April 2005 Archives

go here:

www.cbs.com/latenight/lateshow/exclusives/music/ls_ex_music_raylamontagne.shtml

yum.

if you really want to know the deal about meeting dashboard, email me and I'll send you the story I wrote to the promo people about it. it was part of a charity thing and the guy just totally bombed. he's weak. but I did get a sweet ovation out of the deal.

~vvb

so I just wrote a bunch of stuff that did this experience absolutely no justice at all. I'll keep it real simple:

I saw the shins. from the front row. on tuesday. in a yale courtyard. for free.

check the gallery for details.

~vvb

turn on your music device of choice and press play on "the storm is coming" by ed harcourt.

take away everything but that mesmerizing guitar and a baby grand.

put it on stage in a tiny little club with a few microphones, some acoustic guitar, a little xylophone, one floor tom, some harp, and a dim red light. and about twenty people in the audience, most of whom have come to see the opening act.

now listen to it, to ed and leo singing their souls out. it was late for a thursday night gig in northampton, but the crowd lingered on until the end. for nothing less than pure, true, unadulterated emoting. problems and screams and laughter and stories, and covered microphones made to sound like you were listening through the car stereo. flawless and real, with a red t-shirt and some snakeskin cowboy boots.

I sat writing about it in that half-lit table by the stage, but my words failed so miserably... I'll do the best I can now to take you to the place they took me, until it was after one in the morning and my camera was full of stolen moments.

the evening starts with my standard issue behavior: be freakishly early. I rolled into town around 8:15, and the doors weren't opening until at least 9:45. now, for an all ages colin meloy show, I'd be at the end of the building. for ed harcourt, it's a ghost town. a more refined crowd perhaps, definitely not the same swarm of seventeen year old girls that stand mesmerized in front of the stage.

there's only one of those tonight, and she's got the first place in line. with some raspberry apple tea from the haymarket and her weetzie bat book, and a bunch of the opening act's family and coworkers and friends behind her. talking about rice pudding and who is this ed guy she's playing with? I wasn't exaggerating - most of the crowd was there for her, and stayed for him.

ed and leo walk past suddenly and don't hold the door for each other, so there's the banging clunk of guitar cases and amps where there shouldn't be. I would have been in the way if I went for the door. I didn't hold the door.

"I didn't hold the door," I say to the family / coworker crowd. now I'm fifteen. they giggle. so do I.

I redeem myself the next time leo comes by. it's less intrusive and an easy reach, I'm not in the way, he says thanks. I tell him I can't wait for the show. he's happy, but almost surprised. about fifteen minutes later they let us in, and the evening begins.

I've never been in the iron horse when it wasn't fairly full. not only was it a little sparse, but they had left up the tables and chairs. having the pick of the place, I stay off the floor, stage right, and claim a seat, a trip to the bathroom, and a diet soda. leo's behind me, fiddling with his laptop. be bold.

"hi, I'm victoria."

"leo. hi." smiling englishman, twelve o'clock.

"I was wondering what your photo policy is - I don't flash." this seems to be the standard line, my not flashing sentence. it gets a laugh sometimes, but I usually say it without thinking, because it's what I hate the most - it's like sneezing in a perfect moment of silence or suspended note or something.

"our policy is for you to take them," he grins. "we love it."

"great - it's really cool to get to hear you guys in a place like this. I've only heard a few songs, on KEXP from the in-studio."

"wow. and you're here?"

"yes. I'm saving up to move out west, and I'm not really spending money on things, but my friend and I decided that I needed to be here."

"I hope we don't disappoint you then!" all leaning and looking and eye contact making. he's cute, and carries himself like a sensuously brilliant guitar player loverman. he's sweet and strong and thinking.

I grin and leave him to his thing, whatever he's pulling up on his computer, and I start wandering around. it's great to have all this space in here - no "excuse me, excuse me" or "could you save my spot" or anything. I wander to the back and to the tables and down the stairs as the opener makes her way to the stage. we talked for a minute outside, and I wish her good show and she's weaving her way to the stage. I start crawling around the lower level, snapping shots of anything that strikes me. I have time and space and I'm just kind of floating here and crawling over this and that.

leo and I bump into each other.

"fancy we meet again, then" (him, obviously) "I wonder if you could tell me where the men's conservatry is?"

I can't help but smile and say, "if it's anywhere near the women's conservatory, it's right down that hall." he ambles off and I keep shooting. then I hear a voice - it's pure and clear and it floats down the stairs the same way I'm kind of gliding around. sliding and wrapping around poles and steps and under benches, like a ghost pulling a piece of silk.

"roxanne..."

there's no guitar. just that voice.

"you don't have to wear that dress tonight..."

she's the pied piper. my arm lowers, camera still in hand, and I slowly walk up the stairs in a trance. as I emerge, I head to the right and take my place behind the board. I look up. she's singing so completely, full of music and stars and full glasses and clean countertops. she's sunlight in the windows, and if you put a sailor dress on her and did her hair just so, she could be behind one of those old radio station microphones singing a boogie woogie song. she's lived many lives before this one, here with us. but while she's taking the time to stop by, she tells us stories. about dating a boy who was friends with all his exes, how she was ankle deep in them, and how she might be better off as one. how he's why she's drinking in this very bar. and about sex, indirectly (why don't we not go to the movies tonight) to laughter and hushed reverence. I have quite possibly never in my life heard a more appropriately matched opening act. she's the non-stick coating on the pan to hold the cake that is ed. she's the salt on the margarita glass. and she's got a bitchin' promo poster.

I was broke, but at least I signed up for her mailing list. her name escapes me at the moment, sheila or sylvia someone. I'll update with it later. sylvie. sylvie lewis.

I forgot to mention that they had let us in so early that ed and leo were part of the room when we came in - no rockstars or hiding or anything. up on stage, talking, strumming, unpacking - or maybe I did mention it indirectly by talking about talking to them when I arrived. anyways, I didn't want to forget about that part. they were just there, like friends of yours playing a gig on a weeknight. soundchecking while you sat on the steps to the stage wondering what the night ahead and the weekend would hold. laughing and making plans and knowing that you all can't wait to play, and write about it later.

so there's some casual conversation among the twenty or so remaining attendees, and ed and leo just kind of wander up and screw around with things for a few minutes. there's a really, really annoying guy who has approached me a few times to ask me to sit with him and his friend, and by the speed of his speech he's either neurotic or totally geeked out. I opt for the latter, based on his chronic sniffles that he punctuates his words with. ew.

but before he ruined it, I did manage a good postcard of loneliness in this corner:

ed and leo came to life suddenly like someone flipped a switch. I do an award-worthy breakaway from Scary Cocaine Guy and find my way up front. they were timid at first, strumming a little louder, screaming now, and banging on piano keys. the crowd was so impressive, waiting for the last moment of the last note of each song to ring out into the air - clapping only when there was true silence following, or after a hand on the guitar strings stopped the ringing. in all the shows I've ever been to (the ones with strangers at least) I'd never seen anything like it.

they went on to play for about two hours - picking us up and letting us down. falling in love and crying for love lost. and ed, asking for the lights to be darker. darker. darker, still - and then my camera came alive.

I shared the moments between leaning against the wall with my eyes closed and having to dance around to the sheer bliss of it. the words that kept coming to me were pure, and clean, and true, and unadulterated. there was magic in the air that seemed to settle on everything like fairy dust, only it was a little grungy, coming from some unshowered englishmen. but still.

we called them out for a four-song encore. coins were flipped and both sides won. the crowd that had lingered on for "the guy coming up after" shouted for more. we heckled and swooned and fell in love with ed and leo, all at once.

and then it was so quiet afterwards.

someone turned on bjork in the background to fill the empty spaces. and there's me, furiously trying to record every moment in my black moleskin book covered in starbucks stickers in the aforementioned darkened red stage light. now it's 1:30 on a thursday night and I realize that this magical night has got to end - and as I wandered off to hit the bathroom before the drive back, ed harcourt himself stopped to chat. it seems comical to say it now, right when it couldn't get any better - because it keeps getting better every fucking time. I once again was beyond not blushing. I was able to unwrap my mind from his searching eyes and tell him that they really got it from here (touching head) to here (arms outstretched) and that they translated it all so well - that all of their everything really came through in every single song. and that it was so cool to hear where their heads were at, so clear and pure, that it was like your friend's band up on stage. the ones you knew would blow your mind. so that if he wondered if they were doing it, that they were. enough that I'd driven almost two hours for not more than three songs on KEXP.

I'm a big girl.

he talked for a while about what he thought went wrong - so down to earth about it all - and gave me his email to send the link to the pictures they so badly craved me taking. I just can't wait to do this with some decent equipment.

the night was good. it was all so very good.

~vvb

I will not buy ed harcourt or the go! team.

I will not buy ed harcourt or the go! team.

I will not buy I am kloot, even though proof makes me cry.

(pauses)

I did, however, find the pink album by sunny day real estate (sent by the universe, after cheryl waters featured it and starla grace confirmed it) and the new tori amos in the used bin on sunday.

yay me. yay budgeting.

or something.

~vvb

and I've been letting the machine pick up. but I've got to answer this time.

the ed harcourt show will be done by tomorrow, but all the pics are up in the gallery if you want to go have a look-see.

I love not having a television. thanks, k.

I wake up this morning feeling sick, and quite sure that this is going to be the last day of my mother's life. like I could feel it somehow, and I paid attention to it, knowing I'd be writing about it later. the same way I cleaned up the house knowing I'd be watching a movie later that night with justin. my intuition has been razor-sharp these days.

only this morning, I took some rolaids, and the sickness went away. so maybe I was wrong. or maybe the planets said one thing at eight o'clock this morning and something else after they shifted around ten. when her vital signs were good, and every moment of interaction with the hospital and its inhabitants had been calm and reassuring.

case in point:

there's a starbucks in the little atrium cafeteria. I've got a grande awake, my rumi book, and there's a seventy year old guy playing a big-bodied gibson right next to me. I've just had some fruit and some low-fat granola.

and as it just so happens, when we got in here it was so crowded that my aunt and sister aren't able to sit anywhere near me. I took the seat next to the old guy. no one else seemed to want it.

the next song up is called "a ghost of a chance".

you get the picture.

things not to forget from the many hours in said room:

children's books -
"happy birthday moon!"
next to
"I had a terrible day."
like a pair of
personalities.

and rumi reminds
to sit, wait, take time to fast,
don't announce where to go,
or what you think you want -
instead, ask.
it's okay not to speak
inside a full room
if your language is not known.
let the little dog
coax your soul out to play,
and strive
to be like lovers.

