July 1 – Santa Monica Pier and Luna Park, Los Angeles
Cold ocean air brushed it’s winds up against our skin, sneaking up under our arms as we clasped our hands around our chests and shivered. The pier stretched out into the eerie off-shore of Santa Monica and I wondered how July ever consented to such a cold first day.
Heather, Kenny’s wife, hovered nervously around the dock’s entrance. She’s out here in LA with us to celebrate Kenny and her (much delayed) honeymoon (they got married 4 years ago). She’s terrified of the water and she paced back and forth near the parking lot gate wearing a beige hood and blue jeans, until Kenny slipped her a little sumn’ sumn’ allowing her to move slowly, like a fawn, toward the stage. The stage rose like a comedian against the water line and fit in, UN-delicately with the Santa Monica Pier amusement park which danced across from it with lights.
Despite the cold, there was a 3000 person turnout when got on stage. People staring up at us from their beach towels and blankets. They looked up through folds of sweat shirt and terry cloth. I asked the stage producer to let me know when we were at our 1/2 way mark. I was surprised to see her flag my attention down just two songs into our opening slot set. “Half way,” she mimed. We were supposed to have a 35 minute set but the public announcements ran over time and our set had been cut to 27 minutes. We managed to get five songs in.
Even though the pier was packed, I could pick out all of my friends faces. My brother and his girlfriend, Bridge, stood out the clearest and I focused on their smiles. It was a GREAT time.
We didn’t have but a second to break down and run screaming through the neon boulevards toward Hollywood to the 2nd show.
Madonna was having her private rap party for her latest movie in the upper 1/2 of the club we were playing and so as we stood outside of Luna Park setting up and waiting in the parking lot, to go into play, we got to watch girls wearing tall and glitter and men wearing their polished buffed meat suits, strut in to see Madonna.
In comparison to playing the Santa Monica Pier to 3000 faces, Luna Park was like my living room. It was late and slow, so we took requests and laughed a lot, disclaiming: “We’ve never done this song before….”
Outside at 12:30, Madonna invited us in. Someone had puked on Moby and we had to load her up carefully so as to avoid getting the “accident” on us. I was too tired to party and so I left the boys to whoop it up on Madonna’s tab.
LaLa land blurred its light garden and I was beat. The electricity takes it out of me, makes me feel like those Lost Angeleans have their fun on my energy account. I’m glad to be headed up the coast.
July 2 – The Coach House, Santa Barbara
The Coach House reminded me of the Galaxy in Santa Anna the last time we trundled through Cali. It’s a very large space decored out with tables and candles and decks and dips and tears and pits and the feeling that the past could wait to until tomorrow. Time was an episode. It seemed to live in different rooms yet stay contained within the building and so I traipsed in and out and through the hours made available to us by Coach House walls. The dressing room was 3am drowning in dark brown walls, dressed in futons and tables that apparently wouldn’t sell at last year’s yard sale. I did my vocal exercises there and dressed, bouncing my image off of the slanted mirror propped up between the table and the wall. Dinner took place in a room ensconced by afternoon. Swordfish for everyone but me (unless it’s line-caught I won’t eat the endangered species). I ate rice and veggies and threw in my googley false teeth in-between bites just to freak everyone out. Brian and I went rollerblading out in the sunniness of the last bit of day light Santa Barbara wore. Of course this was at 7:30pm seeing as though the beach blade was exempt from the strange time limitations of ‘The Coach House.’ As we skated by, people exhaled the end of their beach day as they shook out their towels and picked up their babies from under brightly flavored umbrellas. Sea gulls surfed facing the wind and pelicans swooped for dinner. Chris jokingly said he’d put pelicans on our rider and that’s why they were out here. The kitchen, through which it was necessary to cross to get up to the dressing room, was stuck at 6am and a very competent chefstress prepared and prepared and prepared and smoked and jigged out to the radio which seemed to only play ‘Free Bird’ over and over although it may have also played ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ once too. The bathroom not only consumed 1am, it also lurked near third world border lines. The lighting reeked pale green over the toilet and there was only cool water available, which trickled and kicked from a shower head in an unlit white plastic closet. A kitchen cloth hung damp from a towel rack to dry with.
