There wasn’t much to laugh about at the Super 8 in Pittston, PA – bur I did have to at least kind of lookaskance at this warning. 
I’m not sure what this is… but I had to step in it. Photo courtesy of our friend Josh – grafitti found in the doorway of Victoria Station Cafe… and something like this could totally be an album cover if it wasn’t so fucking hippie… but maybe the boot makes it okay?
We’re racing for Pennsylvania. We’re racing from Putnam, CT to Pittston, PA where we have some middle-of-nowhere Super 8 awaiting our presence… I have the feeling we’re going to have to wake the night clerk. We’ll nab a couple of hours of sleep before getting on the road to our second NACA show, Mount Aloysius College in Cresson, PA. We’re going to be exhausted. I hope that translates to “fun”.
The show tonight at Victoria Station was low-energy. I was sad about that – but the audience was small and Heather and I were both aware of the vicious drive waiting betwixt us and our beds tonight. Despite that, it took us forever to load out and get on the road – and we were probably no quicker getting things to the car than we would’ve been if we’d played till 10pm… effectively cutting the time off our set for no reason at all. Our ETA is 3.03am, but Heather’s shaving time off of that as much as she’s able – but the weather’s fighting us, rain has come from the West to pelt us with occasional squalls of that smear the windshield without warning. They’re just as quick to vanish, leaving mirror-bright asphalt in their wake and a starless sky.
It felt like the first real day of fall – there were drifts of leaves in front of Dave’s house as we were packing the Saturn, and the whisper of the wind through the trees of Putnam was answered by the plaintive cries of our new friend Derp, the kitten, as she expressed her desire to come with us.
Ah, Derp. This morning there was a great miaowing outside the bathroom door as I was brushing my teeth. I was surprised to find not Pepper, the cat I’ve met before, but a tiny little black kitten with a white bib. I knew Heather would be non-plussed to be harassed with consciousness so early, but I also felt that kitten-time was ALWAYS a good time, and decided to risk it.
One captured kitten and one happy Heather later, I continued with my morning ablutions. By the time I got back to the bedroom, we were all fast friends, developing a relationship over a shared Love of shoelaces, belts and long hair – the latter resulting in scratch marks all up and down my back. The cat ended up on my computer, on my guitar, on my bedpost, on my window sill, climbing my leg, on my shoulder, on my back and at one point in the sink. I was sad to leave her behind but stealing the kitten of the owner of your favourite local venue is akin to biting the hand that feeds you and I managed to resist packing the beest in my bag.
Dave, owner of Victoria Station Café, in addition to giving us a place to stay, a kitten and a venue to play, made us our favourite chicken pot pie with a hug and a smile. Earlier in the day we were disappointed not to see it in the case – and we were overjoyed to have him pop out of the kitchen with it. (of course, by that point, I’d made do with a pepperjack, egg and bacon croissant, but that didn’t at ALL keep me from downing one slice of chicken pie before the gig and wolfing another post… we may be in a rush, but there’s ALWAYS time for chicken pot pie… and I might’ve already eaten… but there’s ALWAYS space for chicken pot pie!!!)
I-84 seems close to endless, but the GPS reports the drive to be shorter than an extended-edition Lord of the Rings flick, and as long as I keep making movie comparisons, it should all seem bearable. +/- Heather’s choice of music… “Meet Me In Saint Louis, Louie”. Hrm.
8 years of touring and I think last night was the second to worst hotel room we’ve ever stayed in. Heather swears it wasn’t that bad, but it’s definitely the last time I’m using Hotwire.com. For unknown reason it saddled me with a handicapped room that smelled of chemicals and was covered in coarse black hairs. The shower’s steam misted the mirror and showed the words “Jose and Rosali 04/24/11 3x!!!” and in general the wholenight’s left me feeling itchy… I looked at the bill from the hotel. Of the $74 I paid to make sure we had a place to stay for the night, $49 went for the room. The rest was Hotwire.
And yet Heather STILL swears it wasn’t that bad. Not as bad as breakfast at least. Breakfast at a little bakery that was more cafeteria than it was coffeehouse, contrary to its billing – still, a couple of mistakes in our order got me a free lunch and though Heather’s mocha was really more chocolate and milk than chocolate and espresso, my coffee wasn’t half bad. I owe her a coffee. She owes me a decent night’s sleep. My body and brain being what it is, there’s probably no way she can actually help me recoup the loss, but I’m SO looking forward to my bed in Baltimore tonight.
I could’ve sworn I’d been seeing weather reports that showed sunshine for the weekend, but maybe Maryland has its own solitary solar source that the rest of the East Coast isn’t privy to. Pennsylvania is caught in a grey haze that doubles all distances and halves all prospects. A dead fox on the side of the road, a brilliant patch of orangey-red, is about the only source of natural colour for the day, and it’s come and gone in a second and vanishing into the rearview mirror.