~vvb

tonight I lit a million candles
and put your albums in the stereo
and listened to the Endless Possibilities
of what Might Have Happened
and what Never Quite Was.

the flickering light
caught the sparkles in my fingertips
the steaming tea
was like fine wine in the wintertime
the live show single voice from behind the
baby grand
awkwardly placed
in that dirty loud bar
painted me pictures of you
how your eyes closed
when you sang that verse -

we were Almost.

~vvb

there's thunder rumbling and grey day outside my windowpanes and drops of rain on the glass and laundry humming and lamps lit in the daytime. tea, oatmeal, the sound of birds, and thoughts of you. as I sit and write up ed's show from thursday, but I wanted to stop by before these things left me:

I woke up this morning thinking of you
and it's been forever
since I woke up thinking about anything
but myself and how I was going to handle
things
I've seen you exactly eleven times now
and neither of us seem to know how to speak,
or even smile at each other for that matter.

I heard voices this morning too -
when I'd wake up with my parents in the kitchen
I'd hear their voices
muffled through the doors and walls and
things that hung on and over them
and if I listened, I'd wake up
but sometimes I'd stay in the in-between
if I didn't hear the words
drifting around like part of the dreams
about throwing away old tomatoes
and other things that escape me now.

this morning, then
you're but a stranger still
and the voices were simply
neighbors upstairs
discussing the television shows
from the night before
over coffee and eggs.

~vvb

in the dimmest half-light
it's just enough to see
you asked for it to be
darker
darker
darker still
now it's dark enough
and the ringing of
the higher keys on
the baby grand
and the delicate plucking
all over the neck
of that electric guitar
is like our own private carnival
only it's a church, here
with those notes sustained
the air is ringing
long after your hands
reached for the drink
sitting in front of you,
forming dewy rings on the wood -

there's something
pure and powerful
about tonight.

I saw what you looked like
when you threw tantrums
at the age of five
mop of hair across your
forehead
being as loud as
it would let you be
like you were
screaming
with your hands
just then -

cheeky schoolboy
comes through the car stereo
bold and sure
like a radio station
your lips pressed softly
to the heart of everything
we're capable of hearing
in this dark red light
tonight.

with an empty bank account and sparkling eyes, I'm heading north for a few hours with ed harcourt. I know, I know, blissfund, right. I didn't take out the $30 I budgeted (with ticket, gas, eating, etc.) from the shoebox though. The ticket was only $13 and I need gas anyways. I'll bring granola bars and drink water.

beauty on a budget. I can dig it. besides, we decided I need to go.

I am not, however, buying the go! team or ed's cd. funds for which remain, lovingly placed, in aforementioned box. but I think I might have to break down for the cloud room disc that came out tuesday. we'll see how the night goes.

~vvb, who is taking some much needed guidance and attending in khakis and sneakers. labels freak me out anyways, there's too many rules to follow and things to be and bands to know about. I'd rather be me.

So there was this boy and this girl, and they'd never met. They'd never spoken to each other or even seen each other. But one day the girl wrote a letter to the boy.

"My hand's very cold." the girl said as he took it. And as they walked up the beach the boy said, "We only have to do this until we reach the dry sand, then we can stop." And for a bit they walked in silence. And although in more than a thousand letters they had talked of the stars, and of rivers, and of love- and woven a hundred dreams, all they could think of to talk about was a tree in a garden on the other side of the road; how tall it was, and how out of place it looked. And when they came to the dry sand they didn't let go of each other's hand, they just walked on up the beach, still talking about the tree. And they stepped over the fence and onto the pavement, falling quiet again. And as they walked along the pavement they came to a pole, and walked one on either side. And they let go their hands...

~Looper, spoken in a thick irish accent, over perfectly placed notes and beats. enchanting and delicious, enraptured and divine.

This is our new record. It's made of downtown right as the sun comes out after it's been raining and a little bit of 3AM city bus in from the airport. There are several big fights between people who love each other that end with both people breaking into song and someone in a tee-shirt with rolled-up sleeves playing a sax solo. Also, there are friends coming to the rescue and there are other friends who don't want to be rescued and there are a few friends that do want to be rescued but don't want to have to ask.

~The Long Winters

that moment between the two of you
is burned into my mind
like the seven second movie
I caught on my camera
when nobody was looking -
when I wasn't supposed to see...

you called her strange little names
that she showed no fondness for
there were no giggles at the sight of you,
no clutching at your shirt
to pull you closer
and
when you did lean in
your eyes were shining
but only because they were glazed over.

so you poured your heart out anyways
gone with no speakers
sharp teeth in the light
that came through
those grey city windows
closed eyes crooning
holding onto guitars and
gently cradled microphones

like women
like you hold her delicate arms
under white sheets in the moonlight
while I watch through the keyhole
of your bedroom door
curtains billowing
in the nighttime summer breeze...

so, sometimes I wish I had every song, ever, on an ipod with a speaker. so when I have those high fidelity moments I can push play so that everyone can hear the soundtrack to my movie.

today, I needed "mix tape" by butch walker:

you say hello
inside I'm screaming I love you
you say goodnight
in my mind
I'm sleeping next to you
you drive away
from my car crash of a heart

but you gave me the best mix tape I have
and even all the bad songs ain't so bad
I just wish there was so much more than that
between me and you...

in real life it's a pretty cheesy sounding song, but I got wrapped up in that when I heard it for the first time. obviously.

on to the blissfund:

cds not bought: ed harcourt and the go! team
funds saved: $30.00

item not needed and sold on ebay: king's quest
funds earned: $51.00

random check received: interest back from my car loan
funds randomly accumulated: $4.71

total for the day: $85.71
blissfund to date: $160.71

removed from the bank, sealed in an envelope, placed carefully in a shoebox, and waiting.

~vvb

so today was totally, utterly and completely gorgeous. it must have passed seventy, and now (it's 7:06 pm) the sun is going down and it's not immediately freezing. usually we'll hit fifty something or sixty, and as soon as the sun goes down you run for your parka. today, it's still warm.

yesterday I sat on my front step in the sunshine, painting my toes. I ate a bunch of veggie sushi and tempura banana splits with the girls (Yum. seriously.) last night, and then we went to a midnight showing of amityville horror. bad, bad idea. I learned from seeing the warrens that you don't mess around with that whole world, you don't empower it or poke fun at it or anything. and I was so uncomfortable forty-five minutes into it that I had to go outside. I read more of the weetzie bat book in the car until they all got out. I don't recommend seeing it.

and this morning, kacia and I got up and went to the 7:30 meeting, tea in hand, sleepy eyed and smiling. it was about having a baseline spiritual connection, and I talked about how grateful I was that it was such shit when I decided to get sober. so that when they asked me to take these (seemingly) terrifying leaps of faith, that I may have hesitated for a moment, but did it anyways. and that it's given me a strong foundation that I can take with me, anywhere.

so speaking of (jumping) leaping, I asked the universe to make things really, really clear for me. and that if I'd already been given signs, to be given them again. because I'm a little dense when it comes to these spiritual... technicalities. the big stuff, the hardest stuff, is almost the easiest. the subleties are what baffle me. and in the last two days, four different people that don't know each other each approached me and randomly started talking about how they went from (a) fulfilling low-paying jobs to corporate, and how they were never happier at the former, and (b) secure corporate good-paying jobs to doing what they wanted (food stand, massage, etc.) and that they were never happier than now.

also, when I shouted out for the world to make it obvious driving yesterday, a pirate license plate went by on the front of an otherwise nondescript car.

now, tie this in with a forty minute conversation with kristin, who won't tell me anything in advance, but lets me know when I've figured things out, and says stuff like, "you belong here too. I was just waiting for you to see it," and I'm laughing out the window of willoughby's, after being thoroughly disenchanted with new haven ten different ways in the hours before.

and you already know about the planning committee thing. which made sense, even to a total stranger (one of the four) that I talked to this morning about all of this. actually, she was compelled to come and tell me. I hugged her for it.

today, after that meeting, I came home with all intentions to exercise and take advantage of the day. I did, only I ate cereal and read at the table and did a little laundry. then I drove to the beach in west haven with the top down and the volume up, and had lunch in the sunshine with my family at a biker bar on the beach.

really.

and I don't want to wind up like them. drunk, or discontent, or hiding. I didn't do very well interacting with my sister, when she started complaining to excess and then immediately denying it, I told her that in the real world, everyone was fine and that she was pretty fucking miserable, if she really wanted the truth.

she didn't.

anyways (I'll work on that one later) what I've come to, the next level of clarity, is to be clearer. that is, I've got to hone down what I want to do for the work stuff, which is really the only part of this that's bending my mind around a little. I'll live wherever feels right and I'll smell the coffee roasting and see my seat through the window, but I don't know what to pursue for work. and the lessons of the week have shown me that all I really need to do is sort of know, and then ask. I'm going to go to that what did you want to be when you grew up / I always wish I / wouldn't it be great to / etc. place. here, I'll do it with the apartment, so it's bouncing around by the time I get there:

I want to live in a pretty studio in a big old multi-family with cool neighbors, a big walk-in closet for storage, convenient laundry and old big windows. cat friendly, carport optional. maybe somewhere in the ne neighborhood, so colin and I can write furiously from our kitchen tables and stumble across each other. and he'll sing songs about pirates and I'll give him a ride to the airport when his friend's car breaks down at the last minute.

see? the clearer it gets, the clearer it gets.

~vvb

(scrunches eyes closed)

I wish for a Pirate Duck for Kristin, an Indie Rock Tour Guide Lover Man who learns "Italian Plastic" by Crowded House with his band to woo me, and two houseboats for us to live happily ever after in.