The concert could have been going on all day. It could have started after our sound check, for all we knew. We were too confused by the way time threw herself so recklessly, like a tantrum, into the building to be very aware that there was, in fact a FREE SHOW happening, and that we were meant to star in it. But by the time we got on stage, the audience was so burnt out, the show may as well been going all day!
I stood above the crowd tucking them into places I thought they’d feel more comfortable. Children sat diligently upright and parents slouched crossarmed, apparently daring me to keep their children awake. On stage, it was 12 midnight and I wondered how long it had been that way. There had already been 2 other acts proceeding us and I wondered whether their sets seemed so long as ours did. I raced forward through our sets but at the end of the night it seemed I’d gotten nowhere. It was still midnight, I was still on stage, children still sat, parents still folded their arms and I felt beaten up, as thought I’d been up there jousting with time, and lost.
The night outside cooled me and sleep was made lightly in the neck pillows and coverlets on the van ride to the hotel, some 20 miles away from beautiful Santa Barbara. We arrived just around the rounded edge of morning 4:00 am (real time) and leapt with acceptance, relief and forgiveness into the haphazard timelessness of our dreams.
July 6 – Day Off #3, San Francisco
The coolness of autumn hung off the corners of our breaths. Morning (as we refer to 12 noon) came and brushed sun over my slumber. It washed on my face as I lay on the floor, my bed, in Mrs. Judy Delucchi’s beige carpeted office on the second rising. The Delucchi’s (Chris’s parents) have been kind enough to put us up for our 3 days off in the Bay area. It’s astounding to me…… The Delucchi’s are actually a “family.” Judy and Bob are married and their kids are beautiful and stable people who seem to be able to take responsibility for their lives. Most importantly they all really like each other. It was so cool to be surrounded by them over the holiday weekend. Judy made me feel more at home than I feel in my own home and Bob is the hugest character. He spent most of the time out by the pool BBQ-ing and telling shot gun jokes. No sooner had one punch line flew than the next joke was out at the starting gate.
I splashed water on my face, de-wrinkled my back, and went for a little jog. When I got back the boys were up. Chris D. was chopping fresh fruit, Kenny was cooking up some french toast, Heather was packing upstairs and Brian was cleaning leaves out of the pool and talking, head bent to shoulder, on his cell phone. Poor Brian, every leaf that he hoisted with the big blue strainer blew directly back into the water.
Chris D. said over breakfast, that we’d been given an invitation to visit the historic San Franciscan Anchor Steam Brewery this day. We would have liked to wait til evening to take our private tour but Tom (our host who’d been at the show in Sonoma) said they were ready for us “now” and so we filed into Moby and down the town to the Anchor Brewery.
When we got there, the entrance smelled like hot cereal and the carpet looked like grapenuts. There was already a tour in process but Tom and Dan pulled us around by the way side and gave us the “Gooch De Larente” tour…. Extra Cool.
Our first stop was downstairs where the Lavern and Shirley bottling went down. A bunch of men in white coats were in charge of seeing that all went smoothly. When we got down stairs Chris (who’d also been at our show) caught some beers as they slid by on their way to be labeled, and handed them to us before they’d even been capped: “This is as fresh as they come boys.” He said.
And thus we started the Willie Wonka tour for adults. We Ummpa Lummpa-ed along to Dan’s comical shpeil on the history and the making of Anchor beer. The tour was Great! There were T-shirts, hats, pins, cards, CD’s, comedy, and beer. Way too much beer for the afternoon in fact and thus we stumbled out looking for our way to dinner.
