Wherein the bearded one makes new friends, serenades sports fans, sees his first Great Lake, plays his first encore, and has a monster, three-hour set occasioned by random, robust tinkling of the ivories. Dude!
[Editor's note: Independent Weekly arts/entertainment writer Dege Legg is in the midst of a month-long music tour up the East Coast to Boston, west across the Upper Midwest and back down to Louisiana. His tour, in the guise of his latest musical persona, Brother Dege, is in support of his new record, Folk Songs of the American Longhair. Dege is filing reports of his experiences from the road throughout the tour. This fifth installment finds our intrepid tripper travelling from New England through the Midwest.]
PROVIDENCE, RI. 5.10.10 Played an art space type place named AS220. Cool joint. Good people, doing non-profit stuff, art, music, etc. I park, walk the block, and check the lay of the land. Vibing the natives Not much going on other than What one local tells me is the first Baptist church Ever built in the U.S. I walk up the street to peep it out. It's a church alright. Next. I walk up to a bar down the way. Nice place. I ask a guy standing the by the door What kind of bar is it? "Gay Bar," he says. Cool. Next. I walk up to a park and to relax and read Before sound check. A homeless guy approaches me. Asks for change and lays a sob story on me About how he's from ____________, RI (insert some Rhode Island city I've never heard of) and how he needs $2 to catch the bus Or the train or something. I give him what I got rattling round in my pocket Because I hate to tell homeless people no When I'm the road. Karma, maybe When you're nice to them, they give good intelligence About the city, the cops, the bad neighborhoods. The Do's & Do Nots. I hand him the change and then he asks for a cigarette. Then a light. Then if I have any weed. Damn, dude. Chill. Next. Head back to club. Soundcheck. Good sound man. I ask if they have "subs," meaning sub-woofers. Yes. Nice. Subs are where it is at. Bottom end. I meet the opening act. Bluesy, folky local songwriter guy named Eric French. He's also a guitar instructor. Eric's dad shows up. Nice guy. The rest of his family and many of Eric's guitar students Show up, too. Nice people. They can watch while I rip the world to shreds And go deep into the blast furnace of my heart And smelt iron. Joking. But still. Kind of what I do. Long time Santeria fan, Skuby showed up. Dude has been e-mailing us for a decade, Buying and collecting everything Santeria, my other band, Has ever put out. It was interesting to meet him. Good dude. Solid. Irish. Strong. When I was loading in/out he lifted my 150-lb Mesa-Boogie amp head With one arm like it was a tinker toy. I was, like, "Damn, boy." They grow the Irish strong up here. Good dude. Loyal. Real. Awesome to meet him after all these years. You don't know if someone is real Until you meet them face to face. What with the anonymity of the Internet, It's easy to pretend to be someone you are not. I put Skuby to work at the merch table, selling CDs. First draftee in the Merch Dept. Eric played. He was good. Clean, but rootsy. They do their roots a little cleaner up here. Not sure why. I'm glad he played on the bill because Half the crowd or more was his people. I played. And left. I don't even remember much about shows. It's the time in between shows that I remember. While playing, I'm in "Trance Mode," conserving my energy, Concentrating, and searching the song for something new. When not playing, I'm in "Scan Mode." In Scan Mode, I soak up the environment, vibe the people, Observe things, and just try to learn things. Said goodbyes. Drove out of town, Happened upon an abandoned rest stop along the Interstate 95 or 90 Or Interstate-Whatever. They're all the same at this point in the tour. The rest area was awesome. Perfect. Closed and abandoned. Bathrooms and everything all boarded up Like a post-apocalyptic welcome center. I like it. Quiet. No people. No hassle. No headaches. I park under some trees in the back Near a trucker who has already set up camp. I smoke in the dark And think about how weird it is I'm out here all alone, sleeping in crazy places And just rolling around the country Like a nomadic hillbilly.
