Over the Rhine Tour Diary
Dave Nixon (the Merch Guy)
Day Five: December 3, 2000
We left Schuba's fairly late last night. Spinner, Farns and Jack went to the bar for drinks; Karin, Terri, and Chris went to the catacombs; Linford went out with Blair Woods (a former manager of the Junkies...I think); Dale and I sat on the bus and talked. I like Dale: unpretentious, levelheaded, wiser than his years, generous in his speech toward others, and a damn good drummer. I've chosen not to follow the music scene too closely, partly because I'd rather be reading or writing, partly because I have so little money, so I knew nothing about Sixpence None the Richer. But hey, what a great opportunity to learn. So I asked him about the band's genesis and evolution, especially in the aftermath of their hit single, "Kiss Me.". My conclusion after our conversation is that money and attention never solve anything; they just introduce a band to a whole new set of questions and dilemmas. I try to imagine OtR in those circumstance and a large part of me wants to pray very earnestly, "Lord, spare them." Linford referred to Fermat's Theorem in his tour diary. Andrew Wiles, the Englishman who finally solved this Holy Grail of mathematical proofs--a proof that had eluded the greatest mathematicians of the past three centuries--worked in complete isolation and secrecy for nearly seven years before arriving at the solution. His rationale? "You can't really focus yourself... unless you have this kind of undivided concentration, which too many spectators will have destroyed." So I ponder a question: "Can OtR have too many spectators?"
Dale peeled off to his bunk after our conversation and then Linford ambled back onto the bus. By this time it was around 3:30 p.m. We spent the next hour alone, talking about the day's progression and the show. I then asked him to read me something he had written that day, anything at all, so he pulled out his laptop and read a soaring, soul-stirring paragraph or two. I was reminded again that the blood of a poet courses through his veins. I've met few people who paint emotions more vividly in words than he.
It's afternoon in Milwaukee and we've got a tired group of folks on board. Waking up close to noon, I walk out into the front lounge unsteadily, locked in a stupor and feeling thick-headed. I know I look bad, but at this point I'm too tired to care. Aside from Terri, we're all going downhill. Coffee would be nice, but there is none. I ask Chris if he knows where a Starbucks is. He responds succinctly, "Did you read the map?" and points behind me to the counter. This annoys me slightly and I think to myself that a better response would've been, "Sure. Check the map on the counter. I've marked the location." But I'm learning that Chris is very frugal with words, very to the point. As I'm reading the map, Chris says, "I have a weakness." Spinner fills in the sparseness: "Chris makes it a point to find the location of a Starbucks in every city along the way." He continues, "Actually, Chris, I don't see that as a weakness. I'd call it an admirable trait." Chris just say, "Maybe." Weakness or no, I capitalize on his efforts and walk to the Starbucks one mile away, hoping to wake up. On the way back to the bus I see Chris and Dale across the street heading off for their own fix.
Even a few days of this schedule have helped me understand better the lure of drugs and alcohol for touring bands. The winding down after a show in which you pour out your emotional energy, the daily winding up for a repeat performance, the blurring of geographies, the irregular eating schedules, the body's confusion of day and night, the adulation of fans, the cramped living--all these blend together to produce a very strange environment in which perceptions can easily be skewed, discretion slowly compromised, good sense turned on its head. Couple all this with the availability of alcohol and presumably (though I've yet to see it) drugs. At most of the shows the servers approach me every 30 minutes offering me beer, wine, or some other drink, all free. A few days into this tour Linford smiled at me and said, "Well, Dave, now that you've been out with us for a few days and have seen this from the inside, are you more concerned about me or less concerned?" "I don't really worry about you, Linford. You're a big boy," I replied, "but I think the most subtle danger in touring is that everything's so slippery. The one immutable point in each day is the show. Aside from that it's hard to grab on to anything that seems very stable." He shook his head knowingly.
Karin now has a full-blown head cold. I still feel foggy-headed and decide a run in the cold air will do me some good, so I change into my cold weather gear and head toward the door. Before leaving the bus, I ask Karin if there's anything I can get her while out. Her eyes light up with hopefulness and she tilts her head imploringly: "Really?! Could you get me some Cold Care Kleenex and throat lozenges?? That would be so nice." "No problem. I'll be right back." I stuff $20 in the pocket of my running suit, jog a half mile down to Osco Drugs, purchase the goods, and am back in less than 15 minutes. Karin, who's watching the last few minutes of "Pulp Fiction" and giggling when I come on board, is happier.