July 7 – Cafe Tomo, Arcada, CA
Through the Red Wood Forest we drove stopping along the way for a picnic lunch where the benches and tables had labels which warned us “DO NOT FEED THE BEARS,” as though we needed to be told. If we’d seen a bear, giving it a little turkey club would be the last thing on my mind. We sat in the grass and made each other sandwiches from cold cuts we’d bought at the last crunchy co-op we’d run across where we actually witnessed for the first time ever, the infamous “dumpster dive.” We were in the parking lot sitting inside Moby, doors swung wide open, hot in the breakfast rising sun. Kenny had just finished the last of what he wanted of his egg salad sandwich and had gone out side to throw it over the ledge of a deep green dumpster. Not soon after did a large band of crunchy hippies drive up in a brown Mystery Machine. Like 30 dread heads rolled out dude wearing a lot of … you know man, hemp products and well…. one of them gives his friend a leg up and over the ledge he goes and what do ya know, he comes out with the remainder of Kenny’s egg salad sandwich and like all thirty of them run back to the mystery wagon and close the door. It was so crazy man and while we couldn’t see them any more, we could imagine them all divvying up Kenneth’s tinny scrappy doo sandwich between the 30 of them.
OK so the show. Well, it was so so so great. Lincoln, our promoter called us on the road before we got there and asked us if we wanted him to book some hot spring tubs for us after we finished with sound check. That’s just an example of the generosity which poured out in to our cups from Cafe Tomo. They fed us sushi dinners and drinks on the house and put us all up in this grand hotel on the square with claw foot bath tubs and dark wood furniture and gave us fruit bowls and put their hearts out on their sleeves. We felt so welcome.
After we all showered up and watched some of the Lynard Sknyard VH-1 Special we went over to check out the opening act. Cafe Tomo is a really cool venue. It’s just off this huge square in the center of Arcada which is sort of on a hill and so everything sort of falls away gently from the center square. Inside Tomo feels clear, like water. The cafe, come to think of it, feels sort of like a swimming pool full of your friends. The floors are lightly silky wood for dancing and the stage is waist high and faces east. The woman who opened for us was an acoustic act who enjoyed teaching the audience the chorus to her songs in hopes that the audience would sing along. She sang about butterflies and gypsies and saving the trees. I felt very at home with the whole night. People were dying to dance and they swirled and twirled doing the dances we refer to as: “the chicken” detectable by flailing bent arms moving in and then away from one’s sides, and the “box,” come on, you know it…you’ve done it too….It’s the dance where you make little boxes in the air with your hands and then you push them away in back of you. If you ever went to a Dead Show you know what we’re talking about.
We had a great time. People just kept on fueling our music with their dancing and loving and smiles and the end of the night came too soon. We can’t wait to get back there. Good people, good food, a good time had by all, and to all a Good Night.
July 8 – The Ashland Creek Bar and Grill, Ashland Oregon
Everyone told us we’d love Ashland: “Oh it’s such a quaint town,” “The people are so nice and down to earth,” “It’s so pretty,” “It’s so humble,” “It’s just as sweet as pie,…and the Shakespeare festival is going on there.” But Ashland was spoiled for us by the club we were supposed to play and so while we were able to acknowledge that Ashland was indeed beautiful and sweet and full of thespians, we never really got to enjoy it.
We arrived after swaying up the coast line from Northern California. It took us 5 hours to get there on time and when we did, we were all severely sea sick. There was a nice wooden bridge over a creek which emptied into the venue. When we got into the bar it was empty except for some folks having a bite out on the patio and a bartender whom Chris asked:
“Is the sound man here yet?”
“No sound man tonight, Peter, the owner didn’t feel like hiring one.”
“Is the owner here?”
“Do you know when he’s coming back? If there’s not going to be a sound man then someone’s got to show me what equipment you got.”
“Uh nope.” He apparently didn’t know too much of anything. So we decided to investigate the stage situation ourselves.
