“No, I’m on a stakeout, actually.”

Friends,

A dispatch from the motorway. Here in the UK. Where me and my Cumbia Shoes are coming in for a landing at The Garage in London for the final show of the Wake The Dead Tour, Parts I, II and III.

It’s been a heck of a run. Starting up in the Pacific Northwest last October. And criss-crossing the Atlantic. Keeping one step ahead of the blizzards out in the Wild East and bitter cold on the Continent. All the while there’s certainly been no shortage of headlines.

We’ve dedicated the last couple nights’ shows to David Johansen, R.I.P.

Here’s a blurry photo from when I met Johansen at the Chuck Berry tribute at the Rock Hall of Fame in Cleveland.

Like I said here in the newsletter before, he was the coolest. David didn’t give up much. He never did. Yeah, he’s from that generation. Kind of cool and detached. I understand that when Syl Sylvain of the New York Dolls passed away a couple years ago, a reporter asked David for his thoughts on being the last living NY Doll.

"I guess I'm next" was his reply.

I miss guys like that. A vanishing breed. Yeah, and behind all the Aqua Net and eyeliner, a great songwriter. Frenchette, Donna, Heart of Gold, and going back, Lonely Planet Boy. And more recently, Maimed Happiness. (“Life takes a lot of finesse. It's a maimed happiness.”) You said it, David. Like the Buddha taught us, “Life is suffering,” but great music liberates us. So thanks for letting us hang with you in the Mansion Of Fun.

By golly, when this is over I look forward to a long nap on a short couch. Gotta start pumping the brakes now. I've talked about this before but it's a trip and a half. Coming in for a landing from a tour like this you can crash hard. One day you’re no longer rushing from here to there being told where you should be. You’re home, with nothing to do but stew. [see “Summer Camp In Bars,” a previous Substack post.]

Meanwhile, stop me if you’ve heard this before. But, looking back through my notes, turns out that the last time I did a tour like this, I was never really the same. Not for a good while. I was drained. Hollowed out. Couldn’t hardly get off the couch. Couldn’t seem to make a decision about whether or not to go out and get a coffee or even look for the remote.

Eventually, I was just sitting there. Holding a book but not actually reading it. And Stephie sat down in front of me and said, "We need to talk." And I was like, "Wha…?”

And she said, "Are you going to be okay?”

I felt like taking the Fifth, but that didn’t feel right either, taking the Fifth after a simple question from my wife.

So I went out for a walk. Then I saw our van parked on the street. And so I walked over, unlocked the door and climbed up in it and sat there. I turned on the radio and tilted back the bucket seat and closed my eyes, and I’m not gonna lie. I cried. I sat there for a while thinking about everything and nothing like that guy in that song who just wanted a Pepsi. And then someone pulled up alongside and rolled down their window and asked if I was leaving. And I said, “No, I’m on a stakeout, actually.”

And then the person in the car said, “Are you CRYING?”

Onwards,

-CP

P.S. When we’re out here we all look out for each other. It’s important not to leave anything behind. Like the suits, for example. Here’s a picture of Joaquin taking care of business. I call Joaquin the Cumbia Assassin on the bass. He’s from Mexico City. And he got his 10,000 hours playing cumbia in wedding bands and tours. He can play those three notes like nobody’s business. Your last opportunities to see Joaquin and the rest of the Cumbia Shoes taking care of business in the UK are tonight/Tuesday in Southampton and tomorrow/Wednesday night in London.