(opens eyes, and listens)

I bring you plates from rome
you say they look fantastic
I say we're having fun
nothing like that italian plastic...

who ya gonna take to the ball tonight?
who ya gonna take to the dance tonight?
who ya gonna take to the dance tonight?
who ya gonna take to the dance tonight, tonight?

(sighs, and smiles)

He kissed her.

A kiss about apple pie a la mode with the vanilla creaminess melting in the pie heat. A kiss about chocolate, when you haven't eaten chocolate in a year. A kiss about palm trees speeding by, trailing pink clouds when you drive down the Strip sizzling with champagne. A kiss about spotlights fanning the sky and the swollen sea spilling like tears all over your legs.

~Francesca Lia Block, Dangerous Angels

this is like a relationship where I'm the only one calling. but then, I know you guys are listening, and maybe even checking back in for messages more than you'd like to admit. I know I am.

so the quandry this morning is why I get choked up when I hear "cinnamon" by the long winters. that's the soundtrack to the post below, when I was on the verge of all of those things on the highway yesterday. it gives me goosebumps, and brings on the sharp hint of new tears, but just barely. I hear it and I instantly want to put the top down and be trailing a long scarf behind me down the cliffs of the coast, laughing wildly about something. the sun is in my eyes, but in a good way, as the camera pulls back for the gorgeous overhead shot.

this makes sense to me, and it doesn't, all at once.

the other thing happening today, while we're taking my emotional temperature here, is that I'm starting to have the instinct to Get Rid Of Things I Don't Need. now you may remember that coming up in another post in a conversation I had with a wise woman, but it's here again. this time it feels like the equivalent of the nesting thing that pregnant women do a few days before they give birth. all of a sudden, the to-do list this weekend includes going through the back bedroom, repacking notebooks, going through things, and a trip to salvation army. and something's talking about october, I just don't know what.

ADD, cds I want really bad right now: the go! team, and ed harcourt. I requested him this morning, john played him, and even gave me a little shout-out (that request came in from connecticut). and even played one of those, this is so and so and you're listening to john in the morning, only it was ed harcourt's one, which I've noticed they rarely do - play the artist and the artists' you're listening to thing next to each other - so I took that as some special love made just for me.

and if it wasn't, I'll never know.

~vvb

so, um, what's going on?

me? (kicks imaginary spot on the sidewalk)

not much... except for the fact that I'm totally fucking terrified now.

totally.

ADD, ray lamontagne is going to be on letterman tonight. yay!

ADD again, I'm going to try to find ed harcourt in the used bin. they do that with stuff they opened to listen to sometimes.

the terror? we'll hope that subsides by later on. I'll try to go easy on the caffiene between now and then.

so I started Putting It Out There Officially today. I talked to my bosses, and as it turns out, they heard through the grapevine that I was looking to shake my life up. not only are they totally loving and caring, they're talking about residuals. like when you do insurance, and you don't anymore, and the people you set up policies for renew, and then you get a commission? yeah. they want to do that for me, in exchange for giving my clients to the uber-wonderful guy I work with that I have the privlege of being able to call my manager. tom. we totally and completely love tom. good egg, any way you take him.

so, in english, if I help tom out with getting him acquainted with my customers and contacts, I'll get a ride on all my future deals. in plainer english, my ten years of hard work could very well pay my rent for quite some time.

that's rokken.

did I mention how much I love the cloud room? I cannot stop listening to them. heard another track (beautiful mess, can you fucking stand it???) on KEXP today and am now counting the days until the album comes out. good thing it's actually days - five or six of them, I think.

and did I mention that aforementioned company owner's wife's brother is the vice president of a branch of nike? and that he's in portland? yeah. I wonder if they have, like, a charity department or something. where I could hand out sneakers and hoodies to homeless people.

now I forgot what I was scared of. oh right, the jumping.

(pauses)

here's to the jumping, then. it's not like I can stop halfway down, I learned that six years ago.

~vvb (who according to an online test, lacks the artistic kind of creativity and may actually have adult ADD)

um, I'm definitely moving.

did I mention what I good girl I am for not spending money on the ed harcourt show at the iron horse? the show that I am not going to? at the iron horse?

just wanted to make sure I told you guys about that. positive reinforcement is welcomed and appreciated, as always.

so this morning, I had to take the show on the road. skirt, boots, smile, handshakes. I always swore I'd never pound the pavement bringing donuts to real estate agents. and I haven't.

I brought chocolate covered strawberries instead.

and after my four stops, I was heading back down 95 for what seemed like the millionth time. I was on the verge of something. I still am. not quite crying, not quite screaming, not quite laughing, not quite throwing up, but a little bit of all of these. I'm strangely apprehensive and strangely calm. I'm all arms and legs. and I've gotten another lesson what I'm not, by what I did today. I don't want to sell anybody anything, but I like to talk about stuff. I don't want to have to write for a living, I just want to write. and take pictures. and fall in love with the boys on the stage, giving us everything they've got so that we'll stay for the next song.

the storm is coming. I can feel it in my bones.

~vvb

I'm a little bit beach cottage, a little bit punk rock, and all about the cloud room. I've put them up in the links section, they're your new favorite local band - as long as you're trapped in the northeast with me. if not, then they're just your new favorite band. pop rock indie disco with an old cure cd in the back pocket of tight pants. terminal hipsters, with a few tortured relationships and faraway gazes thrown in for good measure.

I might have to go back and edit that.

so I'm toying with a backwards post, where the now is first and scene two is earlier and so forth. let's see if this works.

as it rings in my ears, and I save the band's sticker for my next notebook:

hey now now
they'll find you
when you're sleeping
now now
they'll in reach and grab
what you're dreaming
now now
cut it up and
slip it back in
and I know
and I know
and I know it...

hey now now
the smallest things
are crushing me now
the crush crush crush
is so comforting now...

~~~

so I'm talking to these kids on the train about, well, basically about not being adulterated by life. about what it looked like when the clones got on the train in westport yesterday, as they sit there in suits and ties, telling stories of touring the trading floor on wall street. I ask what the bond did today, and the kid didn't know. they're like, twenty. and they're in masters programs at quinnipiac. we started talking, just joking about the one of the conductors on the train giving me the look of death for putting my feet on the seat in front of me. and it morphed into stories of the last two days, of being an indie hipster trapped in the body of a twenty eight year old mortgage broker, and the struggles to find myself. and how now, just like a lot of things in my life, how I have to come to terms with what I'm not and what I don't want first. so, judging by past experience, by the time I'm ninety I will know everything I am absolutely unsure of, and be close to figuring out Who I Really Am. but at least I'm on the right path. I leave them demanding promises that they will not spend eternity searching for the perfect stock and the trophy wife.

I can't wait to get home and listen to my new cds. I think the cloud room might be my new favorite band. no, I'm quite sure of it. since I can't write yet and have to jet to the meeting and to find some espresso in between to keep from passing out, I call kristin and emote all over her from the union station parking lot. and as it turns out, I've got just enough to pay to get out in my wallet. I'd have more, but I couldn't leave new york without The Watch. I've been feeling a little bit punk rock these days - just a little bit. I need more hoodies.

~~~

when I get downstairs, the band is still loading into what looks like someone's dad's old car. I thank them again for a great performance, and double check to make sure I'm heading in the right direction. I make a point of looking at everyone when I say goodbye, especially to the chick who looks like the lead singer's girlfriend - she didn't say a word to anyone the whole time we were upstairs. you've got to make friends with them so that they understand the difference between people like you and screaming nineteen year olds trying to get into their boyfriend's pants. she finally cracked a smile. probably because I was leaving. I remember exactly what that felt like.

I'm ready to skip down the street, and instead I stop and put my headphones and sunglasses on. I sing, even though it sounds like pieces of some odd conversation to the passerby. shins, no, stevie wonder, no, saturday night fever, I laugh to myself at this very same walk to the museum yesterday morning. only I was heading in the other direction. all I needed were platform shoes and some paint cans... I've just spent two days with six bands and five guys from seattle, loaded in and out about twelve times, suffered the wrath of a drill sargeant corporate museum worker, walked a million steps, and had the best sandwich ever. my bag is stuffed with stickers, cds, postcards, and pieces of kristin. I've been wearing the same clothes for two days and there's still glitter under my eyes. do I really have to go back to the real world? at least I've got the weekend to roll around in it...

I stop as I pass the window of the fossil store. shit. is this a sign, or a test? dammit. I go in, knowing exactly what's coming. I explain john's watch to the girl behind the counter, along with the quandry that I am only a little punk rock and I don't want to make a statement that doesn't properly express myself (like a three inch thick studded leather band with snaps) so that the choice of watch is absolutely critical, if I'm going to do it at all.

we paw around and I scan the bands, none of them feel right but every one she takes out gets closer to what I'm picturing in my mind. it should be noted here that at least one band member from each of the six bands, if not more than one plus some of the fans, were wearing low cut black and white chucks, topped off with bedhead and gucci sunglasses. it's funny, they were all so different, but had these common threads...

she takes out The Watch. she thinks I'll like it. it's fucking perfect. the face is nondescript and the band is brown and it's snapped in by two little silver nubs. it's clean and sleek and worn in all at once. the merge of mod and mainstream indie, brought to you by fossil. I'll take it.