We’re passing south of Williamsport right now – it’s the town where my father grew up and the former home of my Grandmother Nickles. I have vivid memories of her yellow house, her steep stairs that eventually forced her move to a retirement home, the feel of the furniture, the smell of the smoke that so upset my parents – the yellow of the kitchen light and the creak of the crackling white-painted stool that was my favourite seat at the little, metal-edged dinner table. I remember the scratchiness of the omnipresent lace doilies and of the excitement of trying to show off a Transformer to my father’s Uncle George…. I remember thinking it was strange how old my grandmother’s hands looked, especially compared to her ginger hair, and how young my Great Uncle’s hands looked, especially compared to his puckered mouth and thinning white hair.
Years later I found out that she’s the member of the family that had music in her blood. There is a beautiful photograph of her, dated decades before I was born. When she had gorgeous flowing hair and bright blue eyes and clear, unwrinkled skin, she played mandolin. I can now recognize that it was an old bowl-back. My Dad never heard her play.
I remember she had a cat. I remember there being a bat in the room where my brother and I would stay. I remember Grandma Nickles killing it with a broom. I remember the attic full of rare and wonderful finds: old boxes of candy cigarettes, esoteric board games and silver and wood tokens that became spaceships for my brother and I, ancient playing cards, playing card games with my grandmother, the fights my mother and father would have until my mom decided she simply wouldn’t go back… the issues I didn’t understand till years later that were swept under the rug and hidden under the excuse that my mother “didn’t like Pennsylvania”.
We’ll pass by my Grandfather Hinkal’s mountain as well – Mount Nittany near State College – where Grandpa Hinkal Lived in a doublewide with Grandma Hinkal, he blinking rapidly and watching television and usually quiet… she verbose and full of sparkle and verve and more sass than you’d expect from a grandmother. She usually had ice cream and wanted to know if we had girlfriends… one time the answer was YES and Whitney actually came north with us as I remember. I think we caught toads there in the garden, but had to be careful not to mess anything up. Grandpa Hinkal sometimes had tales to tell, every once in a while some strange yarn about his distant childhood, usually including guns and explosives much to my mother’s dismay. I remember a story about launching coffee cans into the air with gunpowder told around their kitchen table. I remember it was tight enough to the wall that George and I always had to sit on the far side because none of the grownups would fit.
the OTHER cool thing about working at HMT is that amazing people come in to PLAY said exotic instruments. This is local hip hop ukulele jazz spoons artist Christylez Bacon jamming on a Tibetan prayer horn. Okay, so this is wrongful – but they were cheapie guitars from the get-go, the bodies were badly warped, the necks were ripped off, there was no way these were EVER going to be playable guitars, and in all honesty, I encouraged this behaviour because I’m a bad person at heart. Later, Paul fell over while trying to get them back off. One of the coolest things about working at House of Musical Traditions is, as always, the amazing instruments that come in. Where else are you going to see a viola da gamba? And to be sure, this is actually the first time I’VE seen one too, so it’s hardly like we get these sorts of things in regularly… still, the above is probably more than you’ve seen at any OTHER area music store! (sort of like a 6-string cello with frets)
I remember sitting on stacks of Yellow Pages, slipping out from one another, having to climb down, restack, and sit again. I remember the crunch of the gravel road as we drove up to their home, and the wonderful woods surrounding their place, trails and forests and sudden drop offs, an open field where my brother and I would collect spent shells that I now recognize as .22s and a spring that ran cool water into a creek that was later bulldozed to make space for new houses with aluminium sides.
Pennsylvania’s always held an aura of mystery to me. Years later, it was where I’d run away from Baltimore in my VW with whatever girl I was courting at the time. Whether it was a girlfriend in Bethlehem or a lass with matching wanderlust, I was always finding an excuse to hop 83 north into PA, but I’ve never tried to find my grandmother’s yellow house or visit my grandfather’s mountain again. It’s probably best to remember them the way they were.
Highway run, gig played, fans sated, itch to play scratched for a couple of days and I’ll be happy to rest my fingers and voice through to Tuesday, when we get to do our regular first Tuesday at Brewers Alley. Twice the time, twice the set up, one quarter the pay of the college gigs…. College gigs are the way to go…
It’s cold and rainy, dark and stormy. Coming out of the mountains of Pennsylvania listening to Bare Naked Ladies, driving through the driving rain and watching the temperature. At 39 degrees not even the bridges will freeze, but it’s not even 8pm yet and they were calling for snow earlier today. It’s probably another 20 miles or so before I’ll feel we’re well and truly clear of any possibility of solid precipitation or treacherous, icy patches.
And once we’re passed the danger… it’s time to just pass the time.
