Over the Rhine Tour Diary
Dave Nixon (the Merch Guy)
Day Eight: December 13, 2000
Winter skies drop white and cold confetti on us as we prepare to leave for this third leg of the tour, coating us and our surroundings in a feather-light powder as we finish the final preparations. The heavens are giving their blessing, maybe even feting our departure on this eighth day before the darkest night of the year.
Spinner and Farns are, as usual, loading gear and gaining their daily bread. When they see me they shout simultaneously, "Dude." Terri, beautiful and bundled in her bright orange scarf, saunters off through the white mist toward to the AmeriStop convenience store two blocks away. She's looking for a snack, fading into white. I wonder to myself if she leaves tracks in the snow. I also wonder how in the world she'll find anything to eat at the AmeriStop other than candy bars, beef jerky, and hot dogs that have turned on the grill for several days. Linford walks briskly between the bus and office and trailer, answering questions, giving direction, and looking eager to get going. Chris and Jenni Smith, from St. Elizabeth Community House, hand me chocolate cookies and a candy cane white chocolate brittle for us to share on the road; Stacie Bebout, OtR's office manager, adds to the collection of goodies. Chris Donohue contributes to the holiday surfeit with cheeses, crackers and beer left over from his family's Christmas party the day before. Dale pours over some papers, writing out, I suppose, drum progressions in some mystical language. Jack is sitting on the bus looking peaceful. As I race about to get my act together, it occurs to me that I never see Jack either flustered or in a rush... ever. I will ask him his secret later. Big is on the corner in his perennial shorts, talking on his cell phone. Our strange cast of characters is gathering and it's getting close to curtain call. Aside from Karin, we're just waiting on a few stage lights and some miles to pass before resuming the play.
It's good to be on the bus again. It feels like good-fitting, broken in jeans. On the counter is a toaster. Not just any toaster, mind you, but a Black & Decker Toast-it-All with a setting that lets you keep your toast warm after it's done. Bagels? You bet, and with room to spare. The toastmongers are making up for lost time. Farns, the blessed soul who bought this precious piece of equipment also picked up an electric teapot. I can tell immediately that the OtR is serious about this leg of the tour.
Today is Karin's birthday. When she finally gets on the bus -- she's the last one -- we all gather in the front lounge and sing happy birthday to her. Suddenly she's a shy schoolgirl asked by the teacher to come to front of the class to recite a poem. She hides her face in her hands and blushes. We then watch as she opens all her gifts. Jack, seated next to her, looks on. At the end he looks momentarily puzzled, then a bit thunderstruck. All of a sudden he gets up and dashes to the back, saying he forgot that he and Hazel had a present as well. Jack rushing. This is new, and makes me suspect his inner life isn't as rich as I thought it was.
Not long after getting underway Karin's mom calls from Barnesville OH to see how we're faring on the snow-covered roads. Somehow Spinner ends up on the phone and attempts several times to get in a word, but each time he's cut off by the voice on the other end. Karin laughs hysterically, telling those in the front lounge that Spinner has met his match--finally. She then does an impressive mom impersonation. Mom Bergquist must have passed on the fear-of-snow gene to her daughter. Whenever the bus lurches or there's a loud noise, Karin's head snaps around to the front and her eyes widen like a startled deer's. She says that she enjoys winter weather, but mostly from the inside of a picture window. It's getting hard to imagine her herding reindeer.
Halfway to Columbus OH Karin sits down next to me and I ask her if Linford passed on the email I sent them. This leads to a question about the meaning of her email address, which leads to a further discussion about dogs. I find out that she loves dogs -- very big dogs: Weimaraners, Great Danes, Irish Wolfhounds. When I tell her I can't visualize a Great Dane, she says, "Oh, I think I might happen to have a picture of one," then scoots to her bunk and returns with a book replete with beautiful photographs of dogs. Nothing but dogs. In a few seconds I'm staring at a picture of a Great Dane. I ask about email and end up looking at dogs for thirty minutes. This is how life sometimes goes.
The general conversation in the bus turns toward the election, and people begin registering their opinions about chads, dimples, the recounts, and the two contenders for the presidency. Later that evening we find out that Gore has conceded to Bush.
Little Brothers, the venue for tonight's show, is a first class dive. [The opinions aired here are personal opinions and do not necessarily reflect those of the band... but I intuit from a few unguarded comments that the location isn't exactly their favorite.] When I walk in the club, the smell in the air reminds me of back alleys in the inner city. It's the smell of swill. Stickers, signs, handbills, posters and graffiti smother the walls; cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air; darkness permeates the room in the early afternoon. A staffer sits to the side at the bar, playing solitaire on a lotto screen. If boredom could be defined with a look, her picture would be in the dictionary: she drags wearily on a cigarette, slouching toward the screen as her lifeless face searches it for winners. I wander over and ask her where the owner is. Without budging or moving her eyes, she says she'll get him a minute. Translation: "Don't bother me until I'm done with the game." I head off to the bathroom and am greeted by a picture hanging on the wall outside the men's door. It's an intense looking woman in cutoff, patched jeans, white socks and sneakers. Her hair is spiked, her body tattooed and pierced. Slung low on her waist is a guitar, and she's inches from a microphone. What's missing? A top of any kind. Suspenders wrap over her bare shoulders and snake their way down to her shorts, skirting by breasts whose nipples are pierced. She and Little Brothers are a good fit. This is must be a "statement" she's making, but I can't help thinking the music itself gets a little upstaged in the visuals.
Thirty minutes later the owner is standing close to me and telling me unsolicited about all the irritations of his business: the constant phone calls, the dumb questions, the scheduling, how he loses money if the crowd doesn't drink. I'm a total stranger to him and he's pouring out the story of his business woes, aided I'm sure by the large drink he's consuming. I begin to feel kinship with bartenders.
Encores. I've been thinking a lot about encores, especially since we've had one for every single show. And now that I think of it, every single concert I've ever been to has had an encore. So what's this all about? At first they strike me as uneconomical: you play, you leave, they clap a long time, you come back and play some more, they clap again, this time knowing that it probably won't work, and then everyone goes home. I wonder, does a band ever get toward the end of their set and say, "Okay, let's be honest here, friends. You know very well we'll do an encore if you clap loud and long enough. So, since this is a forgone conclusion, we've decided NOT to do one. Period. Instead, we'll just play more three more songs than you'd get in a normal set. In fact, by redeeming the time usually wasted behind stage before the encore, we'll be able to squeeze in a fourth song, a bonus track. So whaddaya think? Do we have a deal?"
Are bands or individuals asking for a demonstration of affection and admiration? Are they saying, "Do you love us enough?" to which the audience is answering, "Yes, yes, we do!"? In OtR's case, this... well, it just isn't the case. Their heads simply aren't that big. Encores seem more like a fine example of "Ask and you will receive." Maybe for that reason alone they make sense. They're mini-resurrections and we like them. "Were not our hearts aflame while [they were] in our midst?" Our applause is both thanks and petition; the band's return both gratitude and answered prayer. Encores correspond, it seems, to high drama. Just when the things look really bleak, there's a sign of hope on the horizon.
Despite the locale, Little Brothers delivers up a warm and boisterous crowd who thumb their noses at the icy roads and cold in order to make the show. It's a good evening. As we unwind in the bus afterward, Linford yawns here and there before getting up and announcing, "Well, it's not very rock and roll, but I'm going to bed."
. . .