BOSTON, MA 5.11.10 I pull into Boston. Shoot from one crazy on-ramp and interchange to the next, Take the wrong exit. Then all of sudden I'm lost Find myself in the middle of Harvard campus. A lot of the housing surrounding the campus Is not that fancy smancy as I would've imagined. Doesn't look that different from most state colleges With the residential areas around it. Cool, tasteful old houses like you see around LSU and UL and other universities. I could survive the Ivy League, I think. I test my psychic skills and sense of direction By not looking at the map And just driving in the direction that feels right. After about eight turns, I get a good feeling, make a couple more turns And miraculously land on the street the club is on. Highland Rd. NICE! I drive another couple miles. And there it is, The Armory. Venue I'm playing tonight. Very nice. I went Jedi Mind S**t on this one. No map or nothing. And came up gold. Don't think I could do that every time, But it's nice to know the intuition and gut Are functioning at a higher capacity. Early show. The building is an old national guard armory From way back in the day. Maybe post-American Revolution, I don't know. Everything has so much history up here On the East coast. Down south, everything that's old is made of old wood So it tends to rot and whither away. Maybe the Masons were on to something. Venue is in a residential neighborhood. It's an art/performance space. The guy from the band Morphine Who died a few years ago Mark Sandman His record label is located in the basement. Still putting out records. Not sure how old the building is But it looks like it could be Ben Franklin's castle. So it's got to be pretty old. Looks like a good place to smoke a pipe And wear a powdered wig. The booking agent didn't list the gig in the club calendar Or any of the papers, So the gig is kind of a bust Aside from the fact that I meet One of the coolest dudes ever, Mark Pinansky. http://www.myspace.com/marcpinansky Dudes is awesome. He's got a heavy rock band (Township) http://www.myspace.com/thefamilytownship But also does the folky, solo stuff on the side. Just like me. And he's good. Really good. A true American Longhair. Part-rocker, part peace-loving hippie dude. Part art damaged explorer, And part shit kicker. Good sense of humor, good conversation, And he's got killer songs and great Neil Young-like voice. We hit it off from the get-go. The dude is like my lost brother. And his old band, Runner and the Thermodynamics (http://www.myspace.com/runnerandthethermodynamics) Was the hotshot in the early 00s with the garage rock Stuff that was kicking at that time. They were on the cover of CMJ that kind of hot s**t. Dude is rad. Super talented. We both bang out quick sets And then go out drinking for a bit. Skuby comes, too. Good times. I love hanging with new people Who I can vibe with. Gives me hope. Reassures me that I am not alone. Or too far out on my own trip To relate to people any more. This life has been a strange trip for me. I'm not always sure where I am going. Or where the road will lead. I just let my gut take me into the unknown And hope things work out. It hasn't always been smooth sailing. I've been to some pretty dark places While burning my trail to the promised land. But I always try to fight the good fight And I always Look for the light Way back behind all the darkness. When I am surrounded By hulking mountains of night, Lording over me, I look for the light And charge in its direction. Even when that light is But a small speck of nothing, I still lunge in its direction, Hoping that one of those Little shards of starlight up there Is shining down on me. Amidst all that darkness.
PIZZA & PUBS 5.12.10 I wake the next day And grab my bike Which I brought with me, And go for a long ride In search a coffee shop with wi-fi. So I can check some e-mail. Boston is a funny place. It's definitely an Irish town. After an hour of riding around, I don't see ANY coffee shops. But there is pizza shops and pubs EVERYWHERE. About two of each on every block. More pubs than pizza. These folks like to drink. This is definitely an Irish town. Got to have a pub handy when you need it.
THE IRISH OF BOSTON Man, I like the folks up here. A Lot. Especially, the Irish. Good people. Strong, proud, and vibrant folks. They're all really friendly, sharp, and helpful. And polite. Respectful. The men are all sturdy and well-built. Faces chiseled and aesthetically intriguing. Interesting to look at. All the guys look like WWII heroes Or fire fighters. Men's men. They're open, friendly, and not filled with the Paranoia and fear that seems to inhibit people In some cities. There's less neurosis and insecurity And more balls. They say hello to you first and nod. Or just ask, what's up. Chill and casual. Not fearful and hesitant. These people aren't cry babies. I like that. A lot. They know the world owes them nothing And they act accordingly. And are cool with it. Still strong. I like people who know who they are And aren't wrapped up in the raggedy gamble of Figuring it out. Jousting for position, hoping someone will like them. These are guy's guys. Just talking s**t. And the accents; they're amazing. Straight up The Departed style Good Will Hunting accents. It's freaking rad. I love it. This city and its people are way worthy.