When we went to the stage it was empty…no mics no cables no monitors and only a tinny little board and a couple straight mic stands not meant for guitar player/singers. I felt sick to my stomach and then I turned ’round and caught sight of one of our posters. Under my picture they’d promoted me as “The daughter of James Taylor and Carly Simon.” Which we’d asked them not to do. The reasons we don’t like to be promoted that way are numerous: #1 Because it turns us more into a circus act than a band. #2 We’re trying to create a career of our own and to be promoted in reference to my parent’s careers contradicts what we’re trying to accomplish #3 It gives drunk people full liberty to come up and ask/tell me inappropriate things like “Dude I think I slept with your mom in the 60’s.” “I’m your father’s illegitimate child.” “I’m an old friend of your parents, I met them once at a Yankee’s game and so I need to get their address.” “Who is ‘You’re so Vain about?” “I might be wrong but I don’t think you mother was wearing a bra on that on that Anticipation cover. Am I right?” You get the idea. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents tremendously and I love their music. But no one, an I mean NO ONE, wants to talk about their parents all night! And we ask venues very nicely and contractually not to bill us in relation to them. So when we walk in the door and see the posters that we’ve sent them with my parents names selling our show, what we see is a big “Fuck You.” And so the billing, the long curvy drive and the fact that apparently no one at the venue gave a shit that we’d come to play their joint made us feel like anything but playing a show.
Still slightly woozy from the car adventure, we stumbled and bumble back across the bridge toward Moby. It was a beautiful sunny day and we sat down out side at the corner cafe for a group meeting and a little distance from the situation at hand. We had two options: #1 To leave. To just pack up the van close the doors and drive off. Or #2 To suck it up and play. We felt like leaving we were so upset. But we also realized that to leave would be to take out our anger on the crowd who were planning on coming out to see us and it’s not their fault that the people who own the bar are idiots. I mean, we came to play, and so after much discussion and ventilation, we decided to ignore the stupidity that we’d encountered thus far, and do the gig.
We loaded in and set up what equipment was available to us and sound checked. We watched some of the Tour De France on ESPN which blared and continued to play, tauntingly through out our set over above the bar. I was not much in the spirit of music. I felt raped by the night, my lungs too skinny to breath. The audience was small but attentive and helped us pull it together enough to have a decent set. People danced and seemed to enjoy themselves. And the knowledge that we’d never have to play The Ashland Creek Bar and Grill again brought enough of a smile to our faces that the grimaces were partially masked.
After the show, we very politely thanked them for having us and loaded out. The night tasted like sugar. It was so wet and maple-ly that the wind struggled to make it’s way through the viscous sticky sweet air that had made it’s trees stiff and cotton candy like.
Sometimes before I get on stage I have to remind myself to rise above it all, all the noise I mean, that I make inside my own head, so that I can hear the cleanness of the music. I remind myself I have to be stronger than the fears I’d have consume me and break me and make me able to have to give up……again…and again….. and again……and then, from there, from the quiet, from the strength of my silence, I can start the song.
July 9 – The White Eagle, Portland OR
Wendys, that’s where we are, just across from the hotel in the parking lot, waiting for Brian and Soucy to get breakfast…here in the sun and the middle of 1:00…. and here they come to bring that fast food smell to our van. That stench wraps it’s way into the car’s upholstery and lasts for miles and miles and miles. Ketchup and beef and bread and plastic wrapper….mmmmmmmm.
Critters Buggin’ is playing in honor of our trip up to Seattle, an air drummer’s delight. We’re missing the woman’s soccer final on TV but we’re getting it on the radio. I’m so glad that woman’s sports are finally getting the coverage they deserve. Those girls out there on the field, they’re my heroes.
We slept well last night, much better than the night before at “The Goodnight Inn,” where the lights buzzed, the TV floated like they do in the hospitals, the sink dribbled, the key chain was an iron ball, and people fought the way they’re suppose to in places like this, stereotypically next door and through the walls. The bed I slept in was so huge and uncomfortable that I went to sleep with my head pointed east and woke up facing west. I think I swam there.