"I'll take it."

sixty five dollars later, I run downstairs at grand central to grab some avocado rolls (of course! what else were you expecting?) and make it onto the train with about two minutes to spare. I put my feet up as we pull out of the station, which results in the most killer look from the old black train conductor guy. I giggle and put them on the floor. he's not amused. almost simultaneously the announcer lets us know where we're going and how much metro north thanks us for keeping our feet on the floor and using the overhead storage racks. the universe mocks me constantly. I love it.

~~~

"hey, are you the cloud room?"

"yes, I'm j."

"victoria. hey."

full frontal eye contact ensues. jesus. this guy says my name back to me like he's trying it on.

"victoria."

I try to smile past my butterflies. what am I doing here again? oh, right. I come back into my body and tell him I'm a volunteer for KEXP, explaining that tori had everything running late until now, but that he was on time, how we're going to load and how there's nowhere to park, and I ask what kind of music they are.

another band member comes back from a load to the elevator. j passes the question off, and then leaves. he's got these insanely tight jeans on. these guys are uber-hip and uber-sweet, all at once. this later morphs into discussions about how they help old ladies across the street and stuff, but they try to remember not to shave. so at least they look punk rock while they do it.

a ride with jon (the second guy) in the elevator kind of narrows down the genre. he hands me this crazy review, something like gold lame with a goth t-shirt underneath, and they're teaching the indie kids to dance again. it's much more well put than that, but it gets the point across. and as we talk and set up and what have you, I begin fervently hoping that they don't suck. we've already got private jokes and stuff. and too many times I've met bands and some of the sweetest guys on the planet, and then they get on stage and they just. can't. play.

but this is KEXP, and john richards can do no wrong. most of the time, anyway.

simultaneously, I am convinced at this moment that they all have equally uber-hip rail thin fashionista girlfriends. but that's okay. I'm with the station. I help load. jon is going for waters and lunch and I decide to tag along. actually, I totally invite myself, but I manage to hold it together. we run downstairs to the little deli place that's been feeding us for the last two days, and stock up for the boys in the band. jon gets waters. we talk about the old lady not shaving thing. I get fruit. he buys it for me. I am now a smitten fifteen year old, and I can't wait to hear them play. I want them to blow my mind and assume their spot in my emotional rotation.

we arrive back at the fifth floor studios to more instrument tweaking. wires, mic check, the usual. I sit and eat kiwis. we joke about the review. I'm holding up my end of the conversation, I carry no watermelons. all of a sudden, j hands me his guitar.

"here, hold this." he's got to go change or meditate or do whatever these crazy lead guys do before they go on. instead of sitting there cradling it delicately, I pick it up and start playing. I forgot that I knew how. there's no bottom string.

"there's no bottom string?"

"yeah, that's how j plays it. you just have to pretend like it isn't there." writing that now I realize that it made total sense in that moment.

apparently that's how sonic youth and keith richards do it. I start messing around with the one song I know, and a few finger exercises, and jon is throwing in a few bass notes when I'm followable. am I jamming? jesus. I keep noodling and talking and at one point, do a total rock star strum through the glass at kevin. index and pinky finger arise. we keep shooting the breeze, and I don't want it to end. jason checks his drums and jokes about the suit jacket that j has brought (a garment bag with a few of them, actually) and puts it on. ben is checking his keyboard and wurlitzer and digging the scene in black guccis and a little collared jacket with a safety pin clasp. I want to take these guys home, but connecticut would kill them. j returns and gives me a single, that's really a double, and a sticker. I'm beaming. play. please.

I hand the guitar back, official soundcheck ensues, people start arriving, we go live. these guys bang out two of the catchiest songs ever. they really are indie rock eighties disco lovin' old cure on the playlist uber-hip musicians. they fucking rock. but just for a moment, KEXP does not, and the signal gets lost halfway through the second song. so we get to hear them again. and the introductions and interview break up the crackle of electricity that these guys are emitting, but then they pick it up again. j puts down his guitar for this one, turning the mic stand sideways and bending it so delicately, cradling it even. like he's dipping a girl mid waltz. he's howling and he's got these sharp white teeth and his fucking eyes roll back in his head. I'm practically in a trance.

the cloud room is, at this very moment, my new favorite local band.

they wrap up the set and we start breaking down and people mill around. the two chicks to the right of me are j and jon's girlfriends, assumed from the kisses post-set. one doesn't say anything to anyone, really. the other one, who went with jon I think? talks with lorilee and I about all kinds of stuff. funny how you see yourself and your friends and girlfriends and band guys represented in other subsets of people. I make my way to the manager to tell her that I thought matt pond pa was my favorite band, but that's all changed now. this is it. we mingle and mix, and jon and I trade emails. I'm writing on a KEXP postcard, borrowing j's back in the process. he attempts conversation as I'm doing so, but I'm having a hard time. all I can manage is to tell him that they are so awesome. that the set was awesome. and did I tell you guys you were awesome? I realize this state and apologize. he's all, ok, so, what other bands came and played here? and it's like fixing a stuck record, suddenly I'm talking about everything and how they should come play in CT if they can and how I'll send pictures as soon as I get them online. he was patient and understanding of my starstruck state. I mean, it's just so insane - walking for miles with famous strangers and you're ten feet away from tori amos and you hear john richards, but you see him too and then there's all these rocking bands filling your senses but there hasn't been enough sleep and the world is a little translucent and is this part of my wandering mind, or is this real time? of course I didn't manage to verbalize that at the moment, but I did the best I could.

to the effect of, hi, I totally turn into a fifteen year old when I get this starstruck. sorry. sometimes I wish I could just hand people my notebook.

one by one, people filter away... the cloud room disappears into the elevator and I shout my gratitude down the underoo plastered hallway. the room is quiet now, and disassembled. it's almost that time. one more run down the funny path to the bathroom in the other room downstairs. one last look. I clean up the postcards and pins, and grab a handful of each. a few photos and some pleasant goodbyes and lots of thanks. a quick hug for kevin, with promises of of may and sasquatch and the of montreal in studio. I walk out the door, and for this trip at least, the handle clicks behind me for the last time.

I walk down the hall with my head high and my senses full. I've got just enough time to grab something to eat and hit the 4:05 back to new haven. the elevator door slides softly as I officially head home, forever changed.

~~~

I head back downstairs to look for the next band. the tori amos thing has pushed everything back, and no one knows where the french kicks are. I see a cab pull up to the curb, and a guy gets out to start taking stuff out of the trunk. I see a bass drum and a guitar case, and I figure I've got the right people. they are, I shake hands, and explain about the schedule and how we don't know where the gear is going yet as the piano hasn't left. we're smiles and questions and smalltalk in the elevator. these guys are kind of quiet, but cool. displaced and hung over and unwashed and hip.

by the time soundcheck is done, some fans have arrived and there's thirty seconds to air. the drill sargeant won't let me put the seats back in a normal setup because a few people are already sitting, so I wind up elbow to elbow with john richards and lorilee. it's at this point that I notice The Watch. now, you all know the indie boy chunky studded strap thing, right? well, picture a nice fat brown leather strap, and the only studs are holding flaps of leather that hold the face. silver and deep emerald green. I have to have one. but I can't go too punk rock, because it's not me. ooh - it's a fossil. that means it's probably under a hundred bucks. hmmm... shit, you're staring. stop it. back to the band.

the french kicks give us a pared-down version of themselves, missing two band members and their usual energy it seems. but they're still impressive and we cheer them on through three quick songs and we're all loading out. I walk with them to 5th to hail a cab, leaving with thanks and right ons and so forth. I hope the next band is more awake than that, I mean, tori amos was more excited to play for thirty people, you know? on a station she might have never heard of before this gig.

as I walk back, I think about what it would be like to have this as a full time job. I'd probably implode over constantly needing to be cool, because sometimes I'm not. actually, lots of the time I'm not. and I like it that way. because then when I am cool, it kicks ass. like getting dressed up all fun, only for your mind. I'd love to have a decent paying admin job at a radio station where I could have a crazy time slot once a week instead of paid overtime. where I could dance like nobody was listening.

~~~

I wake up several times during the night, not because I'm scared, but because it sounds different here. there's the rain on the patch of roof outside my window, and gravel crunching under the tires of unfamiliar cars on unfamiliar streets. in between dreams, I wonder if michael has left an umbrella behind that I could use. I've left the radio on, every once in a while a note rings loud and jogs me from my sleep, and around 4:30 the station changes to a church program. friday morning salvation in central park west.

there's a pudgy sweet cat sleeping with me, punctuating my hellos with little growls and yipping meows and submissiveness. I curl up and uncurl and stretch and realize suddenly that I have no idea of the timing of trains and the arrival of the tori amos entourage. I'd better get going.

the fifty blocks I walked yesterday come rushing back to me as my feet hit the floor. it's like someone bruised me gently throughout the night with a nine pound hammer and some good intentions. it walks off soon enough and I shower in an unfamiliar bathroom with four knobs and clean corners. I left my apartment so indecisively that all I've got to wear is what I came in, clean socks and underwear notwithstanding. I managed that, at least. less eyeshadow than yesterday but more sparkles to even the game and I'm off for the C train.

I manage my way back to the museum, from the C train downtown to 50th to a starbucks without their morning delivery to a query about 5th street. I buy a bagel from a corner stand for a dollar and a good morning, and lean against the cement with my headphones on. hoping that I don't have bread chunks in my teeth as I smile at the passerby.

kevin comes ambling up the sidewalk, I'm listening to the shins. he's got breakfast in his hand, I'm smiling at the steel guitar. we've managed to scrape together some semblance of a friendship in the twenty four hours since we've met, and we talk about walking and the piano that's coming and bands and the show and plans for going home. I'm leaving after the broadcast, he's staying another day. people start to filter in, some from maintenance, some from the tori amos crew. no one knows where the piano is, and the drill sargeant has starting freaking everyone out about chairs and plants and tables that can't move and unreasonable demands and such.

as usual, it all works out in the end. the piano comes from a showroom floor, tori amos arrives eventually, and I'm sent downstairs to run the entry with list and stickers in hand. everyone is on the list except for these two girls, who have been standing outside for an hour and a half. I send them up amidst their promises of talks with station people in seattle and I figure if they're not supposed to come in that kevin cole can handle it. I'm a fan, running the door, and I'm not leaving these kids outside. they're just like me and they've got no idea.

tori's set is spellbinding. she sings, she talks about gardening, she mugs for the audience, and she's convinced me that I need her new album. I wrote her off hours earlier, leftover ninties little earthquake something, and was considering taunting her with shouts of "cornflake girl" mid set. instead, I gain a newfound respect and cheered after her verses. I was sold.

they take as long to leave as they did to come in, and we all stood trapped in the hallway. everyone - including label people and yours truly and museum staff, so our shiny star could make her getaway. or more precisely, down to the first floor for her mtv spot. we finally head out, and with no sign of the next band, I head to starbucks. I've got important people looking for caffiene and banana bread, and I can't let them down.

