Over the Rhine Tour Diary
Dave Nixon (the Merch Guy)
Day Four: December 2, 2000
It's 11:42 a.m. in Chicago. I woke up just fifteen minutes ago, looking and feeling...well, let's just say not too good. Crawling out of the bunk I noticed all the other bunk curtains open, and thought of the proverb, "Arise, o sluggard." A dream then came back to me in which Sandie Brock--her husband Owen does much of the design for OtR's CDs and posters--kept telling me how bad I looked. I would say, "Yeah, I know," and she would come back with, "No, David, I mean you look BAD." I would explain I was on tour, had a weird schedule, but she would respond, "Yes, but you look REALLY bad." This went on for some time. Sandie was, I suppose, a dream symbol for truth and candor, so today I'm avoiding mirrors. No need to confirm what my subconscious mind already knows. I then shuffled into the front lounge to find it deserted except for Big, our driver (I've been wrong on his moniker, calling him Biggs up until today). He was stretched out on the big couch watching--no lie-- "Big," Tom Hank's flick, and saying the lines before they were spoken. "How many times have you seen this?" I asked. With his eyes still pinned on the TV, he responded " 'bout a hundred." From what I've seen so far, his life on the road revolves around a fixed triad of driving, sleeping, and watching TV.
The last one awake. Now I know that I can sleep late with the best of them, even Dale. I just needed the right conditions for this hidden talent to blossom. Yet this fluid and inverted schedule has got to mess with circadian rhythms and the ability to rest well.
The bus is parked right in front of Schuba's, the venue for tonight's double show. Big says they have a great breakfast, so I gather my coat and shoulder bag--no need to dress since I slept in my clothes--and start out the door. "Do you know where the others are," I ask. "Nah." My eyes catch a Yellow Page directory lying on a seat and opened to the medical section. "Big, is someone sick?" I ask, pointing to the phone book. "Yeah, one of the girls has got some sinus thang." I wonder whether it's Karin or Terri who is sick, remembering that Karin had a chill last night that she couldn't seem to shake.
Most everyone went to bed last night shortly after leaving the venue. Spinner, Farns and I were hungry, so we stayed up until the driver stopped 30 minutes down the road at a Denny's, one with a very rough bunch of customers. We sat at the counter and heard the whispered and open comments of the servers and management as they shook their heads and rolled their eyes. The cashier told me it was the worst night they'd had since last April: that people had been stealing tips off tables, being rude to the servers, that pimps had been bringing in prostitutes. I noticed certain people taking multiple trips to the restroom and concluded that no one could have bladders that small. Service was slow and patience was thin, and my strong impression was that the whole place was one roil away from boiling over. One misplaced comment, one sigh of exasperation, one untimely move would uncover the monster in the basement. I kept thinking that my place right next to the cash register wasn't the best place to be in an environment like this. My mind then drifted off to an imaginary conversation: "Hi, Jody. Linford here. Listen, Jody, why don't you sit down. I have some really bad news to give you about Dave...."
I was awoken from this brief and dark meandering by Spinner, who leaned over and yelled down to me, "Welcome to the crew, Dave. You're now an official member: up after the band has gone to sleep and eating out with the rest of the crew at Denny's." I told him the crew should think about upping their entry standards. I then noticed Farns's plate. Three plates actually. Guessing, I'd say he's 5'9" and weighs 145 pounds, but he was polishing off a large T-bone steak, 2 eggs, hash browns, toast and juice--all at 4 a.m. We marvel. Our driver, a big, burly fellow, saw a huge breach of fairness here--that the smallest guy could eat the largest meal and not pay for his sins with added girth. "Ah jus' look at food 'n gain wayt," he said. I recalled, however, that Big ordered a double portion of ranch dressing for his salad and thought about how most of the time our own peccadilloes escape our notice.
Schuba's is nice. Warm ochre tones on the upper half of the walls are set against an antique, decorative, green tin paneling on the lower half, both divided by oak molding. The walls are accented by good art; the air by good music. The floors are bright oak. Food and service are excellent. I'm polishing off a gargantuan bowl of their country oatmeal, one egg with English muffin, good strong coffee, and cranberry juice. The waitress comes to me at the end and, after confirming that I'm with the band, hands me the bill and says, "You're comped out." Translated: "Free meals for the band are part of the package." I'm feeling better, much better at this point.
After the meal they take me back to where the band will play tonight so I can scope out the merchandise area and then write without distraction. The space is ideal: about 30 ft. long by 50 ft. wide; the stage area is 2-3 ft. high and adds another 12 ft. or so to the length of the room. In the back corner near the entry way is a large potbelly stove. Everywhere there's a feast of oak: floors, pews wrapping around one side of the room, paneling on the first third of the walls, beams on the ceiling, the sound booth enclosure. The other side of the room has three large windows wrapped in thick rug-like curtains. Mike Schuba, the owner, explains to me that this music room is 150 years old and was originally a town meeting hall. Chris then strolls in to see the place, telling me that Karin is the one with the sinus infection.
