around.
It is just one form of despair at the terminal.

Once I collect my bags, it all seems like it is finally too much luggage for a solo tour. I have 2 guitars (one acoustic, one electric) one small roller bag (filled with my effects pedals and a couple mics and wires), 20 or 30 cds to sell off for ‘tour support’, and a small amount of clothes. I also have a very small back-back for my life on the plane. In it is the cd player and some cdz and dvdz, a lap top computer, the shaving kit, a magazine and some other implements of diversion and work load.

Junk.
Too much of it. I assemble it altogether like a puzzle and roll away to find a cab. The Chicago air is rich in crispy coolness. My taxi driver is dressed like Samuel Jackson in a movie I can’t remember, but it gives a solid comfort to the otherwise dreary ride through traffic and human commute.
Its 5:00 rush hour, but we seem to avoid any. I get to the club and it all comes back to me like an old dream.

The empty bottle. And it is empty, almost. I am let in and it is a small joy to dump my stuff off and secretly hope it all gets stolen. Then I walk through the connecting doors to the ‘bite’ restaurant next door and find the only folks there: john parish and his band. A sweet reunion. Hugs and kisses from the Italians and warm embrace from the French and british.


The weather outside is bleak. The street is a big city bleak street. They unload they gear from the van and don’t let me help. That was nice. We set up. I do my wires and see what works today. Its all good enough.

After their sound check, john and I are meant to do an interview where they photograph us and record us just talking to each other in coversation. Fine.
We are also dressed very similar. Funny that.

Then we catch doug mccombs (tortoise, broke back,
11th dream day) opening the night and he sounds great solo. He sings too, which is something I never knew he would do, and he sounds really wonderful. He is also playing my guitar which sounds better then I thought. (he showed up with one just like it, but no pick-up yet…so)

Then john parish and band took the stage. They sounded better then ever. I heard their first show a year and a half ago in a tiny village in italy, rough and shambolic, but great and every time since then they have sounded better and better. I got up in the set with doug’s small amp and provided some mosquito guitar. Fun.

Then I took the stage. It turned out all right. All the solo touring in recent times kicked in. fortunately. John parish played some drums, and then i got up susan voelz on violin, got up frank orall from poi dog on drums too. got up doug on bass and marta on piano from john’s band. And jean marc on drums too. just more fun.

And then we got to soak up the evening a bit. Lots of old friends and acquaintances. A fellow from Tucson I did not know came up to me to talk cuz he spends time in aarhus denmark too with his girlfiend. Some girl bought me a beer who had never heard of me before, so I think that was lucky. And then the poetress simone muench whom I have not seen in years, showed up and handed me her new book of poetry, which is beyond splendid. she had written the lyrics to a song on one of my ‘upside down home bootlegs’ called spider woman. She is a great writer of such. Sucks me in it does. And Tania bowers also showed up. A stunning woman from Australia, who manages to make very few but very good recordings now and again. Some folks from Madison also drove all the way down to catch the show. And a dad showed up with his 22 year old daughter, who also went as bob Dylan for Halloween like my patsy. Ha.

Bettina (boss of thrill jockey) was looking good especially since I had not seen her since her drastic and successful brain aneurism operation. All seemed to go well on this little incidental coincidental layover to the european solo tour.

So then we loaded up john’s rental mini van. Georgia and marta squished together for me to fit. Marco took the wheel. We headed down to the red roof in downtown Chicago. I knew the rooms would be like they were. The windows were locked tight because rooms like these inspire suicidal flippancies. You flip, in them, see ?. they are thick with the trample of human parading over the years. Not good. There is no love in these rooms. They is a residue of something else. Something deadly if you let it seep in. best to attempt sleep as soon as possible and wash the room away with the passing of the moon. These kind of rooms are dangerous in how they hamper the notion of remaining on the road.

At this point, at my age, it usually becomes essential to perk out the details of the road to allow for the most mileage left. When I was younger, this stuff didn’t make a dent. Now it attacks with a deadly thrust. You can feel the despair rise to the surface, waiting for you to see its invisible hate of your kind and its dire disregard for whatever you left behind.