THE INDIANS The Indian hoteliers are another story. The Indians from India. Not native Americans. The Indian community, Specifically the one's that own and run hotels Along the east coast have been completely rude To me on this trip. WTH is up with that? Every single time I've stopped at an Indian-owned Hotel, truck stop, or convenience store To ask directions, they're been impatient, mean, uptight, And just plain rude. I stopped at one in Washington D.C. And they owner actually raised his voice at me When I wasn't writing down his Kooky, long-winded directions to a specific interstate. WTH. I walked out of there, backwards Like I'd just accidentally walked on to the set Of a horror movie. This was after I asked him if I could simply Grab my laptop and jump on their FREE WI-FI network And Google the directions myself. They refused. I even said I would give him $10 to get on their wi-fi. No. RUDE, mothers. What happened to them? Who F'ed them over so hard That the majority of them are now registered D**kheads? So sad and frustrating to deal with them. One of my best friends, Krishna (drummer in Santeria) Is from India. He's the coolest, most level-headed dude on the planet. And his family are the sweetest people you could ever meet. So it's not an across-the-board Indian thing. That's why this bums me out so much. I LOVE the people from India The culture, the food, the music, the people. They are way up at the top of my list of things I love, Which is why my little feelings get hurt. It's like being a fan of Babe Ruth and baseball, Where you approach him on the street And he's a di**khead to you. Maybe it's just an Indians-who-own/run-motels thing. Krishna once told me a story about how When he and his family moved to Louisiana, His father got a job working in one of these Indian-owned hotels. They paid his dad $1/hr. His dad is Indian. These people were his father's friends. That is insane. I'm speechless. Such a noble and spiritually profound race of people. Yet the land of the free has seemingly not been good for them. It's like they came to America, Bought hotels, got too caught up in the almighty American Rat Race for the dollar, And the post-modern western machine of commerce Chewed up their souls And spat them out like an old nasty Pieces of beef jerky.
THE MIDWAY CLUB Boston, MA. 5.12.10 Rad club. Just south of the legendary Dorchester neighborhood. This place is Boston in full effect. It's a punk rock, underground type club. Stickers pasted on everything. Yet it's also a neighborhood pub Where regular guys grab a drink after work. I dig that. Weirdos, beardos, punks, and working class folk All coexist. Sitting next to one another at the bar Elbow to elbow Sipping beers. I park out front. Check in with the bartender, Mike. Good dude. I take a nap in the van before the show. Sleep for three hours. When I wake and roll out of the van, The sidewalk is crowded. Club is jumping. And this is a Wednesday. The first band has already started. My new buddy, Marc Pinansky, is already at the club And planted at the bar. So is Skuby. Those guys are my psychic corner stones In Boston. Good crowd for a Wednesday. First band rocks. Old school punk rock and roll with some metal in there. Unfortunately, I've forgotten the name of their band. But they were real good. There was a guy named Paul in the band. The crowd is interesting. There are three big, tall guys in Boston Bruins hockey jerseys In the club. Just hanging. The Bruins are playing tonight (against Philadelphia, I think) And the game is blasting from a TV Mounted in a corner of the room. First band finishes up. I set up. Sound check quickly. The Bruins are losing. The guys in the jersey's are on the other side Of the bar, heavily engaged in the game. The Bruins score and the guys in the hockey jerseys Start clapping. I start the first song of my set, "Hard Row to Hoe" At the same tempo they are clapping While stomping on my stompbox. I come banging out of the gate. It registers on their radar. They turn and keep clapping. A minute later, they're no longer at the TV But standing in front of the stage And rocking out with me. Hell yes. They stayed up there the whole time With me as I plowed through a fevered set Trying to keep the action coming While the game played. Thanks, dudes. They all bought CDs and yelled and hollered. I thanked them after the show And they were all straight up real people. Solid dudes. One of the guys was named Jim. He thanked me for coming to Boston And asked me to come back again. That made my night. Those three guys were the MVPs of the night Hell yes, Boston.
LONG DRIVE 5.13.10 I've got a 10-hour drive. Boston to Cleveland. Long haul. Today is a "drive day." No gig. I head out and roll through MA And upstate NY. Man, upstate New York is beautiful. No wonder they held Woodstock up here. Rolling hills, farmlands, valley villages. Amazing scenery. I stare at it in awe and drive. This would be a great place to live And raise a family. Live in an old farm house And plant turnips or whatever. Play guitar. Eat lettuce. Listen to Van Morrison. And just vibe out. Beautiful.
THE STORM Erie, PA After eight hours of driving, It begins to rain. Hard. Rain, wind, whatnot Whipping the van around like crazy. Low visibility. Night. Stressful in that old van. It's a war. The elements vs. me & the van. I fight it till late in the night And then finally pull into a truck stop. Exhausted. I don't even make up my little van bed. I just lay down on top of dirty clothes, Burger wrappers, and weekly newspapers I've been collecting And fall to sleep With the clatter of rain Coming down on the roof of the van. Singing me to sleep A stranger, falling to sleep in an unfamiliar city. In his car.
