Planes, Songs and Storage Spaces

The goofiness of being an American

We started from home on a sunny Sunday—two guitars in cases to be checked, Eric with a small case, me with a small case packed in a massive one. Eric used his charm on the British Airways agent to allow an extra bag for free.

A quick lunch at the Fortnum & Mason’s counter Terminal 5 Heathrow, spending what we saved on the bag but you never know what or when food will come on the plane and it’s good to be set up for things with a decent meal.

I don’t mean this to be a food and drink diary but meals are markers…

I can’t remember what I ate on the plane. When Eric and I landed at JFK, things were kind of anticlimactic - we’d fretted for days about how they’d view his green card status but we were within the six month window and the immigration official barely glanced at us.

Rented a vehicle and it felt like we’d never left - the Grand Central Parkway still not finished (it’s been under construction for probably forty years and why should that suddenly change?) All the greatest hits: RFK (not Junior) bridge across to Manhattan to Harlem River Drive to George Washington Bridge. Everything flowing pretty well on a Sunday night thankfully, it’s a tough drive after a seven hour flight from England. Stopped at good old Sloatsburg rest area, recently renovated but not much had really changed except there was a Shake Shack. Tuned into Grateful Dead radio on the rental’s Sirius station and had just exited the Thruway for Kingston when I saw the first state trooper of the night (usually the Thruway is dotted with them lying in wait) lurking in the median strip. No problem , I was only going 56 miles and hour…So WHY is he following us with his lights flashing?

Seems we’d driven the whole way from Sloatsburg without lights…or just the basic fog ones, now it made sense why Eric had been fiddling with the completely dark dashboard display trying to skip past the Dead’ Sugaree, Connecticut 1977. I mean, it was good but we were both starting to zone out.

The nice young trooper was understanding” “Don’t worry, just give me your license, and we’ll get you on your way.” Only it turns out my license had been suspended…he ran Eric’s - suspended. Moving is a lot of working parts and giving our cars away was one of them- New York state WANTS THEIR PLATES BACK, otherwise they jump to the conclusion that you’re driving without car insurance. The trooper let us off with a warning to get into the DMV and sort things out; I felt very shaky about the no lights thing and the license - how would I rent a car out in California?

Checked into a hotel in Kingston. Chipotle via Uber Eats cost fifty bucks, welcome to the new low prices of Trump’s America. There was a serious feeling of a country in decline —the lumpy bumpy roads; endless billboards for Legal Help, NO WIN NO FEE; people looking lost and glassy-eyed, it all stands out when you’ve been away for a while.

Coffee the next morning at our old favorite spot in Hudson—Supernatural. It felt like we’d never left, seeing old friends. Then the UPS store, the storage space. Lunch from Kitty’s—Eric and I shared a pulled pork sandwich that was delicious. Needed strength to load the equipment into the Avalon, get set up and start rehearsing with our drummer pal Sam. I stopped for tea at another sweet local spot Citiot, it felt good to see James behind the counter. Liam at the Avalon—our friends, our life for over a dozen years. I came back to play gigs but also I just missed everyone.

We clicked together as a band again and that felt great. Drove out of town past our old house: “They built a fence!” Otherwise it looked exactly as we left it, less than a year ago.

The old house - they built a fence, not much else has changed…wish we’d taken those chairs

Sushi, more coffee, more rehearsal. Lunch at Quinnie’s, an old house painted mustard yellow serving delicious chicken salad on grilled bread. Dealing with things at the DMV—I think I got my license reinstated so felt better about driving.

A lot less Trump signs in people’s yards. Fewer American flags.

I shipped a package of LPs and CDs to myself out in California.

First gig New Jersey. Stopped at a Guitar Center on Route 17, the guys went in while I shut my eyes in the van for a minute.

Fun show! Saw lots of friends, one brother (Michael) and familiar faces. I love playing in New Jersey and the Old Franklin Schoolhouse was a great spot. Ate soup the promoters made for us.

Next day drive to Pittsburgh. I ate a Whopper Jr on the PA Turnpike - first time I’ve caved and eaten that kind of fast food in a long time. Sometimes you do what you have to do. Starbucks Skinny Almonds covered with Dark Chocolate are good.

Pittsburgh’s gig, at Get Hip records warehouse was fun and rocking. I felt so happy my brother Pat could be there —the thought of a gig in the `burgh without a family member in attendance was kind of freaking me out. It’s good to feel a little bit part of things in the town where I grew up. Love these Pittsburgh folks! Food from Nicky’s Thai was expensive and not so good, or maybe we ordered the wrong thing. Not as awful as our last Vietnamese in Pittsburgh, where the noodles came in a plastic bag.