~~~

the bar is dark, the kind of dark in the daytime go get some fresh air dark. but it's hip and dimly lit and there's scraps of KEXP promotinal items everywhere. we're in the right place.

it's like heaven just to sit down after all that walking - kevin and I have just come down 5th from 52nd to union square, taking in the sights and sounds along the way. we decided to take the long way, what with so much to see and not much to do. the only real tragedy of the afternoon was losing my hoodie, but we found it again, trampled but unscathed. people are different... here, sirens are the norm - so much so that no one even looks up as twelve police cars in a row fly down broadway at full pace. insanity is simply the every day in new york city.

one of the many interesting facts I learned today about kevin suggs is that he played pedal steel on the shins' "gone for good" off of chutes too narrow, and I check to see if the dj has it when she arrives. she doesn't, but promises to sneak in what she can. a few beers later, the crowd is gathering and the music is perfect and we're chatting up the strangers around us. we linger and mingle and I am doing alright - I'm holding up my end of multiple conversations, I'm buying kevin and john some beers, and for a few moments, I'm actually cool. I've managed to blend in, and this scene, these people - this feels like home.

a guy stops to say hello to kevin early on, it turns out to be the drummer from the national. they played an in-studio wednesday and john richards has been giving them a lot of love. the guy is looking me over, tall studious bespectacled type. he tells me he knows me. I tell him that roughly ninety percent of the people I meet tell me that I look like someone's sister or cousin or some friend of someone they know. either I've got that familiar feeling, or there's less pickup lines than I even knew about.

no, he really does know me. he starts talking about the new haven scene in the early nineties. I'm all, yeah, like blind justice and quest of the moonbreed and stuff? and he goes, yeah, and mighty purple, right? I almost fall off my stool. it turns out that this guy - brian - was playing in a band called gem I think? and remembers me, and of course kristy, and jon and beth living in new york for a while, and we're struck with nostalgia. here we are, in new york, at a listener party for a seattle station, talking about new haven. random disco action happening, buddy.

oh - I've got to take a minute to tell you about the bathrooms.

so the women's bathroom has a picture of farrah fawcett on it, and the men's room has burt reynolds. all framed glossy headshot attached to the door. but upon entering, you've got the opposite inside. backwards (sideways down) and just perfect. red walls, more dim corners, strings of green christmas lights between window panes reflecting just so. and burt reynolds posters. like, twelve of them.

the second one doesn't show how disproportional the woman's hands are on the football. but then, I really don't think they were concerned with the proper sizing of her, um, hands.

I emerge triumphant with photos for kevin, and he confirms that it's all about farrah on the men's side. we've been there for about two hours at that point, and we start wrapping it up even though it's only about eight. we've got to be back for the tori amos thing pretty early on. john has told me to get there by 7:30 or so, to avoid any denial at the door. we say our goodbyes and get all kinds of looks for our plan to walk from 2nd to 8th, back to union square to pick up the C. those long city blocks seem so daunting - you guys should take the bus, or take the L across, etc. we decide to wing it and start walking down the street.

we're halfway there it seems, after maybe five or ten minutes. were they kidding? we even stop to ask a strange man with a bag full of bagels, and when he says it's about a half a mile, we're concerned. then he tells us about the mountain ranges and ocean views to look out for before we hit 8th, and we know he's just giving us a hard time. in another few minutes we're across the street from the subway entrance and decide to puruse the whole foods market before we get on the train. we emerge triumphant with our weight in avocado rolls and soft baked cookies, and hop on the C train heading uptown.

I've never eaten like that in my life. famished. I did have the. best. sandwich. ever. a few hours into the day, but that was it. now walk for two hours in freakish 70 degree heat, no dinner, and throw in a pinch of nervous energy for good measure. avocados and cookies and the promise of central park west are quite the relief at this point. kevin leaves me at 50th and I leave the train at 81st. I walk up to michael's apartment, a little apprehensive but mostly excited, and search out clymer bayshore on the buzzers. there it is, looking back at me. I push through the buzzing doors and come into his apartment gratefully, then flop on the couch most ungraciously.

what seems normal apartment size to me is apparently quite spacious for city living - a long hallway opening up into the open living room, kitchen in the corner, loft sleepspace, and a full seperate bedroom. bookcases and closets and two gorgeous little cats, stuck in the corner watching an ant fervently. if you didn't know, they might of looked like they both had some kind of ADD and were trapped in a moment of staring at the floor and couldn't get out.

michael is warm and welcoming and leaving me with the pets and the keys. he's heading for seattle in the morning. we take a few minutes to discuss kristin and I am trying to break your heart and where the towels are and and my awakenings and possibilites. I love him already. he tells me to think of him as the central park west hostel, to come back any time I want or need to, and I hug him fiercely. telling him that if he ever wants to come to branford that I'll save a spot at the beach for him, and he goes, or maybe if I need somewhere to stay in portland, and I smile broadly. he's most excellent.

the door clicks behind him and the laughter of strangers echoes in the hallway outside as I wash up. I'm gross. I brush my teeth, tear out my contacts, turn down the radio and flop onto the bed I made earlier. there's a light drizzle falling as I drift in and out of my dreams, I hope it's not pouring tomorrow, ray's on the radio, and one of the cats has decided to nap with me. I met john richards today and told him about ray, and a week ago tomorrow I met ray and told him about john richards. tori amos will be withing ten feet or so of me in the morning. is this real, or have I projected my notebooks out into consciousness? I can't exactly tell right now.

I'd better get some rest.

~~~

"hi, are you john richards?"

"I sure am." it's The Voice.

"hey, victoria. I emailed? nice to meet you. jesus, it's hot in here." I throw my sweatshirt and bag onto a chair and try to pay attention. he's cute and hip and makes me think of beck and a guy I went to high school with. he fades back in.

"...and we're constantly running out of coffee, and the bathrooms are through that room and that door and then down the stairs, and the bands don't know where to park, and that table looks like shit, and the fans don't know what to do when they come for the instudio, we're busy and they just kind of hang out and we could really use help with all of this... stuff. with everything."

I assure him I'm on it, and set out first to clean up the merch tables. which, in this case, are piles of the groovy from / to postcards, stickers, and pins. I do a four-frame warhol thing that comes out pretty nice, and proceed to clean up around the room. hauling boxes and breaking a sweat. it's good to be home.

so the bands are coming about an hour before air time, and I start my first run down to see if the dutch kills have arrived. they're walking in as I turn to do this, and load in starts up. sweet guys, who end up being a tight little indie rock outfit. the lead singer does this thing, he sings up to the microphone and goes a little cross-eyed in the process and it's enough to pull you in... after the set I keep the crowd informed and full of stickers and postcards and flyers for the listener appreciation party later that night. we pull it together to load out, and the bass player gives me a cd. I politely refuse, and then graciously accept. we love them.

all of a sudden everyone is gone and I'm straightening up the room and it's 11 o'clock. coffee run ensues, grande, okay, venti hot water for kevin cole, done, and then john richards says the unthinkable when I ask directions for the nearest starbucks:

"it doesn't matter, I'll drink anything."

no, john. bad. thankfully, as it turns out there's a starbucks one block over and one block down. perfect. you learn an appreciation for these things after driving 1500 miles with nothing but gas stations bearing burnt coffeepots and non-dairy creamer. I've got a sticker on my jeans and sunglasses on my head. I'm with the station. john richards takes it black. I know this, because I'm handing it to him. is this real? pinch me. it is. awesome.

the guys are great, bill is instantly funny and a great photographer on top of it. kevin cole reminds me of dave kone, only younger and hip. kevin suggs is quiet but busts out some funny lines and I know instantly that I'll get along with him. and john's friend john, running the playlist, wears the following on his back.

'nuff said.

by the time I settle in, the second band shows up, or more specifically, artist plus one. one husband, that is, who is a little on the nervous side. suggestions, songs, adjusting her mic stand, looking for tea, double checking, triple checking, saying the same thing to the sound guy three or four times. he loves her a lot, and wants her to sound good. she does. she sings with a far away look in her eyes and a side to side bob of her head. the guts and gravel of ani difranco in a little pixie with icy corneas and a sultry smile. no load out for little kristin hersch. time for lunch.

I wander down to the street to the window where I ate my fruit a few hours before. they've got a hot sandwich bar in the back where they'll put anything on anything and make it hot. this place rocks. turkey, american, tomato, and avocado on chunky whole grain bread. smack it in the panini grill and come to mama, melty and fresh and fabulous. I burst back into the studio triumphantly and stuff myself happily. I'm five, sitting in the abandoned chairs, crosslegged and messy. yum, yum and yum.

band number three arrives, with another request for coffee and waters. I head back to starbucks with two girls from the label and leave with three grandes and five waters. starbucks run #2. now we're talking about bands and boys and I can't wait for this set - I've heard a good buzz about matt pond pa but haven't seen them yet. I was going to try for the show at the webster a few weeks back (worst. venue. ever.) but it got snowed out. it happens all over again: loaded, plugged in, soundcheck, two songs, interview, two songs. I can tell by the soundcheck I'm not going to be disappointed.

all in one moment they are my new favorite band. the bass player sits behind the drums and claps, and the drummer plays the tambourine. they sing this great song, last song I think is the name of it, and halfway through the tone and sound change completely along with the timing and everything and it just sucked me right in. two verses and back to the body of the tune with the jingles and the clapping and I'm hooked. I need to own a piece of this. they sell me a cd with the ten bucks they gave me back for the eleven I spent on coffees and waters. we load out, and that's it for the last band of the day.

this is work. when I joked I'd be interning for a radio station, I didn't know how close to the truth that would be. with the broadcast done, we've got about three hours before the party - I fill kevin in on my best. sandwich. ever. and we decide to feed him and spend the day wandering. he went to harlem the other day, just for kicks.

this should be an interesting afternoon.

