Day 13: Houston, We Have a Problem

("Hot Guts" [king of the Texas Sausages] from the Southside Market in Elgin, TX)

I thought to myself, but consciously didn’t say out loud, that I remembered Houston had a reputation for wicked traffic, and wasn’t it funny that here we were in the city, at rush hour no less, and traffic was moving just fine. About twenty seconds later, we were stuck in a hellish traffic jam. And we both had to pee.

Eventually we got to a gas station, and then poked our way through the awful congestion to the house were staying at, which was to be our last CouchSurf. As we drove through our hosts’ neighborhood, we remarked to each other on all the cool little Mexican shops and grocery stores we’d have to hit up on our way out of town the next morning.

Our hosts were a friendly couple who had two kids, including a very cute baby who happened to also be named Gabriel, and an iguana named Rambo who, they informed us, had a reputation for causing trouble. They welcomed us into their place, and we drank tea and talked for a while. Then we all (minus the iguana) took a stroll to grab more fantastic Mexican food, including some chicken mole enchiladas (ordered by Gabriel, naturally) that were perhaps the best version of that dish that I’ve ever encountered. I won’t say we haven’t been eating well.



(And as a side note, we also haven’t been exercising much. Just a word of caution – I’ll likely be returning somewhat porkier than I was when I left. Please try not to stare. It was worth it.)

We left the restaurant, walked back home to our hosts’ place and got ready to take off for the gig. They told us just to come in when we got back (we’d said it might be late), and that the door would be unlocked.

Anyway, before our Houston adventures continue, a brief bit of housekeeping. The 17th of April was supposed to be a gig in Hot Springs, Arkansas, with the 16th kept as a travel day, us likely taking our rest in some place like Texarkana or Shreveport. The Hot Springs gig was cancelled, which was a shame, given that we had been looking forward to it, but also something of a gift in that it gave us an extra day off between Houston and Nashville.

For the last week or so, we’d been debating what to do with that extra day. Essentially there were three routes – north through the Ozarks, south through Louisiana, or the middle way through Texarkana. Texarkana was out. No interest to us whatsoever, except that misery seems to be where we both get our songs. Still, hardly someplace we’d enjoy. I initially wanted to do the Ozark route, since I’d been hearing about a town called Eureka Springs, which fancies itself the “hole in the buckle of the Bible Belt,” a lunatic enclave full of hippies, artists, more psychics per capita than any other town in the US and a generally zany approach to life. I pictured it as a Provincetown of the mountains.

The idea was to camp out near Eureka Springs, go into town, see the sights, eat and drink well, then enjoy some solitude and maybe write some songs. But the more Gabriel and I thought about it (and, to his credit, I think he’d had the idea from the beginning) the more sensible the southern route seemed. Because the bend in that road is New Orleans. Gabriel had been there a few years ago and remembered it with riotous fondness. I’m not sure if he intentionally planted and watered the idea, but by the time we hit Lafayette, we had made a solid plan to take an evening’s R&R in the Crescent City before heading up to Nashville.

So, back in Houston, the plan was to play our gig, go back to stay with the folks we were CouchSurfing with, wake up early and hit the road for New Orleans. Perfect.

The show was supposed to have been at Houston’s legendary Super Happy Fun Land, but SHFL had not yet reopened in its new location after some building code problems. It got rescheduled at notsuoH, a downtown bar with a great funky bohemian feel and wild art all over the walls, located curiously between swank restaurants and swankier hotels. We pulled in, had a beer, hung out a bit with Chloe, the bartender, and met the DJ, who goes professionally by the name “360,” and who was spinning “Maggot Brain” when we got in. We talked about Eddie Hazel, maybe the most underrated guitarist of all time, always a subject I’m glad to discuss.



After a while, a woman came in, said “I’m Christa,” and shook our hands. I asked, stupidly, “Have we met?” She answered that we had contacted her through CouchSurfing, and she’d responded but never heard back from us, so thought she’d come down and see if we still needed a place to crash, being that notsuoH was already on her circuit of good bars. Gabriel hadn’t gotten her email. Oops.