VAN SCARE Truck stop parking lot. Erie, PA. Wake in the morning to dreary overcast skies. Still raining. I shower at the truck stop. $10. Climb in the chair and turn the keys. The van doesn't start. Refuses to crank. Not again. Panic mode. This old van is as sturdy as old vans come, But I'm just a little burnt out On the mechanical problems. I check the engine, battery, belts, etc. I'd left one of the windows of the van half open overnight. So the interior was kind of moist. I dried everything off. Blew air in the ignition switch. Did some hocus pocus. BOOM. The van cranks. Thank, God
CLEVELAND, OH 5.14.10 I need some chill time, So I drive to Lake Erie And stare at the water. Park by the shore I relax. I've never seen any of the Great Lakes. Looks just like the ocean. It's nice. Peaceful. I needed this. I read, catch up on some writing, Listen to the beach birds squawking, And stare at the water. I like water. I feel more comfortable When I am around large bodies of water. This is a good one. Peaceful. Scenic. I roll out after a few hours and head toward club Only to learn There's weird stuff going on at the venue. I pull up. Place is empty except for a construction crew, Pulling up the floors. Turns out the owners sold the place And it is now being renovated. Previous owners had neglected to notify me Or any of the other bands booked. That's class. But it happens. Tony Bonyata, my publicist for this tour, Pulls out a Hail Mary over the phones And it gets me a pick-up gig at another venue. Little club called The Barking Spider in Cleveland. I get directions and roll. Owner is sweetheart old guy named Martin. His daughter, Jenna, helps him run the place. Good folks. Cool of them to let me play At their club on short notice. I bang out a happy hour set And sell $50 worth of CDs. One of them to an old biker named Mike I'd met earlier in the day When standing in line at store for cigarettes. Struck up a conversation. Told him about the gig. Boom. There he was, at the club, when I got there. That's class.
THE OHIO AMISH 5.15.10 Rolling through southern Ohio. Southbound and down. I exit off the interstate to gas up And pass some people with horse buggies and beards Selling stuff on the side of the road. Amish folksin Ohio? I have to find out. U-turn. Pull over. It is Amish folks. YES. I've always been curious about them and their culture, So this is great. They dress like pilgrims. The women are wearing bonnets and cleavage covering dresses. The flesh you see are their faces and hands. The men wear plain, somewhat ill-fitting Navy blue pants. And these bib-looking things Around their necks That make them look like pilgrims. And the men all have the Abe Lincoln beards. No mustache. They keep the beard, but shave the lip. Weird. I wonder what prompted that move in their culture. Back in the day, Did one of the first Amish elders hate his mustache But dug the beard, so he opted to shave it And institute the policy? Or did the others simply dig it and follow suit? I look at the stuff their selling, But I'm secretly studying them Out of the corner of my eye Because they are so fascinating. It's like jumping in a time machine. The Amish look so period-specific, that it almost Comes off like a tourist showat state park or something. But it's real. They're selling baskets, jams, and flowers. They're really sweet, gentle people. Polite, happy, and kind. And peaceful. And they're doing it. They're doing their thing. Screw the modern world. Screw the electricity. Screw your cars, cell phones, and conveniences. We've got the horses, the buggies, and the farm. We don't need your modern world. Amish are way more punk rock Than anybody with tattoos. Period. There's something refreshing and magical And true About seeing these people Just sitting in the sun by the side of the road Enjoying the day. Quietly making it in this world. It is something that is so much more real In some ways than All the rest of us Caught up in the modern world Stressing out Standing next to one another, Not talking, not interacting, But instead Just solemnly texting on our cell phones, Wrapped up in our own little digital realms. Detached, alienated, paranoid, And weird. I buy $40 worth of stuff from them To give to my girlfriend As a surprise when I get home. Gonna be a cool surprise. I roll out. Say goodbye. They stare at the Black Bayou Minstries van As I pull away. And they wave goodbye. And smile.