~~~

I awake with a start, after a four hour nap it seems. there's somewhere I need to be, why is the alarm going off, where am I... oh shit. I've got to catch the train. get up, get up!

shower. brush teeth. fuck, I didn't want to wear these jeans, and they're the only thing I have clean. shit. the shirt I wanted is dirty too. dammit. black hoodie will have to do, what if it gets hot, bring something to change into, it's after five already, just go. get the fuck out of the house. figure it out on the train. buy a tshirt somewhere if you need to. go!

I pull out of my little parking spot to a cold car and glen hansard crooning me through the morning. funny how the people out at this time of the day are either really dedicated to the hours they work, or they're total baseheads still up from the night before. I've been both. I prefer the former.

union station welcomes me, and I'm shocked to learn that it's almost twenty dollars each way on the train. I remember when you could go round trip for less than twenty five bucks! I give up my money to the man and his machine, and head out with my ticket and some butterflies. my standard two-seat spot welcomes me as I pick a car and head out for the big city.

at one point on the ride, at the westport stop, I am completely stricken with fear. it seems we've been attacked by clones. about three thousand men get onto the train, in every car, all in their suits and starched shirts with properly coordinated ties. all carrying briefcases and copies of the times. button my collar and get me to wall street, quick. for a moment I'm actually terrified, but none of them speak, so they can't harm anything. like supermen stripped of their powers, they can only talk about bond fluctuations and crude oil prices. phew!

I've got my headphones on, and when there's silence between tracks, I realize that, clones aside, no one else is singing. or saying anything, for that matter. I resort to lip synching while I put on some powder and lip stuff. just enough to hide the tired. just enough to up the shimmer. before I know it, we're hitting 125th. I wonder what harlem is like. I program a playlist for when I hit the sidewalk - stayin' alive, just for kicks. livin' my life like it's golden, some nikka costa, the only living boy in new york, and stevie wonder's greatest hits vol. II. the perfect recipe to wander the city streets with.

I stop people smoking cigarettes outside the station, and query as to fifth street. I know fifth will hit 52nd or 53rd or wherever the fuck I'm going. it's 7:45 on a thursday morning, and I'm in new york city. quick, press play. well, you can tell by the way I use my walk ... I'm such a dork. but I love it.

I get closer to where I need to be, and after another stop or two (punctuated by some iced starbucks) I've located the museum. breakfast calls, and there's a little spot here that looks like it might be groovy. it's an au bon pain type of place, with hot and cold food, beverages, salads, sandwiches, every kind of everything. sweet. a little tub of fruit for $2.75, water in my backpack. fresh kiwis and headphones full of stevie wonder, early in the morning. I'm about to meet john richards and work for KEXP for two days.