A nasty room. Thick with spell bind. better avoid these rooms. Go to price line dot com and get yourself the swank remedy of something that cost the same but comes with several more stars attached to it. the end.

- - - - -- - -- - - - - --- - - - - -

NOVEMBER 2 CHICAGO


John and I woke up early as men with children are apt to do.

We headed out to the airport. Our different flights, his to los
angeles and mine to Madrid, were coincidentally leaving within 2 minutes of each other at gates directly across from each other. We all had some food. I showed john’s posse around the airport some, knowing it all too well.

And then I took john for a drink alone in the club reserved for people that travel an ungodly amount. We talked of love and passion and how it still comes into play at this age and how it mucks us and we can only serve as witnesses with no resolve, but instead to just know better and figure out exactly how happy we need to be anyway. We clocked in with what it’s like for men of our age up here in such a similar sonic realm. And then the clocked scolded us, and he hurried off to his gate while I meandered a bit more up there on a last minute email or two. I can’t help always fucking with the scolding clock. So I got to my gate just as they were about to write me off. Normal stuff. They took my ticket and before I boarded I turned to stare at the gate across from my own. Got sad then. John and his band had already boarded of course. I lamented the leaving and not having more time to figure out this life with him. And to hug the sweet Italians and frenchy one last time, at least, for good luck.

I got on board my solitary path.

Got my seat. Hung up my hat.

I played me the tribute set for rainer back at the hotel congress in Tucson from the 25 years celebration of the town’s music scene. Jim blackwood, the archivist, made me a cd of it. Have not heard it yet. It will need to be served up with a shot of something on the rocks. Otherwise its all too much sometimes.
Too much and and not enough too.

got to Miami for my connection to Madrid. Not much time there. Very confusing airport. None of the phones worked. I desperately wanted to call home. Hear sofie’s voice. Talk to the kids a bit. Last chance. You never know. Every time you kiss them good night, you have to do it like it’s the last time. You never really know.

No luck. None of the phones were working anywhere. Ran into a woman there who filled me in on that fact. Turns out she was a jazz singer. Almost told her about my love for monk. Instead she told me monk was her favorite and how she would sing a lot of his stuff. I was happily shocked. Then I ran off for the next 45 minutes looking for a phone in an airport where the ac was not working, and the odd November florida heat was there seeping in like it too was trying to hide from the next hurricane.

Anyway… when I finally found a phone I was miles away from my gate. I got the message machine at home. I left the kind of message that begs to be erased. Blah toned and unexplainably lost.

And then I did get a little lost. All the while the clock ticking like a bandit. Might miss this plane. The luggage of my carry on load only vexed me. What is with all this crap ?

Why am I so unhappy all of a sudden.

I find my gate. About the last one on. I am upgraded in business class and I still sulk.
I suck right about now.
Maybe I am missing something.
A mineral or a vitamin.
A vitality or an urgency.

No. I will belly up to the beverage cart.
I am going nuts again I guess.
So.
Plane I ride.



- - - - - - - - - - --- - -

the passenger next to me is also from Tucson I find out. He is coming to Madrid too for business. He works for a weapons or defense company. This has unsettling effects as the night wears on.

I watch a couple of movies:
The interpreter. …not bad. Sean penn always good. The plot is good too. thick with the muck of the world these days.

The ring 2. I have not seen the ring 1, so it could be why this movie is lost on me. Mostly I think the shots are beautiful as is the supposedly disturbing music. It sounds beautiful. But the mom in the movie is scary just thinking she actually makes a living acting. And the son is a funny one and totally reminds me of my son when he is screwing around with me. Makes me miss him a lot. Wish I were back there with him, or have him travel with me alone, father and son style.
To quote Rainer quoting George Harrison:
“ I am quite prepared for that eventuality.”

So. I watch a few scenes of the movie in hopes I can learn something more about humanity and what scares us. But instead I only learn what makes us laugh, and how beautiful water is.

The final film I check out is the old Wilder flick:
“some like it hot”. Now that one has me riveted, but the plane ride ends before its finished.
Drat.

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