She sat down with us, then pulled out a sketchbook and started writing. She handed me a list of personal recommendations for late night eats and other Houstonian points of interest for traveling musicians.

She also turned out to be an artist. She made a wicked cool drawing for us on a sample tag of formica, of a lanky panda waving hello, ringed by the words, “nothin’ to fear, I just want some bamboo.” It was awesome, and now adorns our dashboard.

We played to the assembled crowd, first Gabriel and then myself. I think we both put in good, solid performances, and we ended, as we usually do these days, with a harmonized duet on the Stones’ (by way of TVZ) “Dead Flowers,” which we started working on in the car between Wilmington and Asheville.

(Live mp3s - Gabriel doing "Leave Him Alone" - http://econo-graphics.com/superdupersecret/LeaveHimAloneHouston.mp3 - Me doing "Nobody Loves You Like I Do" - http://econo-graphics.com/superdupersecret/NobodyLovesYouHouston.mp3 )

We went back to the table, hung out and chatted with Christa, and left at around 12:30. On the way home, I realized I was extremely hungry. Gabe still had half of his enchiladas in our hosts’ fridge, but I had only a bit of salad, and I made an executive decision to get a Whataburger, a Texan fast-food creation whose praises I’d heard sung but which I had never tried myself.

We pulled over to the side of the road and scarfed fast food (which, by the way, was gloriously good, especially at that hour – miles above McDonald’s, BK or even Wendy’s, all of which we’ve managed to avoid completely on this trip). My vision of perfection – a happy belly full of greasy chow, a warm place to sleep and the road stretching out before us in the morning, glinting gold in the Texas sunshine.

We drove into the driveway and got our guitars and sleeping bags out. We left the amps and suitcases in the car – our hosts had told us, “This neighborhood is completely safe. We never even lock our doors, neither the house nor the car.” We wandered up to the front door, trying to make a minimum of noise.

It was locked.

“Oh drat,” we said. Or something to that effect.

We essentially had five options, as enumerated by Gabriel. We could:

1) Call them and wake the whole house, probably including the baby, and ask to be let in to crash on their couches.

2) Sleep in the car in their driveway.

3) Pitch our tent and sleep in their front yard.

4) Find the nearest motel.

5) Drive to New Orleans immediately.

In retrospect, we should probably have just given them a call, but at the time it seemed like a rude thing to do. Number two was out since we have so much crap in the car that the seats no longer recline. Number three was ridiculous. Number five was completely impractical, given that I was too tired to drive nearly three hundred miles by myself and Gabriel was still pretty drunk – I was designated driver for the evening. And besides, showing up sleepless in New Orleans at 7 AM would guarantee a bleary, dreary day in a city we’d wanted to enjoy.

I was in the process of checking into the nearest sketchy motel when I found out they only took cash, and I didn’t have any on me. Then Gabriel made a sixth suggestion – we could drive towards New Orleans, find a motel when we got tired, then wake up and hightail it but have already crossed a few hours off our journey by morning. That sounded good to me.

We gassed up and headed east on I-10. We decided to get off the road around Beaumont (it was already after three by that point), an oil town and another of the world’s ugliest cities. We crawled around looking for a motel, marveling at the immense hideousness of the place, and eventually settled on an Econo Lodge, which advertised the cheapest rates we’d seen in that part of Texas.



We checked in and loaded our stuff out of the car, and then I went out to park it in the last available spot in the parking lot. As I looked out over the courtyard and the superhighway rolling past it, I suddenly remembered the last verse of “Two Girls,” by Townes Van Zandt:

Cold down on the bayou,
They say it’s in your mind.
But the moccasins are treadin’ ice
And leavin’ strange designs.
The Cajuns say the last time
This happened they weren’t here,
But Beaumont’s full of penguins
And I’m playin’ it by ear.

