Working
Work to live, live to work
“Do you work?” the young guy on the phone asked me. He was desk clerk at the odd, old-fashioned Cumbria hotel I’d left a half hour before. This place reminded me a little of The Shining, if reimagined by…say, John Waters: a Victorian spa hotel that housed German POWs in WWII and was refurbished in the 60s. Decades of patterned wallpaper and carpet, an ancient elevator; septuagenarian housekeepers with hair dyed deep brown. Seems I’d neglected to pay for my room, and his call caught me stopping at the services for a Costa coffee. Once we’d sorted out a credit card payment for my bill, I asked him how his experience was, working at this large historic hotel patronized by old people, large tour groups, hikers and curiosity seekers.
“It must be an interesting place to work!” I enthused.
“Do you work?” he asked. It was ten AM on a Sunday morning, I was driving to a gig a few hours south with soundcheck happening at 1 PM. He was tasked with checking out dozens of elderly ladies who’d spent a little too long in the bar the night before. I didn’t know how to answer him.
Do I work? Sometimes I feel like work is ALL I do. I thought of the last month of emailing, interviews, social media posts, travel arrangements and back and forth with venues and promoters trying to keep hope alive that anyone would come to this round of shows. Ordering books and tote bags to print and figuring out how to pay for them. How the few times I picked up my guitar to play songs felt like sneaking in a little joy and made me almost guilty, then I’d remember picking up my guitar to play songs was the whole point, but the other part can be so unrelenting I spend some days trying to snap out of depression.
So part of me felt defensive. But I also knew what he meant about “work.” I’ve worked a service job, though often compared to the putting one foot in front of the other to keep some semblance of a music career going without turning it into a trudge, the service job felt like playacting. You could walk away any time and find another. We only have one artist life, even if it takes different forms. You don’t want to fuck it up, though show me an artist who hasn’t done that occasionally or even repeatedly.
In solidarity, in sympathy, I jumped in :“Tending bar - yeah dealing with the public, it can be so challenging!” I’m a worker, man, and have been since I was twelve. I get it.
“It’s more the co-workers…”
“Oh hell yes, if you’ve got a good crew, that’s everything. One bad apple can poison things…” I started thinking I’d better get back to driving, but there must’ve been a lull in his checking-people-out duties because he wanted to chat.
“No, it’s more `what kind of mood am I in today…’ Okay - now his pouting was starting to irritate me. I ain’t your mama, kid!
“Well have you got everything you need from me?” I asked, suddenly all-business. “I’ve got to umm…get to work. Bye and see you next time!” I left him to deal with his mid-twenties crisis.
“Do you work?” What is work?
Cambridge Dictionary definition of work: an activity, such as a job, that a person uses physical or mental effort to do, usually for money.
I thought back over the last week.
There’d been the hiring of the rental car in Norwich. I’d taken the bus into the city. Parts of Norwich are ancient and GPS barely works at all in pockets so I’d grabbed screen shots of the route to walk from the bus station to the car rental place. My directions took me up a “loke” which is a local-ish term for a pathway or cut-through. This particular loke went through a sketchy back of the houses area—an array of dumpsters (“skips” they call them here) and overgrown with weeds. I heard footsteps behind me and stopped to “look in my bag” so I could see who/what it was …
A schoolboy of about twelve, burgundy blazer, smart black trousers and white shirt. I don’t think I’ll ever not be charmed by the sight of British school kids in their uniforms. I followed him up the loke, which went under a crooked old house propped up on a couple of metal poles. “Is this safe?” I wondered.
The car rental wasn’t simple - I’d booked with my American details, so the guy wanted to see my return ticket to the US. “Well…” I’m going back of course, but not til…October?” He was willing to accept my British details but only if I had a credit not debit card in the UK. These are the challenges of being a citizen of the world. I was ready to just book my US flights to fill in that part of the form but somehow between the two of us and his system we came up with a solution.
I gasped when I saw the rental vehicle. I’ve rented a lot of cars this year and this was the largest by far. The Peugeot 3008 - when I told Eric it was a behemoth, he christened it the “Ford Behemoth.” Comfortable and secure on the motorways but kind of a nightmare for the tiny country roads and parking in the tight spaces they have in Britain.
Next morning I loaded up with books I hoped I’d sell and a small PA for a couple of the gigs; guitar and some outfits. The drive to Hull was lovely —dramatic skies through Lincolnshire. I listened to Jimmy Buffett and James McMurtry, maybe it was the big skies, calling out for stories.