I was starving the next morning but had spotted an Eat n Park out the hotel window.“One Bite And You’re Home” read the big light up sign. We were in Monroeville, to the east of Pittsburgh, better placed to drive to Philly that day. I waited til 8 AM and walked up a busy road trying to find the entrance to the restaurant. Eric has pointed out a few times that the name makes no sense, don’t you have to Park before you Eat? But if you come from Pittsburgh (or wherever else this serviceable chain, like a Denny’s or Bob Evans or maybe even Bob’s Big Boy exists), Eat n Park is taken as read.

We were only two days into the gigs but already I felt the misty morning reverie that comes with playing shows. Maybe it’s the travel and sense of disorientation, or the raw after effects of standing up in front of a room of friends, family and mostly strangers and saying and singing pretty much whatever comes up to the surface. Not to say performing—songwriting, writing even— is venting or therapy. A set list is a road map, words are designed and chosen but in the heat of the moment the design allows expression and being in the moment. That’s how a song you wrote when you were forty can hold your truth at fifty or sixty-five or six. Diaries and journals age immediately - but hopefully (the craft! Not just personal expression!) songs are architecture that can house a lifetime.

Of course I don’t think any of this when writing songs. Like performing, it’s something I try to stay in practice with so when it needs to happen it can happen, like from muscle memory.

So in the Eat n Park, everything was as it should be. The waitresses were all older, my age, friendly and hustling and bustling even though the restaurant was nearly empty. The counter was full of pies, the vintage pop hits cranked out through speakers in the ceiling. One bite and I was home. I loved America, and Pittsburgh, in the Eat n Park. The server refilled my coffee cup again and again. I was getting up to leave when Everybody’s Talkin came through the speakers. The anthem of loneliness. Not bad loneliness - okay, call it solitude. Every man and woman is an island, and I happened to exist at that moment in the stream of life near Monroeville Mall. The waitress toasted me with her coffee pot, turned the corner and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, singing along with Harry Nilsson, “I won’t let you lee-eave”—she hit that falsetto perfectly. The random grace of America, the goofiness of being an American—that mix of hope and gullibility.

On to Philly, a cozy house show at Lou and Connie’s, again lots of familiar faces; friends. Good Italian soup and wine, I sold all the tote bags I’d printed before we left home. We spent the night in the Kourys’ pretty row house, with a statue of Buddha keeping watch.

Saturday drive to Hudson to play at the Spotty Dog. My dear old workplace, the bookstore/bar. I hoped people would show up. I dream of the place a lot—in my dreams they’ve changed the layout, brought in a sleek bar and tables and chairs where the art supplies were, but when we moved our equipment in through the garage door in the back, nothing had changed. I felt so at home, I started straightening sketch pads on the shelves “ooh those Saturday customers.” Blake was behind the bar, how many shifts did we work together? We agreed we’ve cleaned the bathroom and floors of this place many many more times than our own homes.

Crawling around on the floor to find power strips and plug in stuff - I remembered “oh right, this old building, there’s one outlet at either end of the place” Everything worked and came together, I felt so much love for this place and the little community we’d been part of.

We stayed at our friends Kevin and Dennis’ lovely farmhouse. Their neighbor had taken his Trump flag down. I’ve been reading this biography of Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor Erotic Vagrancy I’d discovered when I’d played the festival in Wales…was it just two weeks ago? Kevin texted me at 6 AM (the farmhouse has chickens and goats!) “The Sandpiper is on” - Liz and Dick in their soulful, impossible beauty. I filed our income tax extension, from the same dining table I’d filed our taxes back in October 2024, in the midst of the looming election.

Kindness - we have to keep being kind to each other. As I typed that word here in a coffee shop in Los Angeles, the woman next to me said it out loud, to her friend.

Lots of coffee shops; many miles. The box I shipped out west was last seen in San Pablo California, which the folks on Reddit say is the Bermuda Triangle of packages. UPS told me to file a claim - that I would never see it again. Ah well. My shows are over for this month and there’s more to write but I’m going to stop and post this now or I’ll fall too far behind. If you hosted or came out to a show, I thank you so much! If you’re Eric or Sam, you guys rock. If you’re feeling down, remember there is kindness and so many people doing their best. Let’s fight the bastards, even if it’s just with a coffee pot or a guitar.

From this morning’s walk in Eagle Rock, Los Angeles