CINCINNATTI/NEWPORT, KY 5.15.10 Played Southgate House in Newport, Ken. 30 seconds across the river from Cincinnati. Didn't realize I didn't know how to spell "Cincinnati" till now. City was jumping. Reds game 5 minutes away, So everybody on the street was wearing Red and white Reds gear and such. The club is an old, old general's house, The guy that invented the Tommy Gun. Cool club. Killer staff. I pull van around back, squeeze down the skinny alley Around Butch Walker's tour bus he's playing, too And I park. The load out is insane. Pretty much I have to lug the amp, cab, guitars, etc Up the alley, carry it around the building, Up some stairs, into the club, down the hall, And into the room. It's a pretty good one-man work out. Each piece of equipment ...I have to lug Past Butch's giant tour bus. I laugh to myself, wondering if Butch Walker And his band are in there laughing at the crazy Longhaired, bearded dude in the church van Lugging gear all the way down the alley and Into the club by himself. They're in there probably playing video games As the AC unit keeps the bus at a cool 65 degrees While ole' Bro-Dege is out here humping and grunting His way through the alley with all the ragged out gear. The 4 x 12 cabinet was my favorite to lug. Just because it's got a bad wheel on it, So push-rolling it is out of the question. I pick up the whole thing Bear hug style Like some demented mountain man And growl my way up the alley And around the bus With the cabinet, passing gas, grunting, And cursing the gods. I made it, though. Despite the gods And their plot to humble me at every turn. It keeps you real, I guess.
The show was insane. I was contracted to play 3 sets. Meaning about 3+ hours of music. Roughly 9:30 to 1:30 a.m. I knew this one was going to test me. Not sure if I was up for it. It's hard to play three hours of original music With a whole band. Try doing it solo. All originals. Deep breath. I kicked it off And the rest was a blur. Room stayed packed most of the night. People jumping, drinking, dancing, and Having fun with me. It was killer. The Reds won And the place filled up even more. Somewhere around two hours into the set, I noticed there was an old piano Sitting a few feet away from me Pushed up against a wall. I encouraged people who DID NOT know How to play piano to jump on thing And play jam with me. It took about 10 mins of me hollering For somebody to get up there. First one, then two, then three happy drunk folks Got on it and banged away. It was the weirdest sounding s**t ever. Like a free jazz, hillbilly jam. And I loved it. It was awesome. I'd break the song down, Then build it back up, And they'd bang away atonally on that old piano. Three astride. A few people broke out their iPhones and filmed it. I hope it makes it to YouTube, because It was pretty rad in a nutty way. After I got them rolling, It was hard getting them to stop.
The last set I played pushed two hours in length. I met my contracted time slot And kept going. Too much fun to stop it now. I ended the set with a Hendrix-meets-Ry Cooder Version of the Star-Spangled Banner. They ate it up. And it was done. It was like climbing a mountain. I made it to the top, though.
I did the monstrous load out alone. Only this time I had to lug all the stuff Through a maze of drunk people. Having had a few drinks myself It was yet another new challenge. I passed the tour bus numerous times again But it didn't annoy me as much Because I'd climbed my own mountain And now I was simply Trucking down the other side.
CHICAGO 5.16.10 Chicago, IL Home of the electric blues. Played a club three blocks away From the old Chess records studio. Tony Bonyata, the publicity guy for this tour, Who lives up the road in Grand Rapids (I think) Showed up and walked me over to it. We took a few tourist photos. All that history in that one building. Howlin' Wolf, Willie Dixon, Muddy Waters, etc. Nice. Back to the club. Reggie's Music Joint. Kid Willie, a local fan, showed up with his folks And they worked the merch table. Good people. Real good people. They threw a crawfish boil. I wasn't expecting much, but The crawfish were great. Better than some boil houses in Louisiana. They flew them in. Seems the guy who did the boiling Knew what he was doing. I think his name was Steve. Good job, Steve. I knocked out my set. It was a keeper. I finished the set and the crowd wanted an encore. First of the tour. I gave them one. I did an extended tribute to all the old blues greats In the middle of "The World's Longest Hotdog." And shut it down. Said my goodbyes. Talked a bunch of music stuff with Tony. And rolled out. Back into the unknown.
THE SECRET SURPRISE I like to leave a CD in every city Along the tour. Even if I'm just stopping to get gas. So I bought some thick 2-sided tape. I tape it to the back of the CD And stick the CD to a bathroom stall door At truck stops and gas stations. Every town. That way, somebody gets a free CD surprise When they go to take dump. It's like you're the winner of the Folk Songs of American Longhair lotto For the day. If I don't use the bathroom, I stick it to the gas pump Or a crazy place Like high up on a wall of the station. It's cool to find something free In a weird place. Kind of like finding a $10 bill On the ground, which is a good feeling. Only this one is stuck to the wall.