Over the Rhine Tour Diary
Dave Nixon (the Merch Guy)
Day Seven: December 9, 2000
The Big Gig. The Homecoming. The Show of Shows. It blew by, spun me 'round a few times, mussed my hair really bad, and left me spent. Certainly the virus overtaking my head and lungs didn't help matters. I arrived at 4 p.m. with my wife Jody and our daughter Carrie (a HUGE thanks to both of them for all their hard work that night!) to set up "the merch" and get ready for this seasonal event which, now in its sixth year, is firmly establishing itself as a Cincinnati tradition. By 6:10 we were done with setup and took off to backstage for a quick repast--we had only twenty minutes until the doors opened and business began.
Linford showed us into the dining area to the buffet table, then we sat down at a table with some friends and blood of Sixpence (Kristin, Matt Slocum's wife, was seated next to me), wolfed down our food with a few brief introductions and minimal conversation, then split for the lobby. As I was going out, Matt was coming in. After a 5-second hello and goodbye, we split for the front. And for the next six hours, with just a few brief interludes, there was rarely a time when people were NOT frequenting the merch table. (This made me quite happy.) From the lobby I heard only snippets of Sixpence between passing out CDs, shirts, and posters. Ditto for Ron Sexmith's set. For OtR it was just three songs that I listened two from high in the balcony during a lull in the selling storm.
What a difference the crowd and venue makes. After watching them play on small stages in clubs and pubs that hold 150-200 people, it was a sense-twisting experience to see them on a sprawling stage before a crowd of somewhere between two and three thousand. The lighting mesmerized me. From my vantage point, a deep darkness blanketed the stage and looked to be pressing in toward the band. The only thing that seemed to be holding it at bay was the force of the band's lambent music [lambent: an adjective NOT meaning "meek" (Yes, Linford breathed a sigh of relief) but "luminous," "flickering with light"]. Beautiful music shimmered out and away, bathing them in light and softening gradually as it reached toward the hard edges of the darkness around them. I had the sensation of hiding behind a tree some distance away, watching elves at play in a dark forest where the only light present was the light escaping from their bodies. Or maybe looking at a Georges de la Tour painting. The live performance was chiaroscuro at its finest, and the few minutes of song I got were an oasis in a long night at the merch booth.
Three amusing parts of the evening. The first moment came where Karin's mom ambled up to the table and started thumbing through the CDs, advising the friend with her--and being very vocal about it--on what was good and what wasn't. My friend Steve Willis, standing next to the booth, leaned over to me and whispered to me with a grin, "Psst. That lady looks a little shifty, Dave. Keep an eye on her or she'll steal you blind." "Oh, you mean Karin's mom?" I said. "Here, let me introduce you." Sometimes I wish you could rewind life. I would do it now to catch his expression. Somewhere in the evening Michael Wilson furtively approached the side of the booth and began walking away unseen with an armful of T-shirts. He then returned to tell us we had a huge breach in our security systems. Lyle Lovett, who's used Michael for his last 3 or 4 CDs, once referred to him as "a sneaky little bastard." I understand this better now. The finale: I was bending over the merch booth filling out a Visa receipt during one of the busiest moments of the evening when someone tapped my on the shoulder: "Excuse me, but can you tell me what kind of music Over the Rhine plays?" I thought to myself, "Ah, for cryin' out loud! Not that question. Not now, not here. Just go listen and find out for yourself." Instead I collect myself, look up with a smile and see Eric King, OtR's web designer. He's a son of a Michael Wilson.
At the end of the show, when the all the evening's notes had been plucked or uttered, when all the transaction were complete and we settled up with the Taft theater management, we went backstage to get a snack and say our goodbyes. It was a quiet affair, as I remember, with the musicians of the evening and a few friends just relaxing and talking in small groups, munching on bits of food. Linford, a consummate host, gathered up some snacks for us to take home. He thanked us profusely and asked several times if there was anything else he could do for us before we left. "I have a great boss," I thought to myself.
. . .