"In space... no one can eat ice cream!"

09.19.2006- CST

Blog? What blog??

Oh, MY blog! No, no, I haven't forgotten. Honest, I've been CRAZY BUSY! First the tour. Then as soon as we got back to The Big Crapple, Brandi and I had to pack for our move to Virginia (more on that in a future blog). Why, we didn't even have an Internet connection until a couple of days ago, and then only dial-up. Egad.

Everybody else who does a Gibson blog gets to write a tour diary, and doggone it NOW IT'S MY TURN, bwaa-ha-ha-haaaa!

Eh...look, to be perfectly honest, one tour diary is much like another: long miles, little sleep, "funny things I saw at the truck stop," bad food, bad coffee, and veiled potty humor. Big deal. But I suppose I really must get this rite of passage out of the way before I'm allowed to return to lessons, recording techniques, brand-name shilling, and toenail clippings. Just don't say that I didn't warn you.

"GET THE BUZZ" TOUR DAY ONE:

We force Alan to sleep on our floor the night before so we can be sure he'll be there on time. We're up by 7 a.m. to load the van, scoot across the George Washington Bridge to pick up Terry in Hasbrouck Heights, and then Danny and Skip in Jersey City, where we become blearily (is that a word?) reacquainted with each other as we collectively figure out how to fit a full-size stand-up bass in the van while NOT disturbing Terry's carefully pressed shirts (purchased, apparently, in bulk from either Tractor Supply or Bass Pro Shops) from their hangers.

From there we head to Allentown, PA to play a 12 p.m. live set on WMUH-FM, "The Mule," in the hopes of drumming up attendance at our totally unpublicized show in Philadelphia, a town not known for its affinity for bluegrass music, or really anything else for that matter except fireworks, the Phillies, and clam broth.

After a short nap at the DJ's house, and a lovely afternoon nosh at Traub's Doggies, where they comp our meal in exchange for a free CD and autographed poster (we have no shame at all), we head for the City of Brotherly Love ("where they hug you before they mug you," as my dad says), and the grand opening night of our July tour at Whiskey Dix Saloon, which is everything such a name would imply.

I can recall reading florid descriptions from famed playwright Noel Coward’s diaries about opening nights where his dressing rooms overflowed with lavish bouquets and gushing well-wishers' telegrams. Alas, telegrams are a thing of the past, we don't have a dressing room, and the only flora we see is growing up the walls behind the bar. When we walk in with our instruments and announce we're there for our sound check, the bartenders look at each other and laugh so hard they spit masticated pretzel out of their mouths, some of which sticks to the beer taps. They don't wipe them off. Not an encouraging sign by any respect.

At 15 minutes to showtime, the manager fixes me with "the hairy eyeball" and politely asks, "SO WHERE ARE ALL YOUR ****ING PEOPLE?" while chewing an aluminum beer can in half. I look around the completely empty bar and ask, "well...*ahem* where are all YOUR people?" This seems to flummox him, and I beat a hasty retreat to eat a cold, soggy cheese steak drenched in rancid catsup while he works this one out...

Amazingly, three real live human beans do show up, one of which is my old buddy Brendan Skwire (former bass player for Jim & Jennie and the Pine Tops), bless his heart. "Oh yeah, Philly totally blows for bluegrass dude!" Now he tells me. We play, we cut the set short, we make $35. Exactly enough for half a tank of gas.

Oh, but the night is still young! In order to make it to Galax, Virginia the next day in time for a 3 p.m. sound check, we must get in the van and drive AT LEAST another 4 hours tonight to Winchester, Virginia, where we are bedding down in a motor lodge thoughtfully selected for us by Brandi for its vintage neon sign (and which also featured real vintage sheets). After an ill-advised detour on a rural route, a traffic jam in the middle of nowhere, and a refueling stop -- we're so tired by this point that all of us think we see an army of bird-eating spiders all over the highway -- we finally make it to the motel at 5 a.m., where the night clerk, who seems to have had a helpfulness bypass operation, demands to see everybody's picture ID before she grudgingly scoots the room keys through the metal security drawer.

Once we get into our rooms, we each find a sign posted on the wall that explains their seemingly irrational mania for hyper security:

Still confused? Upon closer inspection we find this item near the bottom:

AH, so it all becomes clear. "Last night was a neutron bomb!" quickly becomes the byword for our gig at Whiskey Dix Saloon. Other catch-phrases follow, sadly none of which are printable here. But the next time you see us live, do pull me aside and ask me in private for Terry's nickname.

DAY TWO:

Up at 7:00 the next morning, and with a nourishing gas station breakfast of Route 11 potato chips ("Gulf Shrimp & pickle" flavor) and dirty dishwater coffee in our bellies, we head off down Highway 81 for Galax, where we are scheduled to play the lovely Blueridge Music Center, a large open-air amphitheater in the mountains of southwest Virginia. The PA is magnificent, the sound men are professional, polite, and competent, and there is a hospitality table thoughtfully laid out for us backstage with palitable sandwich makings and beverages. This is a good omen.

We use our remaining time to rehearse, smooth rough spots in the set, learn a new song that Danny wants to sing, and make fun of Terry's shirt, after which I engage in the ancient Native American pre-show ritual of of pacing like a caged baboon until showtime, chewing nicotine gum until the muscles in my jaw stand out like stalks of broccoli.

As it transpires, we have moved from the profane to the sacred in the space of 24 hours: there's a full house, the gig is fantastic, we leave the stage to thunderous applause, feeling quite pleased with ourselves, we sell a goodly amount of product after the show, and all references to archaic nuclear weaponry are forgotten.

The promoters have arranged for us to stay overnight at the Galax youth hostel. Although we all privately fix each other with "the raised eyebrow of understanding" when we hear this news, it actually turns out to be quite nice, and run by a fine old gentleman whose wife has a fondness for origami. The place is deserted save for one Swedish nurse (sorry boys, gender separation in sleeping quarters is strictly enforced), and we decide to live it up a bit.

Now, as all performers know, there is a particular adrenalin buzz after a show that makes one more or less susceptible to the prurient desire to "PAAAAR-TEE" (this word, for some bizarre reason, only sounds right when hooted in a faux-California surfer accent, with the final syllable at least 2 semi-tones higher than the first). In the Dixie Bee Liners, there are some notable exceptions to this rule: Brandi, Danny, and myself find it easy to call it an early night, whereas nothing less than a dart filled with shellfish toxin in the cardioid artery is perhaps the only fail-safe way to put Alan down.

Nevertheless, it was fairly easy to talk ourselves into a rather modest post-gig soiree that involved chips, beer (yes its true, cats and kitties, bluegrass musicians have been known to sample the hops on occasion), and good-natured banter that lasted until the Witching Hour...

...after which we crawled off to our gender-assigned sleeping quarters and commenced to saw some finely aged hickory logs.

Oh yes, I changed my strings this evening with a set of vacuum packed, phosphor bronze Bill Monroe signature Gibson Pure mandolin strings:

If its good enough for Big Mon, it's good enough for me, yessir.

Stay tuned for Part Two...y'all come back now, hear?

bw