We got up early (10:00) and Chris and I decided to go for a little joggity jog. But when we got out onto the road I developed one of those cramps that makes breathing hurt. Chris went on ahead of me and I decided to speed walk down the country road we’d veered off onto from the highway, regardless of how silly I looked doing it. It was a beautiful day and I cruised in my tinny, one step in front of the other, strut passing first the trailer parks where the entrance gates said: “55 years and over ONLY,” and then further down the road I speed walked past a cashmire goat farm.
On my way back I felt that unsettling sensation of someone else’s company and turned around to see a kid who must have been fourteen or fifteen, wearing a white baseball cap backwards and kicking at a stone across the street. When I looked back he looked up and I waved. I felt a rush of fear and then I heard footsteps running up behind me. I clenched my eyes shut and preyed he didn’t mean me harm. He slowed down as he caught up to me.
“Uh…what’s you’re name? My uh friends want to know.” He studdered.
“Sally,” I said suprised
“My name’s Rex,” he said and turning around he ran off. I thought of how sad that it was that I’d had to be scared of that sweet young guy.
When I got back to the motel I took a bath because, even though there was a showerhead, there was no shower to be had. And then Kenny and I watched “Lost in Space,” the episode with Athena where Dr. Smith has the showdown with the green viking.
The drive was long but not windy and so I slept mostly. Portland was hot. We were told it had just begun to be summer this past Monday and that it had come just in time “People were starting to get sick of the cold,” some one told me and I all I could envision was a town full of people shaking their fists at the sky and complaining to the weather. I really like it up here on the north of the west. That we had a good show doesn’t hurt.
Again the White Eagle filled in nicely and we got that cool familiar community vibe. People squatted on benches and sat crosslegged on the floor staring and straining the music out of the wrapper; namely us, the lights, the stage and our instraments. I felt, at moments, that we existed outside of ourselves, in memories, on the very outside layer, on the surface of skin where children get their faces painted, look down and see, for the first time without a mirror, the tip of their nose, the bulge of their cheek, and a few bottom lashes. I felt little.
Thank you Portland….Again
July 10 – The Tractor Tavern, Seattle WA
It took us longer than we’d expected to get to Seattle and my nerves were slightly tangled and caught up in the not so favorite memories of our last Seattle gig at “The Sit and Spin.” The game room/bar/restaurant/psychedelic retro venue/laundromat, where our turn out had been next to nil and the fun factor, despite the gaming room, walls plastered in board games, was low to say the least. Every one had warned me that Seattle was a tough place to play and that was a “10-4,” confirmed and stamped after our first gig up there in March. “Give it some time,” people in the S.a.S. insisted, after that show, “It’ll take a while but word of mouth will spread and you’ll get a crowd out here.” I asked how long, approximately, “a while” was, but they just laughed.
When we got into town it was sunny to everyone’s surprise and delight and we parked up on University hill and walked around. Everyone was out and obviously wearing shorts and tanks for the first time all year. You could tell because everyone either had horrible burns in progress or were so bleach-white they were reflecting the sun. It was pretty frightening actually, Seattle looked like it was populated by vampires. Every one with their pierces, and their black black clothes against their white white irridescent, see through skin. It was freaky.
We ate lunch at Chang’s Mongolian Grille all you can eat restaurant. They cook the food right in front of you on a big hot circular table and you get free ice cream with your meal regularly but each time we’ve been there they tell us that their ice cream machine is broke. I stopped into a side store on the way back to the van and bought some pens for the boys with women whose ink bathing suits drain them naked when you tilt them upside down and I got some chocolate for myself.
The Tractor Tavern is a largish venue with a room for the stage and dance floor and an adjoining room with a bar. The barmaid barely lifted her head as we filed in to check out the room, but she yelled loudly to announce to the sound man that we’d arrived.