I'm not sure if it gets any better than this. but then, you all know what happens every time I say those ten little words...

~~~

so I come home to this box on my doorstep. actually, it was on top of my mailbox, but doorstep just sounded better then, didn't it?

it turns out that kristin's timing is, as usual, totally impeccable. she's sent me pieces of herself, straight from the portland planning committee. enclosed we find:

a picture of john richards at the museum from when she went last year,
a cat grass growing kit,
a lavender growing kit,
some japanese cookies,
purple chrome nailpolish,
some reading material that begins with a sentence about how no one in high school understood,
a big fat KEXP sticker for my new ride,
and a picture of her cat.

all delicately packed with sweet smelling easter grass, and a note that reads:

have fun in NY! who loves ya, baby?

you do. you always do.

I put some of her on my refridgerator, some of her in my notebook, and all of her in my heart. this is going to be one of those adventures that shifts my insides, I can feel it.

like really, really clean. like scrubbing your whole body with dial clean - this was not a grapefruit body wash kind of shower.

I thought it appropriate to note, as I write up the last few days and listen to my new favorite band, that I am cutting off my stupid nails and letting them go back to natural. see, well, you'll read about it in the post - but when a hot indie rocker hands you his guitar and goes "hold this" and you realize you can still play, and that it's kind of fun, well - you want more.

of the guitar, I mean. but more hot indie rockers would be nice too.

full photoessay on both kinds to follow before the end of the weekend. promise.

~vvb

the only decent radio station around here transmits from somewhere on long island. it comes in better on clear days... when it's overcast, I have to manipulate the little wire antenna around the back of my bookcase to get a good signal. but with how the radio stations are around here, halfway good music with static beats clearly broadcast shit.

maybe it's john in the morning talking about living and breathing his craft. maybe it's because it was still light out at 7:00, or because it was warm enough today that some chocolate I had my car melted. I noticed it with the top down in the grocery store parking lot, blaring picaresque and getting odd glances:

fifteen celebrity minds
served on a leafy bed of sixteen militry wives...

it occured to me today that after thursday I will have met ray lamontagne and john richards, all in the same week. oh, and sat five feet from tori amos in a folding chair. but I don't want to say too much, for then trains wreck and buildings implode and I also thought meeting chris carrabba was going to go down in history too - it did, just as one of the worst experiences ever. not what I was planning, but what the universe intended.

so I'll stay on now instead of what's coming, my low-fi indie christmastime. where I make cds, or have the best intentions to, I make them in my mind at least. where I answer questions honestly and speak my mind. (actually, I have three hours so maybe I can make those cds - my goal is to get ugly played on KEXP in the next seventy two hours. among other things. track suggestions welcome.) and where I become a part of other people's awakenings, instead of being the one that's always sleeping. where I stand up for myself, and humbly admit my mistakes at the same time. where I shake my mother by the shoulders, because she's afraid to ask for help, and I stop enabling the rest.

now I can't stop thinking about the cds. for john and for sarah. off with you, then, or you'll be walking the plank! I have to note here that I'm not only catching pirate-itis from kristin and steve's boat adventures (see links... arrr!) but I've wanted to lapse into irish slang. bloody and oy and me somethings and it all goes hand in hand I think. april 5th officially marks my personal equivalent of colin meloy entering his world of chinese trapeze artists bearing sinews and their pantaloons, and sweet miranda on the vast veranda.

portland's calling.

~vvb

you nailed it about webster hall...like kerri-strug-off-the-vault nailed it. it's so good to read passion like yours. and yes, i too get excited about comments from strangers. ;)

~erica, on my nyc ray review... she's got a groovy site too - see links section (as soon as I can put it up)

... and off we head for the big ciy. holy shit. we've made it happen. our will has prevailed! and since sarah is driving, there's no train fees or anything. show + parking + pizza after = less than $40. manageable. especially with sarah's initial plan to buy scalped tickets, which would have been $50 just to start.

we keep the live show she's yet to hear on pause, as I wrap up my coordinating calls and to-do list calls and michael, shea, kristin, mom, check check and check. ok, done. turn it on.

ray croons and sarah drives with a hand over her mouth. I tell her about how I cried when I heard it for the first time and how kristin sent it with random things and sparkles and love. we realize as we get closer that our directions are from 95 but we're on 15 - a few quick calls gets us on the right track. whitestone to triborough to fdr to 23rd to 11th. got it.

I must say, between the two of us, we are quite the resourceful gals!

the street numbers get lower and we get more excited - I opt for no camera, to be truly present, and we change our shirts and throw on some eyeshadow in the car, and we're off. sarah runs back to the car, as she has forgotten her love letter for ray, and I start chatting with the australian girl behind me. she's pumped about the opener, I'm pumped about ray, and we trade stories... sarah's back and the doors are open. we tumble down the stairs to will call, and into the depths of webster hall.

black floor, black bar, well-placed mirrors and spinning red lights. we're instantly in another world, and we change as well - we're here, ray's here, it's all happening, we're alright... the panic tense back anxiety ridden drive is over. we run up marble stairs past painted walls and glowing corners, and explode into the main room. it's just like the downstairs, only with impossibly high ceilings and more colors in the lights. like avalon screams "give me four hits of E, quick", this place screamed artists, and maybe some really good pot. but more so it wanted you to sit down and pay attention to the paintings on one particular part of the wall, or a big guilded mirror, or the sparkling orange gauze covering windows in a room that's inside this room and are too high to see in anyway.

front row. coats on the barrier. slightly stage right. we exhale, we seek beverage. when you're sitting on the toilet, you're bathed in a hot pink spotlight that's picking up the chunks of mirror embedded in the floor. you're cool, just for knowing to come here. you're an artist. and you're in a venue that completely respects the artist you are about to see.

the attendees followed suit - when our opener missy higgins came on, the hush was so that you could hear the hum of the refridgerators and the clink of bottles being tossed behind the bar. she sang of familiar situations, getting her bed (and head) back after a relationship ended, and how she'd leave you - but wouldn't run too far, because as we all knew, we're coming right back anyways and who did we think we were fooling? ourselves? all painted in purple swirling cascades of light with an australian accent. a pixie with her heart on fire, making the opening slot withstandable.

and then, ray... ray was ray. in trying to describe him after we'd met, I struggled. nothing seemed to do him justice, words like gentle and strong and soulful and alive and powerful and brilliant all lacking somehow. the tone of tonight's show was a little different, the energy was different, as though he had just broken up or gotten some disquieting news - but then that theory was tossed as they laughed between notes and danced around with each other on stage. a new song, you're clawing at my neck and your hot tears on my shirt just then - and then the second song, one I hadn't heard friday and had discovered since - until the sun turns black, where the corporate man is winning on the telephone and watches tv in the dark, waiting... fucking brilliant. all the rest of his repertoire, no allie, but yes to shelter and trouble and burn and joleen and hannah and you should belong to me and all the wild horses and so tired covered again, with blue lights instead of red as they were two nights before. luscious and ripe and soft and true.

we danced like lunatics. see, most people kind of just bob and nod their heads, but I've taken up what the hippie guy did at the first show back in january - where he was jumping up and down with excitement, where ray was just exploding through his pores - I just went with how it made me feel. weak in the knees and beams of light of song just tearing right through me. singing, screaming... chris (thomas, stand up bass) remembered us I think, or just dug that we were digging it, and sort of danced with us as he played bass and we danced and sang back to him, all punctuated by sarah's calls of love to ray. hanging off the barrier for fear of losing my grip, hushed when it called for it, leaning forward, head in my hands - a song called please. something near if you wanted me to be on my knees, to tell you please, then please... I was made to kiss your mouth, please, please (whispers now) please please please... and sarah and I are almost annihilated souls - yes, ray. please.

a less dramatic encore than friday, but a good show in it's own right. I manage a copy of the set list, and sarah - in her newfound awoken state - reaches up to chris at the end of the show, tosses him a note for ray, and he comes down and gives her a kiss. sweating and full and right in front of everyone, because they remember us, we get the guy-acknowledgement-nod, the "hey, I'll show you that I know you, but I'm going to be really nonchalant about it" thing. that is more than enough for us, and we're once again left reeling.

once again, however, I have managed to chat up a grad student more than five years my junior - this one more like eight - who currently has velvet underground, the cure, and jeff buckley in rotation. who talks to me of life and movies and how strippers are dying inside so he won't go to a club and movies and how old howie day is great and how he really would love to keep in touch. and then, as these young boys do, leaves with a half-smile and a see ya or whatever. now, a bit taken aback, I ask if he really wanted to keep in touch or if he was just saying that, and he proceeds to hand me his email address. hmmm.

cut to us eating pizza across the street after the show, swearing not to stalk, with one eye on the band's transportation, coyly through the windowpane. I burned my mouth. it still hurts now. in discussion of the set and boys and the bass player's kisses, I realize that it is completely and utterly the same as not getting a "bless you", or even "gesundheit", ("bless you" being preferred, of course). and I do the unthinkable, which is now not so strange, for me thus far:

I. Threw. His. Address. Away.

again:

Threw. It. Away.

crumpled AND

Without. Regret.

I stop sarah's reread of her love note... she kissed a man and handed him promises to another, that will come back stronger someday in something I manage to emote into my notebook for sure. I explain the gravity of this, the utter tremendousness, the epic proportions that stopped the world in orbit and helped me to grow fifty feet emotionally in that one moment. (say it for me - yeah, you did!)

it's drizzling now, the man lied to us about what parking would cost, and until the last fifteen minutes we spent together the radio fell silent. I talk of my mom and my creative explosions and kristin and plans and hinderances and avocados and words and boys... sarah speaks of her sister and how she's merely got a handful of cds and now the awakening comes, of shows and ray and her words and her passions and boys... we realize we have a lot of the same things to say, and sing a few for the road.

I think the reason that last call came at 4:33 became clear on that car ride home. it's a part of the fractal, this leads to this leads to this and the boy led to the frames led to the avocados... I'll assume you know what I mean. whatever it is, I'm excited for things to come, and to be a part of it for sarah as well.

we left with promises of notes and books and cds and beauty, and gratitude and hugs and full senses. in seventy two hours I've made new friends, shook hands with impeccable musicians I greatly respect, and helped fan another woman's fire. all while dancing, singing, and driving home with the sound of rain on the roof late at night. smiling and free.

and as I posted on mark geary's site about ray, flawless. with scars and cracks and misplaced lyrics and the wrong tuning still, totally flawless.

~vvb

scene - starbucks parking lot, around 1 pm. I've walked a road of mansions and showered and I'm down for a skim latte and some more writing. parking the car.

(ring, ring)
me: hello?
sarah: hey, victoria it's sarah.
v: hey, yeah did you get my message yesterday? sorry we can't make it tonight, I still didn't get anyone to cover.
s: um, yeah, well, I'm on my way to new york. (refresher - she lives in boston) and, so, I'm going to get a ticket when I get there, and, you should come.
v: are you kidding? I can't. fuck. I can. shit. let me make some calls.
s: okay, I should be coming through new haven around 3.
v: okay - bye.

shit. I have things to do, what can top last night? but it would be so fun, and, well, she doesn't have tickets, fuck. I start making calls. about six hundred, to be exact. did I mention how tough it is to get someone to speak at a meeting on a few hours notice, especially on a sunday?

(ring, ring)
v: hello?
s: it's sarah.
v: hey, I haven't found anybody yet. I don't think I can go.
s: um, yeah... I bought two tickets. (another refresher - the show is sold out) but it's on me and if you can't come...
v: ARE YOU KIDDING? let me go - I've got to keep calling. where are you?
s: um, rocky hill. how about I come to starbucks anyway, and we'll figure it out.
v: okay - bye.

it should be noted here that it has become painfully obvious that the universe is not letting me get out of speaking. that's a run-on sentence, in case you missed it. anyway, my will prevails - yay! - sarah comes, and we act as if. I run home to grab the live ray show, on the phone the entire time, and 4:30 finds us back at the starbucks parking lot. paused. waiting.

s: okay, let's give it until 4:35.
v: okay, and you so totally have to go if I can't get someone - maybe I'm just supposed to speak.
v: (talking to josh) okay, cool, okay -
v: (talking to sarah) okay he's making one last call to see if our friend brian can do it.
v: (talking to josh & brian on conference) so I met this girl at a show friday, and she bought tickets to the show in new york, and she's in branford right now and - is there any shot in hell that you can speak tonight?
brian: sure!

sarah knows by the look in my eye that he's said yes - by the time I turn around and step out of the car, she's grabbed my purse and clothes and run to her car to leave.

v: (shouts across parking lot) hey, do you have my shoes?
s: yes! yes! come on, let's go!

and we do.

I'll let you know about bass player kisses and yet another underage boy later - I've got to do something vaguely related to work before I get fired...

~vvb

After tiptoeing through taut opener “A Caution to the Birds,”, I got a taste of singer/guitarist Glen Hansard’s winning charm as he prefaced one of the best songs from their new album (‘Keepsake’) by explaining that the song is about walking out of your house in the morning, picking up the morning paper, taking a book of matches, lighting the paper on fire, throwing it into your house, closing the door, locking the door, breaking the key off in the lock, and giving the broken key to the first girl you see.

~steve mcpherson on a frames show from last month in minneapolis. I'm going on the next tour, I swear - glen's got my brand of crazy.

um, yeah. hi.

!!!

it's true what conor says, that it's the ones with the sorest throats that have done the most singing. or, in my case, screaming at the top of my lungs with sheer and utter glee.