In Hull I set up quickly at Wrecking Ball Music & Books and hurried deeper into the City Centre for something to eat before playing. A lot of my time on the road is spent finding food—between the driving, unloading, setting up, etc I burn fuel. I ate in the nice pub where there was a pub quiz going on, with modest prizes “Eyes down…A slice of cake is the reward for getting this next one right”. In the ladies room, I heard two women talking about Las Vegas - seeing Ricky Martin and Pitbull. “Pitbull put on an incredible show,” said one. Was this really Hull? I’ve never seen a show in Vegas! Played there once, but still longing to have the visitor experience. Back at my antique table with purposefully-mismatched chairs, the dinner plate was laden with fresh salads and vegetables, and couscous! Things have changed since my early trips here…
Hull is where Eric and I met for the first time. I really wanted to read that part of my book in the city, and when I did I felt quite emotional. It was a small but focused audience and they all bought books.
reading and singing snippet by Gary at Wrecking Ball
The drive to North Shields next day wasn’t bad. I was adjusting to the Behemoth, and find the driving style in the UK a lot less stressful than US driving. The roads are way smaller and so there is little margin for error and much less self-expression behind the wheel. Eric and I share a twenty year old Audi with a fine engine but none of the modern features the rental cars have, so I appreciate the help out alone on the road–climate control, large screen for the Maps, Bluetooth sensors and self-driving features. I have yet to bother learning whether these modern cars in Britain have cruise control, as those great big stretches of cruising along for miles and miles like in the US just don’t seem to exist.
I was glad Eric had warned me it was hard to find the way in to the Premier Inn at North Shields. One roundabout further and I would have been on the fifteen hour ferry to Holland. North Shields sits at the mouth of the Tyne River —it has a roguish charm to it with loads of history. Our friend radio DJ and promoter Keith Newman showed me some sights and brought me to his boat in the harbor for some nice fish and chips before the gig. The Engine Room was really fun, the owner Mark had hosted me at his festival on Lindsifarne back in November 2024 and runs this charming small bar and music venue in a historic building. What a fun show. Everyone was supportive, buying books. I made my way back to the hotel and then couldn’t seem to park the Behemoth - the car park was very large and dark but with lots of fencing and areas blocked off, and the open spaces felt too far from the reception so I maneuvered around a while, backing in here and pulling in forward there until I felt the vehicle was securely lodged but still allowed me space to get my guitar out to carry in to the hotel. I think I was pretty tired by then.
My days of getting up early to go explore places I’ve never been are gone I guess. I tend to take advantage of the boring breakfast in the hotel so I can get some work done in my room—and even then my intentions to post a new Substack or edit my podcast often fall by the wayside as I try to answer emails and keep on top of booking stuff and advancing the other shows as well as get myself together for that night’s gig, the likelihood of a dressing room at most of these venues is nil. I did manage to stop by Mark of the Engine Room’s daughter’s cute coffee shop the Wheelhouse on my way out of town.
What a gorgeous drive to Edinburgh. Northumberland’s brooding sky, a glimpse of Lindisfarne Holy Island where I’d played in 2024. I turned to drive up the coast for a little bit and the scenery was stunning. I was the only car on the road for a lot of the time and felt so lucky to see this soulful, beautiful part of the world - welcome to Scotland.
The gig in Leith was a little challenging—I had made the mistake of thinking I could just promote it myself, had sold tickets and done the best I could from far away but Edinburgh always has lots of stuff going on and the likelihood of people finding your gig there on any given night without some serious presence is not great. Colin who’d booked my last Scottish shows that went really well has been out of commission but I forged ahead anyway. I really liked the Depot room where I played and some nice folks did turn up but early on I realized there was only one other woman in the room (by midway through there were three of us) and I had to remark on that—like when we saw Rickie Lee Jones in Suffolk last month and this big hall full of older women reaching their arms out towards her, an our-age artist up on stage and I just wanted to shout “I’m here too ladies, I’m right here, living among you…” I don’t know how to find more women to play for but I want to.
My friend Lindsay took me in to see the Biba exhibit at Dovecote Studios. I was in a wonderland of fabulous Biba clothes and ephemera, when on the way out in the handwritten wall of Biba memories, I saw that someone had written how David Hockney passed away that day. It made me so emotional, what an artist! who I’ve loved since i was a teenager.