I take off again and run for an hour through the grassy parks that border the shore of Lake Michigan just north of the city. The pale blue cloudless sky, the brisk wind, the waves of the vast lake and my quickened metabolism pour life back into weary bones and a limp mind. I close my eyes, smile and say "Thank you." Along the way I pass people, nodding at them as I go by and saying, "Good Morning!" After a few of these encounters I glance at my watch and realize that it's not morning at all, but already after 2 p.m. This would explain the looks.
Returning to the bus I take a few minutes outside to stretch and cool down, then realize that Big, our driver, happens to be on the bus and is watching me go through my routine. This makes me slightly uncomfortable, because he has one artificial leg from the knee down. I wonder what he thinks, wonder if he wishes he could be out running, too.
Linford exits the bus and heads for the hotel room to grab a shower and check e-mail, inviting me to do the same. "I'll be up in a minute," I tell him. When I walk into the room, he's checking e-mail, so I grab the shower first. When I come out he's just finishing up his mail session and says, "I think I'm going to snag a little kip." I look puzzled and he explains to me that this is Jack's term, a British one, for a nap. Linford lies down and within minutes I hear his light and rhythmic breathing in the background of my typing. Soon the alarm goes off, he showers, shaves, and comes out of the bathroom looking ready to go.
We're now in Milwaukee at the Miramar Theater, minutes away from beginning the last show of this first leg of the tour. About thirty people from the Back Porch label are here. In fact, there was a special pre-show meeting with them shortly before the concert, a time when the band normally likes to be alone. A couple days ago I overheard Linford tell Spinner to spend a little extra on gear for tonight if necessary and not to cut any corners. Despite Karin's cold, Jack's pinched nerve, and the general and natural fatigue imposed by traveling, OtR will give it their best.
The crowd tonight at the Miramar is subdued compared to that of Shuba's. Seems to me that when there's food and drink and people standing rather than sitting, the energy level of the show goes up. People spend more freely, too. Tonight the crowd seems just a little too polite and tame. I talk to Jack about this after the show and he concurs,"When people come in and lower themselves into seats, I think they lower their expectations as well."
Following the show we get on the bus as quickly as possible without being rude. Jack helps me load the gear, which means he must be anxious for home. This is understandable since his wife Hazel is almost eight months pregnant.
It's a little over seven hours to Cincinnati and we chat quietly while eating some pizza ordered by phone. I talk for a few minutes with Chris, asking him a few questions about his experience with OtR. He's more gregarious, it seems, and speaks freely. He says he likes these gigs, likes the opportunity to create and be spontaneous. He does a lot of studio work and weekend gigs in Nashville where it's fairly plug-and-play, but this is different. When I ask who else he plays for regularly, he mentions "Phil Keaggy" and "Out of the Grey." I tell him about my first and only experience of seeing Keaggy, about being struck by the obvious joy he took in performing his music. I tell him how that unmediated joy spilled over into me. He understands what I say.
Spinner and Farns are in the back lounge. I join them after Chris and I finish talking and commit my first serious verbal blunder. "So, it's the Roadies," I say upon entering. Spinner eyes me quickly. "We're not Roadies," he says, "We're crew." I ask what the difference is and without missing a beat he responds, "About $1,500 a week." I'm still puzzled, so he explains further, "Roadies work for free so they can be near the band. We're professionals. We do this for a living." Point taken.
This is crunch time for Spinner. As the road manager, it's time for him to go through receipts, settle the accounts, print out reports, write out checks, and do a zillion other little or large things. He sits hunched over his computer, surrounded by papers and cash, thoroughly immersed in his work. Jack then enters, holding a small glass of Scotch. Spinner and Farns each have a can of Cafree (sp?), so I'm the odd one out. Jack generously offers to get me a drink and I accept. When he returns, we talk for a while and somewhere in the conversation he uses the word "bloody." I ask him if this is a vulgar word across the Atlantic and we eventually find ourselves in a discussion of what makes a word obscene. Farns joins in and enlivens the discussion by producing a sound file he just so happens to have his laptop: an erudite and dry but completely hilarious exposition of the F-Bomb, the Mother of All Obscenities. We listen to it on his headphones and have a good laugh.
Fade to morning. We're back in Cincinnati at 9 a.m. and getting off the bus. It's seems just as cold here as it was farther north. As I head down the aisle toward the front of the bus to leave, I pass Karin, who is gathering up her stuff. To no one in particular she asks, "Is it immoral to bring this much stuff on a trip? What do you think? I just wonder. Do you think it's immoral?" This is more a playful, self-scolding at the end of the ride than a serious question, but I answer anyway as I walk past and descend the steps into the cold air of home. "Karin, let's you and I talk about that on the next leg." She smiles and says, "Yes, let's."
. . .