see, my first run-in with fame was sometime back around 1989-90. I was about thirteen years old, and I was doing some junior bridesmaid modeling at a bridal fair. bad perm, glasses, braces - ew. topped off with a shiny turquoise dress. as I was stumbling through this particular stage, michael damien (remember him? he covered "rock on" and shot to fame as a one-hit wonder and a star on general hospital) was reaching the peak of his career with a hit tune in a corey & corey flick. what does this have to do with me, you ask? well, he was the star of this particular show, scheduled to walk out the prettiest girl in the most gorgeous dress, fanfare, etc. - and I was going to get to meet him, being one of the models and all.

I use that term very, very loosely. I would insert the picture here if I had one.

now, (a) I thought he was an idiot and (b) I thought I looked like an idiot, and one of these thoughts was going to be the predominant emotion when we met. I lost miserably. when they introduced him to me, I couldn't speak. I started sweating and stuttering and making a general ass of myself. and I've remembered every moment, ever since it happened. it doesn't like, plague me or anything, but whenever I talk about being anxious around someone famous, I remember that night.

fast forward to a lucid, coherent, bordering on kind of cool conversation with ray lamontagne - one of the three people in my "what bands / artists are you into right now" section on the kexp member survey I just filled out, along with the frames and the decemberists.

so, yeah. the show was fucking awesome. and I was a big girl. we all were, really... but I'll start from the beginning.

(cue "please come to boston in the springtime")

after a little bit of a late start, kacia and I head up around 3:30. full tank of gas and great expectations. I've got the live chicago show on as loud as it can go, and we're both freaking out. we're going to see ray. we're going to see ray! kacia drops a gem and says, "isn't this against the rules?" I know, I know - but as with most things, I couldn't help myself. as glen puts it,

maybe it's 'cause we can't wait
that keeps us always regretting

which usually gets me in trouble. but not tonight.

we arrive, we park, I look up and I'm like, hey, what the - I realize I'm standing on the back side of kristin's old dorm. miles standish hall. I launch into stories of the citgo sign and drunken rounds of "you don't know jack" as we head for some dinner. which ended up consisting of awesome salad wraps and hot indie boys eating burritos. yum, and yum.

the navigation isn't tough and in about five minutes we're at the club. it's probably around 7:10, and doors have just opened. shea and nick are coming, and we're hanging out waiting due to the fact that I'm holding all four tickets. now fast forward twenty minutes - what seems to be about three hundred people have gone in before us, and I'm pacing the sidewalk. almost in tears. I didn't come to stand in the back! I'm such a baby. we wound up in front, stage right, as always. but I'm also chronically monica about some things, and I have no problem being way uncool and lining up early for a show so that I can choose a good spot to watch from. I've got no one to impress, except for myself. and that's going just fine.

so they finally come walking up, and I've already sent kacia in to hold the fort. oh - there was a random TB encounter. I almost went right past it. while we were waiting initially, realizing we couldn't stand in line after two cycles of getting to the door and having to step out (hoping that they'd be coming up the sidewalk at any moment) we finally started playing around. wandering and investigating and standing with our ears pressed to one of the stage doors. is that soundcheck? that sounds like someone covering "watchtower", doesn't it? and all of a sudden, kacia gives me The Look. she thinks she's spotted TB, and I sort of don't care and sort of do. so I look, of course, and he very un-smoothly almost sees me but manages to avoid my gaze while talking to the people he came with. when he gets to the front of the line (where he is more able to disappear rapidly without conversing), he looks back and waves.

but - well, I'm just not going to get into it. I'll quote glen again:

everybody fucks up
it's just somethin'
that's been
goin' round...

back to the show.

I'm like, shea, we have to run to where kacia is before we deal with anything else. and he cuts through the crowd like a pro - we weave our way to the floor, and there's kacia, searching the faces. we're in! we're up front! I hug her and hug shea and apologize for my MB (that would be Monica Bing) attack. shea wanders off with nick for food and bev, and I put some sparkles on kacia's face. the light is perfect for it.

we wait, we chat, we meet the girl behind us. actually I say, "hi, I'm about fifteen right now, but I'll be good when he comes on, I promise." she says, "hey, if I have to pee, you guys will like, hold my spot, right?" she's in. her name is sarah and it's her first live ray experience. and writing that now, I think seeing the show at the paradise qualifies as catching ray's first tour, ever. which totally rocks.

after what seems like forever, through bad, bad adult rock songs blaring from the wall of speakers in front of us, ray arrives. he's got on an orange t-shirt with JERK across the chest in iron-on letters, and a brown bowler with a feather in it. a plume in his helmet. mountain man beard and that soulful gaze. I am jumping up and down, and am teetering on a possible implosion. sparkles and stagelights and ray all abound gracefully.

he played so much, but not how come and three more days, I think. joleen, shelter, burn, ali you should be a married woman now, trouble, you should belong to me, hold you in my arms, hannah, all the wild horses - string section and all... along with a rockin cover of "so tired" by the kinks, washed in red lights and pure total rock and roll. chalk that up to more musicians with their flawless choices of covers. so he plays all of those and probably a bunch I'm forgetting about too, most familiar and some new, and all amazing.

oh yeah - I'm morphing into kristin. while talking to the guy at the counter in the burrito place, he goes, isn't ray lamontagne folky? I'm like, a little, but he's a great singer / songwriter with a tremendous stage presence. he's flawless.

she's taking over my language and I love it. or, maybe a more accurate statement is that I am learning how to speak my mind and it's in tune with KD and I love it.

it's also worthy to note here that after a particular song sarah screamed out the following:

"that's going to be my wedding song!"
"when I get married!"
"to you!"

and turns around in total victoria style, knees bent, eyes wide, hands over her mouth. I seize the moment. "yeah, you did," I say, never wanting to miss an opportunity for an oh-no-you-didn't and we're laughing our asses off. she can't believe that she's just said the quiet part out loud, screamed it, actually, and I'm not doing it justice because it was so fucking funny and perfect. he plays on... and on...

and he leaves us wanting. I'm screaming and losing feeling in my knees. of course they return, and I yell, "play can I stay! please? please!" and he looks right at me - right. at. me. and had we not met after the show, that would have been enough. I spoke. he heard me. I have confirmation and witnesses. and they rock us out with a song or two, and the whole room shushes for the last song. he was probably planning on playing it anyway, but the locked gaze made me feel like it was just for me, if but for a moment. shea takes my hand and I close my eyes and get blown away. on the verge of tears, and shouting with joy as he leaves us. totally good show in its own right, just as good as the intimacy of the paradise but with a totally different feel. worth every moment and every penny.

we explode outside after singing some more bad, bad soft rock that's pumping through the speakers. we tumble and giggle through the construction barrels and broken sidewalks, back over the bridge to store 24. shea wants cloves. I want to stalk. sarah calls, and wants to know what we're up to. I'm down for stalking. so is kacia, I mean, it's like, 10:00. shea wishes us well, as does nick, and we make our way back to the club.

once sarah is located, I begin full blown site inspection. I'm casing the joint. there's no back door, no other side, so we're keeping an eye on the couple of doors where ray could possibly leave from. we spot chris, we spot the drummer, we spot the family. all the while discussing what we would actually do if we see him - be cool. be cool. no crazy groupie freakouts.

yeah. and we're standing out in the cold, because we're stalkers. but we are cool about it, if I do say so myself. after about a half an hour, we enlist the help of dominic. dominic is the head bouncer, who has begun departure with "hey, I gotta go - like the epileptic said, I'll seize ya later!" and I can't help but laugh. he's all kinds of cool. yeah, baby, peace, for sure baby, for sure... he actually goes and finds out for us that ray has in fact not left yet and that we've got a great vantage point. we talk to him for a while and keep our eyes peeled. turns out the tour manager hasn't left, so ray must still be inside.

he comes out. there he is. be cool, be cool - we call after him, "great show ray! thanks ray!" and we cheer and clap a little, and he smiles and waves. and dominic is all, what are you guys waiting for? and runs into the street to get to the other side of their van. we bustle up the sidewalk. he stops ray and says something like, do you have a minute to talk to some fans? these lovely girls have been waiting. and ray and chris both turn to us. "sure." soft spoken and - just all kinds of ray. and we handle it like such grown ups - we shake hands and introduce ourselves, and chris gives all of us full blown hugs. I get to talk to ray first.

"hey, that was great - I heard you on KEXP, do you remember the in-studio?"

"oh yeah -"

"well, I heard hold you in my arms and it made me cry and -"

"oh, I'm so sorry," with this look, like he could have taken my hand and consoled me for hours, all with a glance -

"no, no - it was good - and I bought four tickets and your album and saw you at the paradise a few months ago and it was great. and tonight was great, really -"

"oh, thanks so much," smiling, really participating, looking right at me. he's soft and calm and tremendously powerful all at once. he's got soothing hands. and I have to say, to back up kacia - he's got some serious sexual energy. you wouldn't expect it, maybe because of the beard and stuff. but he is Sexy. Sex. Y.

"really, you're brilliant, I mean, thank you. thank you so much. did you guys just get back from europe?"

"no, well, yeah, we had to cut it short because I got the flu and I was in the hospital for a night so we'll have to go back I think, and -"

"oh, man, are you okay?"

"yeah, it's fine now-"

and then chris thomas is hugging me, and sarah and kacia are talking to ray, and I'm talking in detail with chris about the difference between the paradise and this show and the in-studio and how I can't wait for sasquatch - and he looks at me, a little bewildered - and I'm like, "it's this big outdoor thing in washington state that you're playing on memorial day weekend." and he's like, "oh, right on, well we'll see you guys there, right?" and I'm like, "well, if I can make it through the other twenty nine thousand people, yes." it was this perfect moment, he had no idea -

we should go. the tour manager is a little fussy. we start our departure, and sarah is ready to propose marraige... we shake hands again, and I leave with, "thanks ray, you're brilliant, really, we love you" and he thanks me back and they finish packing up the gear and stuff as we walk away.

at full volume, with all the dogs in the greater boston area wincing:

WE JUST MET RAY LAMONTAGNE! AND CHRIS THOMAS! ARE YOU KIDDING? OH MY GOD! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! we're running away, gushing and laughing and shaking and singing and full of everything the night saw fit to give us. we can't go home. we can't leave yet. we have to pee and talk and call everyone we know (well, the two people that know and love ray) and we stumble into bertucci's and sit down, bubbling over with glee.

we relive everything over coffee and sodas and hot bread and olive oil. with a sweet waiter that just lets us be, with our big six dollar tab we're racking up. should we wash our hands? I didn't. should we go to new york sunday? shit. I kind of can't, but we could, oh... we just met ray and chris. we just totally talked to them. and we were cool - we were cool! we were big girls!

sarah is fumbling over her words and actions and is all, "look at me. I'm all over the place. I can't even pee." and we crack up at this, and I remind her that we don't know her, so that this could be totally normal behavior. she assures me it's not.

the wrap is that we carried intelligent conversations with mindbendingly amazing musicians and didn't ask for autographs. we did good, girls - we did good. we did our indie sisters proud.

and now sarah departs for the T and we skip to the car. we turn up the heat and the volume and I drive home in my socks. filling kristin in along the way, and singing all of the new frames after all of the live ray we can stand. kacia leaves me as well, and now I'm heading home down the side streets. red right ankle, lua, rain on the windshield - it seems to come out of my mouth more and more these days, but I mean it every time:

I don't know if it gets better than this. then it does. and I'm alive and awake and aware and in love with everything - including me. like I shared in the meeting the other night, making that mix or seeing that show or writing when I need to - these are every bit as important as pursuing the technicalities of a "conventional" spiritual path. because I used to hate myself. and I don't anymore. and I have to feed that thing I love, and nurture it - because it's me. and after I stopped sharing I couldn't believe that had come out of my mouth, and that I had meant it. unscripted and naked on stage, yet without anxiety.

sobriety is a wonderful thing.

once again, stay tuned. the to-do list is big, but includes new york plans and mix cds and road trip photo postings, even with a little ironing and washing on the bill. I'll have more up by the end of the weekend.

~vvb

(editor's note - two red wash photos courtesy of shea. muchas gracias!)

Poets, for example, will almost always regard any opportunity to dress up and hold forth in elegiac style as permissible improvement on their usual solitude. If free drink and a buffet featuring Swedish meatballs are figured in the bargain, so much the better. A reviewer of mine quite rightly calls poets the taxidermists of literature, wanting to freeze things in time, always inventing dead aunts and uncles to eulogize in verse. He's right about this. A good laugh, a good cry, a good bowel movement are all the same fellow to those who otherwise spend their days rummaging in the word horde for something to say, or raiding the warehouses of experience for something worth saying something about. And memorable speech like memorable verse calls out for its inscription into stone. Poets know that funerals and gravesides put them in the neighborhood of the memorable. The ears are cocked for answers to the eternal adverbs, the overwhelming questions. "And may these characters remain," we plead with Yeats, in his permanent phrase, "when all is ruin once again."

"Behold I tell you a mystery..."

~The Undertaking, Thomas Lynch

there's not one starbucks between dc and savannah. seriously. we almost killed each other.

I want to feel like this every day. a little bit punk rock, a little bit ballsy, a little bit indie, and a little extra eyeshadow. with a hoodie and some concert tickets. I enjoy myself on days like this.

I was playing the live ray show kristin sent me so loud this morning that I got pissy looks from the guy next to me stopped at the light. singing "you should belong to me" at the top of my lungs, eyes closed, head thrown back.

you know what, you cattle wagon drivin' no personality havin' comb over wearin' miserable (because your wife won't bang you anymore except for your birthday if you're lucky) dickhead? go fuck yourself. I'm black and I'm proud.*

show not seen: josh rouse at the paradise next saturday
funds saved: $30.00
blissfund to date: $75.00, signed and sealed in front of the bank teller today. I'm fucking serious about this shit.

~vvb

*no offense or racial slurs intended - I just saw the commitments again recently and couldn't help myself.