Repeat Offender (part 1 of 3)

"How I wish everyone had decent work. It is essential for human dignity."
—Pope Francis

Meanwhile, I did it again. I went out there and played some shows. I kind of had to. Or at least it felt like it. What with Human Dignity on the line and all that. If I’m not working somehow, who am I? Besides, it seems like everywhere I go, people are showing up for their gigs. Stocking the shelves at Trader Dog's, filming Pope Francis documentaries in exotic locales, selling purple Doc Martens at the mall. And damn, if the Guitar Center where I picked up a pack of strings somewhere in the Florida Panhandle on my way to the 30A Songwriters Festival didn’t turn out to be positively bustling. 

It’s called working for a living innit?

Innit?

It seems like yesterday. Stephie was reading the New York Times and said out loud, “This Wuhan Virus could really make things difficult.” And I was half listening and was all, “Yeah? So what else is going on?” I paid no mind. We had a new record coming down the pike and gigs booked all over creation. Those weren’t going anywhere, right? As I’m sure you remember, the days leading up to the shutdown didn’t really seem out of the ordinary. Even though life as we knew it was about to come to a screeching halt.

Now all that seems like 17 lifetimes ago and six weeks at the same time, though mileage may vary. (To you it might feel like 26 lifetimes ago and six days at the same time.)

Then, between variants, an opportunity or two came up, then another and I said yes. Yeses open doors, noes lead to broken windows. Gigs a couple months away, in Georgia and Florida, no less. I’m talking states where while they're not exactly overrun with Taliban, let’s just say the Taliban might be tolerated.

And since I already had a couple of Pandemic tours under my belt, the new world out there had come into focus. Sort of. As in, things like refunding tickets would have seemed like a nightmare two years ago. Now? Nobody seems to give a hoot. Typically. 20% of the ticket buyers don’t even show up. People are rolling with it. Or maybe just numb to the steady stream of discouraging breaking news updates. Not much changes in the end, actually. It’s just like it ever was except about 40% less fun.

Sure there are risks: airlines and hotel rooms and Sartre-esque clusters of people everywhere (hellish!). Sound guys. Nasty mics. Sexually transmitted diseases (I assume). Crimes against Hungarians. And Covid, Covid, Covid, times infinity in a hall of mirrors. But there’s also a risk that the whole ecosystem could collapse. And not just like those wilting boom stands that are stripped. I mean the whole deal. The clubs, the sound people, the door people. And with supply chain issues, at this rate they may even run out of folk singers to book. Until somebody figures out a way to re-boot this whole mess, this might just be the shape of things for the near future.

These occasional solo tours are not so bad. Me, a guitar, a rental car and my interior dialogue to keep me company. I call it doing the hand-to-hand combat.

The day came and I was ready. Tanned. Rested. Well, one out of three. And even if there’s a lot of political noise out there, and people who have strong opinions about things like science and religion, the stage remains my church and my job is to bring a group of strangers together and make them into a community for 90 minutes or so. If they don’t agree with every word that comes out of my mouth, that’s cool. Hell, if they don’t like every chord, that’s okay too. All I know is that they all left the house and had to find a place to park and they have to decide how much alcohol it’s okay to drink to be a responsible citizen or just not to get a DUI and have to sit in traffic school and endure the jokes of failed comedians. It’s because of those folks that I’m not one of those guys teaching at traffic school myself.

This time was no exception. The day before, I’d had to make my lists and check them twice, and in the morning say goodbye to Stephanie and the couch. And “get after it,” as Chris Cuomo used to say.

After, of course, spending some quality time cooling my heels at my third home (after the van) through the years: the airport.

NEXT UP: PART 2 OF 3 – A BLOW-BY-BLOW OF DAYS 1 THRU 4