Blow-by-Blow: Days 1 thru 4 (part 2 of 3)

read Repeat Offender (part 1 of 3) here

Day One:

Packing for a flight to Atlanta with a stopover in San Diego. I am tempted to bring more clothes than I need. Amateur move! Hey, I’m rusty.

I’m wearing jeans. A cardigan. T shirt. I pack my one good tailored black suit. Roll up some t-shirts and socks… zip ‘em up in those little compressible packing cubes. Highly recommended! They’ll make you feel smart. I checked the weather report. And it looks like my destination, Florida – yeah the Sunshine State – is a pleasant 70°. I have no plans to “hit the beach,” sadly, but I do check the Surf Report for kicks. Panama City Beach Surf Reports and Surf Cams say it’s FLAT.

I’ll check my guitar and a big suitcase with a smattering of merch.

(More than you want to know? Don’t be too hasty. You may thank me later. Or am I getting too full of myself? Getting? Or am I second-guessing myself? It’s a thin line. Just ask The Persuaders. I dare you.)

Pretty uneventful flight. I snuggle up with my Kindle. Get in late and shuttle to an airport hotel. The first gig is tomorrow. I could have flown in tomorrow. The day of the gig. But with the unpredictable nature of flying these days, it makes the most sense to fly in the day before. That’s what they tell me, and who am I to argue with them?

Day 2

Tonight is Decatur. Atlanta basically. Gotta shuttle back to the aeropuerto to pick up a rental car. I keep singing to myself, “I left Decatur hell bent to forget…” from The Future’s Not What It Used to Be by Mickey Newbury.

I used to obsess on that song.  Any song that romanticizes homelessness and alcoholism. You know, just riding the rails, dipping a cup of soup back from a gurglin', cracklin' cauldron in some train yard.

Glen Campbell, innit? So romantic. Hobos and tramps. Willie the Wanderer “Living on the road…”

That’s a little irony for you. What they call a soupcon in fine restaurants.

I take the hotel shuttle to the rental car counter at the airport. Biden is in town. And his arrival is dealt with military precision. All the intersections are teeming with Secret Service. A three minute ride turns into something else. I get to know the shuttle driver. She has a record coming out! Her first. Lord help her.

For some reason the line snaking around to the Avis counter is spilling out into the street. People are leaning on the counter. Just standing there. What are they doing? What are they talking about? Turns out there are no cars. Everything has ground to a halt. It’s gonna be a while. A LONG while.

I get upgraded to an SUV. I can work with that.

The gig is at Eddie’s Attic. Easy soundcheck. I like the sound guy. In no time, it’s loud and on the edge. Just how I like my women. [Rimshot!]

Thai food with E Money. And Eric. Good crowd. Good show. My old friend Kevn (to the uninitiated: not a typo! Buy that man a vowel, right ‘Em?) Kinney is there. We do some socially distanced socializing after.

They tell me this can be fun when you get the hang of it.

Day 3

What have I learned so far? Well, like I said before, that there’s no law against fans staying in the same hotel as you. And when you find yourself in the parking garage the following morning after a show staring down a five or six hour drive, there they are – standing helpless around their Prius with a dead battery.

What can you do? Well, you can be like Chuck and give them a jump. When someone produced jumper cables I was like, “Here, let me get that." Because I’m the man for the job. And I know a thing or two about jumper cables and the whole jump start business. I’ve certainly done it enough. I was happy to help. It’s a good feeling. Like being on stage. Something else I know a thing or two about. It feels good to get up there. Asking the sound guy for more me. Getting some laughs. Hearing people calling out for songs I never play. Bantering back and forth with the crowd. Stomping around. All in a night’s work. As someone once told me: “It’s great. Even when it sucks.” And it’s true, I have more good gigs than bad gigs these days. And I’m almost having too much fun to get bogged down by the usual self-loathing, doubt and insecurity that goes hand in hand with the occupation. Besides, there will always be time for that.

Jacksonville. Get to hotel first. I’m digging this part of town. The hotel has beach cruiser bikes. Gonna get up early and cruise around. Yeah, right.

