Setting Off

A trial run trip to London; and getting ready to fly

I went to London for a radio show. I thought “how exciting! I get to go to London” just down the road, like I might’ve gone to say Jersey City in the past.

First I had to get there. Eric had a gig in Southend that evening and I liked the idea of taking the train. Maybe only an American can truly appreciate the miracle of train stations deep in the countryside, where you can catch a train on time, that takes you to a bigger town where you change just across the platform to a direct train to the capital. If the trains run late they refund your money. I hear British folks complaining about the rail service in the UK but it’s damned amazing if you’re used to living in the country in the US, where without a car you’re pretty much screwed.

I love the idea of being able to walk to our local train station. It’s only a ten minute walk. I carried my guitar in a soft case on my back so felt like I was wearing a sandwich board saying “hey folks, I’m a musician! You’ve stood behind me at the post office and now here I am with a neon sign in the form of a guitar on my back, saying get a load of me!” It was early in the morning and there really weren’t many people around so I think I’m exaggerating. It was peaceful with the sun just coming up and I enjoyed my walk through the sleeping town.

The train from Norwich to London started filling up with football supporters in maroon shirts, I’m still not sure what team they were rooting for. The closer we got to London the louder things got on the train but it was still quite early on Saturday morning so no one was drinking yet. I was overwhelmed as soon as I slipped through the turnstile at Liverpool Street station. I still needed to get south of the river, and Maps told me either the 344 bus or the Northern line would get me there.

I had plenty of time, it was only 10:40 and I didn’t really need to be there til 11:30. Maybe a coffee? But I did have this heavy block of wood on my back. That makes it sound like Jesus and the cross…it fortunately at least has a hollow center.

I saw a dress in the window of the Oliver Bonas shop and felt myself pulled in there. I’ve been trying to find a dress for my niece’s wedding in Pittsburgh next week. The store was full of women and a few men shopping - to kill time while they waited for their trains? Because it was Saturday and that means shop? I can’t dare allow for a repeat of my appearance at my niece’s bridal shower back in June - fresh off the plane from England all I had to wear was a caftan I’d ordered from H&M. It was huge, it was shapeless, the black and white pattern I’d thought was “graphic” read as dour grey. I’d shortened it so it wasn’t quite so voluminous but…I really didn’t feel good. Color, cut, it’s all so important especially when you’re used to wearing a kind of uniform of black jeans, jacket and boots. This brightly colored dress in the window appealed to me, and I found myself in a dressing room in Liverpool St station trying it on. I kind of liked it but maybe not for the wedding…it gave me a chance to comb my hair and pull myself togehter for the radio though.

I thought I’d better get up to the street and look for the #344 bus, taking care in doorways  to duck a little as I had this big guitar on my back. All the bus stops out front had”THIS BUS STOP CLOSED” signs. There were road works and diversions all along the street out front. No problem I thought, I’ll just take the tube. I went down two flights of steps and then saw a sign for the Northern line pointing back up - oh shit, that’s the OVERGROUND, not the Underground. Where exactly is the Overground? Saturday daytrippers were streaming into the station. I went up a staircase thinking it made sense to go up for the Overground, then saw a doorway marked 344 BUS.

The driver huffed at me when my phone wouldn’t work to pay for my ticket. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” I said too many times and finally the thing kicked in. It was great riding the bus. The London weather was gorgeous, the streets coming alive with tourists mostly, or local cyclists going about their business. The new modern buildings swamping everything weren’t a shock as I’d visited recently, but not what I wanted either and my eyes were heat-seeking missiles for anything old and charming. I admired the intrepid bikers, thinking how fun it must feel to be confident on two wheels in this city. We sloped down through the financial district, the City I think they call it, and over the bridge; “Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre” a recorded voice announced from somewhere and I could see it down at the edge of the river. I felt the history and thrill of London there for a second, felt lucky to be riding along on a bus to play on the radio, one of those hey Mom, look at me moments although my mom’s been gone a very long time. I remembered what fun my daughter and I had when we came down two Christmases ago and hit bars, restaurants and vintage shops on a rainy Sunday afternoon when Argentina won the World Cup.