We were the first of three bands and therefore, the only band to get a sound check. The other two bands were already from Seattle: “Johnny Astro,” a lounge band that Brian took to fondly referring to as “The batman band,” and another band called “Juke.” We got to hang out and talk shop with them which is one of our favorite things to do. We got from them the lowdown on the Seattle music scene. From what I could tell, the Seattle “live” music scene is in a state of distress. Too many bands, too many venues being converted into DJ’s and electronica disco-terias, and too many people getting jaded about going out to see live music. Seattle also seems pretty xenophobic to me. I hardly recognized any of the names on the rosters for the other local clubs. The guys from Juke said that it used to be that every club had 3 band nights every night of the week and that now it was rare to find a venue doing 3 bands anywhere any time. I guess these folks up here are just burnt out but I felt like I was in a foreign country.
We got on stage at 10 and played in the light of the dark in the hollow, blackness, to the Seattleite’s faces who we could not see but held us up with their hands…clapping….clapping “Keep Going Keep Going Keeeeeppppppp Goooooingggg on!” And so we did. And so we do. And so we are.
July 12 – Zephyr Club – Salt Lake City, UT
If you’re a Mormon and you live in Salt Lake City, you can’t wear make-up, you can’t drink caffeine, you can’t drink liquor (unless you belong to a certain drinking club) and you can’t make a left hand turn. Not anywhere in SLC is there a place you can take a left. Maybe their philosophy is that if you’re not going left, then you must ONLY be going THE RIGHT WAY.
We arrived exhausted from our long journey from Seattle and circled some blocks, passing near The Zephyr, but without a left, we couldn’t quite get there. “Big Ben, Parliament,” we’d all say laughingly as we took the next right and watched the venue grow smaller and smaller.
When we finally got there we were delightfully surprised with both the size and the sound of the place. Everyone there was really nice to work with and all of the sudden it didn’t matter that we had to take the left hand tour of the Mormon City. We had some time to kill before the show and the boys went to eat while I went back to the room to shower and exercise my voice.
The streets were empty on that Monday night as I walked back to the club, and I felt as though I had been miniaturized and was walking through a combination of my childhood’s “Barbie Dream House” and a Dali painting. The sky was pink and golden like the stickers on a Sit N’ Spin, the perfectly undefined white buildings stretched up beyond the sky, as though at their tops Dali had turned them into trees, people in front of me were people, people in back of me were monsters. The emptiness struck me as haunted and I imagined myself, tiny, standing on a single white pearl earring (that some rich camelback rider had lost forever while on vacation), in the middle of the desert, alone.
The Zephyr brought me back to reality. I felt like I had entered a hug. The lights were soothing, the coffee I’d had back at the hotel had given me the lift that I needed and I could taste the joy of confetti and tinsel that I sometimes get from the right amount of caffeine.
A great band was opening up for us, and a good crowd had showed up to see us. Upstairs in our dressing room, a couple of old sandy dogs sat, uninvited, doing lines of coke and drinking our beers. When we asked them to leave they said “yeah, in a while.” So we had to call in the Big Dogs.
The show was great. People danced and had a really good time, as did we. People were so giving and generous. It was arguably the best show of the tour and we were grateful for that. Really Grateful!!!!!!
7/24 – The Howlin’ Wolf, Aspen, CO.
It’s been raining here every day, just for 70 to 100 minutes or so, but the sky opens up so so wide, and because I’m from back east, I’m always sure it will never stop. But it does and by evening, as predictable as night, Colorado is ready for her sunset.
The Howlin’ Wolf has changed locations. She used to live in a tiny Victorian cottage just off main street Aspen, and now she lives underground. Her den is made of brick and it’s light like oranges and spacious despite its being beneath the street.
Aspen is a good vibe, compared to Vail, which always seems sort of like a fast food drive-thru to me. When we arrived in town we saw kids playing with balloons in the fountains across from the Wheeler Opera House and fit people striding briskly on their way from the gym; pre rain, we strode briskly too. We had lunch with our new new new friend Tom, who I had never met before (friend of a friend) but he bought the whole band lunch…. Which makes him almost our favorite person. During lunch, they sky came down and people in their aspen white scrambled from tables outside, wine glasses still in hand, as the ocean from the sky came down. People laughed embarrassedly at themselves as they pulled their slightly transparent clothing away from their bodies and took new seats inside. And there was born a Great Gatsby setting. A new life for our lunch.