Tib is my man. He’s been promoting shows for us in Jacksonville for as long as I can remember. I can tell he beat me here as soon as I roll into the parking lot. How? Well, I spy his Nash Metropolitan – 1959 in a parking space.

Tib’s Nash Metropolitan. Jacksonville. Photo credit: Chuck Prophet

After sound check, we walked to a Mexican restaurant. They have ceviche on the menu. I go for it. It comes in a parfait like glass. I feel like it’s my birthday. I take it back to the club and eat it backstage by myself. It’s almost like being back down in Todos Santos. Living the Covid dream, baby.

Day 4

Drive to Tampa. Stop at WMNF for some on-air hijinks. Play a song or two on the way to tonight’s gig. 

Tampa is always a good time. A story unto itself. Ronnie Elliot is from Tampa. Underground legend. Like I say, you want to get any more underground than Ronnie, pick up a shovel. Here’s one of my favorite Ronnie songs: Slim Harpo’s Heartbeat.

I still owe a song for a Ronnie Elliot tribute record. I don’t know why I stalled out on that. Some existential crisis or another, I suspect. I’ll make good on it.

Actually, we have a long history with Tampa. The first place in America to give us more than a $500 guarantee. Don’t fact-check me on that. But it’s not far from it, dude. Tampa’s been good to us. We’ve headlined their Tropical Heatwave Festival a number of times. And even got into the cruise ship business with them when they took the Tropical Heatwave Festival to the high seas a couple years back. Did I ever tell you about that?

Stephie with umbrella. Royal Caribbean International's Brilliance of the Seas in background. 2/24/2018 Photo credit: Chuck Prophet

The gig is at Skipper’s Smokehouse: Parker Gispert is opening. I’ve never met him. People tell me, “Chuck, Chuck, Chuck… You’re going to love Parker. Nice guy blah blah“. 

I’m like, “Do you guys ever say that about me?“ 

Turns out they were right – Parker and me were enjoying hanging out before the show and talking shop. 

There’s a problem with the sound check. It’s a digital board. A computer basically. It’s impossible to troubleshoot these things. Sound kid is young and earnest and I’m pulling for him but at a certain point we have to cut bait. He calls his boss. It’s already time for the doors to open and we haven’t gotten one note to come out of the PA. His boss shows up. He comes backstage and says, “Is your wife here?“ “No, not this time.“ He looks very disappointed. And we enjoy a chat. He says he was hoping to retire but couldn’t help himself and threw down everything he had on a delapidated movie theater in Saint Petersburg across the bay. I perk up. 

Everybody’s trying to find their footing with their respective businesses these days. Cricket, who now runs Skipper’s, is running around putting out fires. She was their bookkeeper or something. She tells me how the place has been struggling and on the brink, then she got pulled into taking over as co-owner. She says without the music they don’t have much. “This is not a destination for food. People don’t think of us like that. People think of us as a music venue.” So, the Skipper’s pandemic takeout business hasn’t exactly gone gangbusters. “And yeah, we got a couple grants from the government that have come and gone. We’re going on two years now. Still struggling.” Cricket puts love into all of it including the key lime pie I wolf down.

The gig is kind of an institution. I see a vintage CP poster on the wall from I’m guessing 1999, Hurting Business era. Someone has drawn a Hitler mustache on my face with a Sharpie. I didn’t know my old friend Andy Taub has been here.

Poster on backstage wall. Skippers Smokehouse, Tampa. Photo credit: Chuck Prophet

It’s a good 400 plus miles to tomorrow’s gig in Santa Rosa beach. After a huddle with the Home Office, I decided to get a leap on the next day’s drive and get an hour and a half closer to the next gig after the Tampa show. 

I don’t know if I’m brain dead or just stupid or distracted by the riveting NPR news. I mean the steering wheel was obstructing the view of the gas gauge. But I realize I’m in the middle of nowhere completely on empty. No gas station in sight. For the next half hour I say all kinds of prayers. I make God all kinds or promises. Or to anyone who’s listening. I roll into a gas station on fumes.

NEXT UP: PART 3 – 200 SONGWRITERS WALK INTO A BAR