This time, when I exited the bus the driver snapped at me for trying to leave through the front door. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” I said again and then added “you—mean person!” under my breath, my city chops rusty, approaching nonexistent. And did I even care anymore? I used to pride myself on being an urban warrior, if those skills belong to another era of my life so be it, I have other ones now.

Then it was nice for a minute, to be alone on London streets, walking the short distance to the studio. I remember living near Portobello Road and Notting Hill in 1980 and how, like Manhattan, certain times of day or night you’d feel like the city was an empty set for you to act out life on. I walked along an empty block called Winchester Cottages, humble but full of character. There wasn’t a soul around, and not a car in sight either, so I felt like I could’ve been back in a distant century. Ah - the old London.

The Hello Goodbye radio show was low-key fun, I’d met the host and engineers before when I’d visited the show in their old location nearby, and they made me comfortable. I played some songs from the new album Hang In There With Me and we chatted and listened to some other artists, including my daughter’s project TBHQ (happy birthday Hazel!) It was all over in an hour and then I was back out on the London streets, looking for food and coffee. I remembered a place Eric and I had enjoyed a few times when visiting the, the Gentlemen Baristas, and looked it up on my phone - ah, just a few blocks away. But when I reached the doors, the signs were still up but the place looked dusty and abandoned - had clearly shut down and that threw me. Whatever you think is up to date usually isn’t! The guitar was getting heavier on my shoulders now.

I walked back to a busy-looking Vietnamese place I’d passed- by now I was starving. I ordered the first thing on the specials menu, fish with a mango salad, but with the first bite I realized the fish was nothing but sharp, firm bones the exact width of a windpipe. I imagined myself choking on a bone, gesturing for help and no one noticing me in the crowded restaurant. “I don’t want to die alone in London, choking on a bone” I thought. “I don’t want my last words to Eric to have been ‘could you clean up the kitchen?’ though I thought I’d at least said “I love you” after that. Mostly I just didn’t want the indignity of being worked on by medics in the big cold city, my guitar in its case leaned up against the empty chair across the table, a lonely troubadour on a Saturday in London, tossed onto some kind of potter’s field. They swapped the fish out for tofu. All I wanted was to go home. Home –where was that? I’d take North Walsham, Norfolk.

Now it’s time to leave this new place —for America. We fly soon and after seeing my family for my niece’s wedding in Pittsburgh, Eric and I will drive back to New York to pick up our equipment and rehearse— I’ve got a tour starting in a week. I’ve been stressing all the details, this tour has taken months to book - I do that myself and it’s labor intensive. I promised the label I would go out and tour even though we just moved countries. In some ways it’s really the only chance for a grass roots kind of artist like me to sell records…I think? Or maybe it’s just the thing I know and love and the releasing an album cycle wouldn’t feel complete without it. Soon it’ll all just be happening and there’ll simply be the shows to play, one town at a time. I think back to my first touring as a solo artist, Autumn 1996. Gigs in Albany and Baltimore, opening for Marshall Crenshaw. I’d played gigs with different musicians backing me, but always around New York City. I hadn’t set out for other towns like this, outside the insulating society of a band. I have photos of me and the guys who were playing with me, out on the road. Rest areas and service stations felt like a novelty back then - I’m wearing a mod cream-colored trench coat, white jeans or leather pants. I’m thirty-seven. My set consisted of the songs on the just-released Diary Of A Mod Housewife (finally available to stream!) and a few that got left off the album. I was green; I was scared.

I was green, I was scared, I was…strawberry blonde? w/Jon Graboff, Dennis Diken & Scott Yoder, 1996 or 97

How many gigs have I played since then? Twenty-eight more years worth of gigs, and I’m still scared.

Scared of what? Basics: health while traveling, mine and Eric’s. Travel: flights, rental cars, accommodation. Leaving home when we’ve only just arrived. Equipment, will it work. Merch: will it sell? The set list: new songs, old songs. Will we click? What to wear? Will my hair look like crap? And maybe hardest but in the end most out of my control: will anyone show up?

But then I look at what’s going on in the world and think grow up lady. It’s just a guitar, some words and music.  Suit up and go play.

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