It spittled for a while after we left the restaurant but not terribly. Not “run for your life” rain. Not even “duck your head and keep on moving” rain and for some reason we strolled even though we were late for sound check. I forgot to bring strings so I ran to a music store and ran into Mitchell Long, while I was there. Mitchell is a fabulous jazz musician, also in town from Boulder for a gig. He said to come over to his restaurant show between 7-11. He’s Brian and Chris’s guru and when I told them he was coming to our show after his, they both got delightfully nervous.
Paul at the Howlin’ Wolf, invited us to all stay at his pad at Woody Creek. It’s this fantastic cabin in the outside of Aspen. It’s right next to a creek (thus the name: “Woody Creek”) and though the TV didn’t work (thank God) we all curled up in the living room in blankets and couches and watched the only video available to us: “Jerry Maguire.”
After a much needed hour veg, we dressed and went into town to catch some of Mitchell’s Brazilian gig. He was playing under a huge, bright blue, pink, and orange, Mexican painting with a little PA set up behind him. People were there to eat. We were there to watch and admire. We were seated on the patio under a white umbrella heater which “Shhh-ed” and kept us delicately from the night. Mitchell was marvelous. During the concert a waiter, dressed up in a French accent, came to our table. “Can I help you?” he asked to which I responded “I would love some tea.” which he wrote it down as though he might hold it against me in the court of law. “Oh some hot chocolate please,” Requested Rebecca. “No,” said the waiter, and we all looked at him surprised at his out of place reprimanding tone. When he brought me my tea and Delucchi his coffee and Brian his water, he said: “I will have to ask you, if you want another drink, to go to the bar next time. I will bring you these for this time but don’t ask me again,” and I wondered why he’d asked if he could “help” us in the first place. “Just the check then.” I said. It was the first time I didn’t leave a tip in my life. The incident really upset Delucchi. “It’s the kind of thing I HATE,” he said as we strolled up to get CD’s out of Moby, “that _______, ___ ____!!!! That’s so _____ up. What a ______, ___.” He said and he remarked angrily about the incident for the rest of the night.
The show was fun but loud due to the bricks lining the walls, like a pizza kiln. People mostly sat during the first set and danced through the second set while I stood tall above them, my head nearly touching the ceiling in my 4 1/2″ shoes, covered in the red light. Chris got the blue light, Kenny took the green light (after I complained that the green one made me look like Kermit the frog) and Brian got no light at all. Mitchell did indeed come and play with us and we had a famous time just hanging out late night with the Howlin’ Wolf.
Of course, after our 15 minute drive to Woody Creek, I realized that I’d left my camera, my purse, my make-up bag and the merch/mailing list outside of the venue on a table in the middle of the night and Chris had to drive me back at 4 am to get them. I was just so jazzed that it was all still there.
We got back at quarter past, and passed out, in the little rooms next to the Woody Creek river.
7/17 Chataqua House, Boulder CO
It’s so nice to be home again. It’s such a luxury to be able to play a show and then drive home, to your own bed, to your own plants, and your own books and your own burrow with all of your own clothes in it, and to be able to take a bath without wondering who was in it last, and to listen to some music without head phones because you know no one else will hear.
Ah beautiful Chataqua underneath the flat irons. Those frontrange mountains that we live up against, all purple and brave. It rained yesterday the way it does in the summers here, an hour here – an hour there – but it hardly stops the sun from coming down at us. It merely cools us and breezes us and reminds us that there is an up in our three dimensional world. The clouds dug across the sky at us like boats, singular and heavy. And they release steadily, drawing water lines across the earth.
We played early. The venue was small and intimate. A community house built in the pre-teen years of the 20th-century, dwarfed by her sister theater “The Chataqua Arena” maybe ten years her senior and beautifully built. I imagined, as Rey the promoter, took me on a mini tour, that this is what it must have looked like inside the Trojan Horse.