It's 8:45 p.m. and OtR has just come on stage to be greeted by a boisterous and sardine-packed, standing crowd. Both shows tonight are sold out, with just shy of 500 people coming tonight. The staff of Schuba's says the phone has been ringing persistently through the day. Jody, the hard-working server who's been taking good care of us--she's putting in a 16-hour shift today!--tells me the dialogue often goes like this: "Hi, do you guys still have tickets for either of the shows tonight?" "Sorry, but we're sold out." (Pause). "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I'm sure." (another pause) "But are you REALLY sold out." "Yes, we're REALLY sold out. Thanks for calling." So I gather from this that in some cases you're sold out and in others you're only partially sold out. Karin announces tonight's show is a live a live webcast, the second of the tour. This is OtR in the 21st century. Welcome to the cyberorchard.
The sound in this room is spectacular: the best, I think, of these first four shows. I'm gaining an appreciation of what Spinner brings to the table. Both he and Farns are incredibly hard workers. Spinner has lived in Windsor, Ontario all his life. Last night he told me he's traveled all over the world, but Windsor is where his roots are. He plays hockey weekly during the winter (when home) with guys he's known since kindergarten. Those are deep roots. Hockey is a big, big deal to him. When the rest of us left Denny's bleary-eyed and positively soaked in fatigue, he turned on the satellite TV and stayed up to catch part of a Detroit Red Wings game. To bed around 5 a.m. and up to work somewhere around 9 a.m. No thank you.
The band is now playing "Anything At All," a newer tune that Karin wrote. Much more of a country accent tonight. In one of the lines, "Sooner or later it all comes round again," Karin replaces "again" with "agin." Jack's lapsteel is moaning. Very sweet. I've had many OtR newcomers over the past few nights approach the merchandise booth before shows and ask me, "So what kind of music do they play." I tell them that I can't tell them. "Lil' Blue River," "Sleep Baby Jane," and "Fairpoint Diary," just to name three, may be part of the same kingdom, order and class, but they're different genera, maybe even different species.
Karin's voice, by the way, is fine. She told me earlier she had just the beginnings of a sinus problem that she wanted to stay on top of. Jack's the one who's actually hurting. Two days ago he had a severe headache. Last night he fell asleep in the hotel room while waiting for the staff to bring him a towel, and never did get a shower. Today he woke up with a pinched nerve in his neck and shoulder. He tried to grab a hot shower this afternoon to ease the pain, but all he got was cold water (a common experience of the band), which only exacerbated the problem. Karin and I gave him neck, shoulder, and back massages a couple hours ago. That seemed to help some. Whisper a prayer for him.
Karin is now singing "Poughkeepsie." I think about her voice and for some reason remember reading somewhere that when a priest consecrates the mass and wine, in focusing on the details of liturgy--that is, on the order, the words to be spoken, the gestures of hand and body--he is excused from any inability to focus on the content of the words and their spiritual meaning. It was even stated that this focus on fulfilling solely the liturgical requirements is itself a form of worship. I wonder if Karin is thinking about the words themselves or just the presentation of those words. I would guess a little of both. In any case, she's consecrating her voice and pouring wine from her throat. It is a gift and we are blessed. May she be twofold blessed.
I didn't think it possible, but the second show is even more packed than the first. No one seems to mind. The first show was all ages and no-smoking; this second is 21+, smoking allowed and a lot more alcohol flowing. The crowd's also way more talkative, especially at the back of the room around the bar area. Spontaneous shouts erupt here and there and effervesce to the surface as encouragement to the band. I love the music, but my job is simply to sell merchandise, and it's feeling like a bull market tonight. I'm mentally preparing myself for the crush afterwards.
I'm paying more attention to Terri's background vocals tonight. She's cookin' with gas. She really fills out "Sleep Baby Jane," dropping below Karin with a raspy, gritty vocal. In "And Can It Be" she chimes in with the melody line, adding the texture of her own voice and boosting the overall level. Very nice. It's especially nice to have her helping with the seasonal tunes since she contributed to Darkest Night of the Year.
They're doing "Lil' Blue River" at the moment and Jack's doing something very different and very engaging on the guitar. Sounds like it's total improvisation. The crowd licks it like a lollipop. Someone who's followed the band for several years told me after listening to the first show that Jack's contribution to OtR has been growing steadily over the last couple years, that he's showing no signs of stagnation. I agree completely. Incidentally, Jack and Terri are collaborating on a CD due out in late spring.
It's time to close up the tangerine iBook and prepare to do my small part in this tour. More tomorrow if I have breath and fingers and a working brain.
. . .