That night in a church hall in Linlithgow, a good crowd came out for the readings and songs. Lindsay had happened upon a small independent bookstore there in the town and Sally the owner was so nice to work with, she ran home for some lamps to help make the set up look homey and the locals were a fun bunch to play for.
Next day in Glasgow, an afternoon show. Upstairs at the Doublet Bar, a proper old Glasgow place where I’d done a rocking trio show back when Hang In There With Me came out. There’s something just magical about the room. I so appreciate Stephen/ Pastels & Monorail and Paul at the Doublet for having me. During the gig, I read the part of Girl To Country where I felt terrorized in my B&B room twenty-five years ago, and vowed I’d never come back to Scotland again. The worst parts of the story were the ones that made the audience (and me) laugh the most. Sometimes people ask if writing is like therapy—again, back to the “Do you work?” question. Writing IS work, not therapy—the end product intended to benefit someone outside the worker. But I think it benefits the writer too.
There was a moment in the show where I just felt overwhelmed by emotion. Reading parts of this book out loud do that to me. Not in a bad way. But there are certain words and phrases, images that pull the feelings from me. In Mary Karr’s great guide The Art of Memoir, she talks about how “…a single image can split open the hard seed of the past”- they’re choices we make when writing—why mention the Archies rather than Doc Pomus? It has to be a portal and you can’t know until you’re writing which is the one. It’s something you feel in your whole body. And you have to decide, that’s the work. So when the feelings welled up onstage (if there were a stage, but to make things even more intimate, we’re all just on the floor of the bar) I wondered if I’d even be able to continue. And the audience, this room of people taking time from their busy city Saturday, held me tenderly in silence for a minute. It was beautiful. I finished with Don’t Ever Change as I do with this show, but then I had to play Dancing With Joey Ramone for the joy of it. I felt like I’d really gotten the arc and set list with this run of shows, but had missed Joey. Hell, it’s my hit.
Glasgow was gearing up for Scotland in the World Cup, pubs staying open until 4 AM, so I headed out of there to the hotel in Cumbria. I was tired, I was giddy and relieved but also concerned for Sunday’s gig in Hebden Bridge. For weeks it had been a worry, whether enough people would show up. Promoters canceling due to low ticket sales is a real threat these days and it hurts us all. I saw that the free Burnley Buffet (array of non-posh snacks, I was to learn later) was now topping the bill. I really like the Trades Club, having played there with Eric a few times but had hedged my bets with this salon with other writers/artists.
The afternoon show was really wonderful. Cath, who’d set up the event, brought a standing lamp with fringed shade, draped throws and pillows on arm chairs from home for the chat part of the show. DIY/`C’mon kids let’s put on a show!’ is still my life. I loved the other writers and the Burnley Buffet was a fun touch. I had a sweet flat to stay in just next door and was able to hang out for a drink or two after the gig finished. Even got up for a walk by the canal next morning before the long drive home. Maybe this was what I’d really wanted in coming to Hebden—filming site for Happy Valley and Riot Women; bustling bohemian town in West Yorkshire set against a poetic Pennine backdrop; birthplace of Ted Hughes, final resting place of Sylvia Plath—I’d wanted to be a part of the place for a moment, almost experience what it was like to live there. Maybe that’s often a motivation for what I do.
I wonder what it would be like to do that kind of touring where you’re driven in a bus or tour van, dropped off backstage at a large venue with a stage and sound engineer/team, dressing room, catering even? Would you really know where you were every night?
So now I’m reading what Plato said (it was a very long time ago); a little Marx; some Hannah Arendt. This question about what is work has apparently been confounding people forever. Why spend time thinking about it at all, when there are gigs to book and promote and a whole album of songs I’ve written over the last few years to record. I want to do more drawing, printing and painting. Write another book.
Thank god I took social security a while back. That money helps keep me afloat in between spending to make money to fork out more dough to print more books and buy records to sell, to fuel up the rental vehicle, to drive to the next spot to play for people. Working continues to make me feel like a part of the world.
“Work is activity that is instrumental and intermediary to satisfy needs and wants, and Work is activity that produces a benefit (or intermediary product to a benefit) external to the worker(s) doing the activity.” says Jens Jorund Tissedale, a professor of philosophy in Bergen, Norway. Maybe I’ll get to meet him when I do a gig there with Eric in October.
Why is that the first question people ask now? "Do you work?" 🤣. Loved reading this. Please write another book xx
After reading this I stumbled upon “Summer of My Wasted Youth”, which I hadn’t heard before. Good stuff. Thanks for being a creator.