Houston, New Orleans and Nashville Comin' Soon!

Hey evuhbody,

We're back from the tour! Hooray! It was a long journey, and if you're interested, just wanted to let everybody know that our tawdry tales of Houston (a page-turner indeed), New Orleans and Nashville will be coming in the next day or two. I've already written most of it, just have to resize photos, make mp3s, etc. - but we're not abandoning the blog until we account publicly for where we were at 4AM last night.

Huzzah, and thanks for reading, listening, commenting and generally sending good vibes.

J

Days 11 & 12: Keepin’ It Weird in Austin

(These horses were sticking their heads out the window of their trailer and nodding vigorously to passing cars)

Still in Alabama as I write this. Gabriel has just informed me that we’ve gone 4,183 miles this trip. Oddly enough, we’re not yet sick of each other’s company. Or at least I think we aren’t. Perhaps the last 13 years have been preparation for this tour.

With extreme sadness, we left the merry company of the Lafayette posse and drove to Texas. The further west you drive in Louisiana, the more that swamps and bayous recede into oil fields or, worse, oil refineries. Lake Charles is, casinos notwithstanding, an exceptionally ugly city, and the giant arched stretch of I-10 over the lake itself very thoughtfully provides a bird’s-eye view.
We crossed into Texas around mid-day. One of the things that I never grew up with in Boston, though it’s apparently everywhere else in the country, is the system of labeling exits by mile-marker. Up in Beantown (and New York and New Jersey, for that matter), Exit 2 follows Exit 1 (or vice-versa), leaving you to guess at how far you’ve gone, or how many miles further the next exit might be. Well, down in Texas, traveling west, the first exit you hit is Exit 880. Which pretty much means you have a long way to go, no matter where you’re going.

We rolled into Austin in the late afternoon and met up with Gabriel’s friend Mark, whom Gabe has known since they were second-grade students at Cohen-Hillel Academy. He helped us get our stuff up to his pad, an enormous cathedral-like 5-bedroom affair right off Sixth Street in the heart of the frat strip, that he shares with a few other folks. We discussed dinner and drinks, and figured we’d hit up a bar that he knew was having a free crawfish boil that night.

We wandered down to Red River and into the comfortable, friendly bar, ordered a round of Shiner Bocks (one of the world’s great session beers, dark but refreshing and a true taste of Texas), got a bucket of boiled crawfish and sat down at an outdoor table to chat, people-watch and enjoy the evening. It soon transpired that I was the only one who could (or cared to) make (or eat) head or tail of the crawfish. Oh well. But they were spicy and delicious and fresh as hell, and I, at least, enjoyed them thoroughly.

We met up with Mark’s friend John and rolled off to grab a burger at a local bar famous for them. I wimped out on my belly full of crawfish and ordered a chicken sandwich, but it was excellent, and the burgers looked serious. Next time, methinks. And Gabriel, for the record, ordered something made out of eggplant.

Later, I went out with Mark and John to a Red River nightclub that they had free passes for. It was 80s Night, and I was deeply skeptical, but as we got inside, it was clear that this was an only-in-Austin type of 80s Night. Everyone was dressed outlandishly, punks and Goths and freaks of all colorful stripes, including a bunch of guys all dressed as bridegrooms. I remarked to Mark that it was fun and funny to be the squarest-looking person in the place, bar-none.

We ended up taking a bench and talking about religion as the party whirled around us. I bowed out around 1:30, went back to Mark’s place and crashed.

In the morning, Gabriel and I got up to move the car (it was parked at a meter) and ended up just going for coffee and breakfast at a place on South First called Bouldin Creek that Gabriel remembered from South by Southwest. It was great – good coffee, lovely food and a laid-back place to boot. We sat at an outdoor table in the sunshine and I updated the blog al fresco.









Afterwards, we got the oil changed (we’d already gone over 3,000 miles at that point), poked around a guitar shop and went for awesome tacos (again, Gabriel providing an excellent guide to the city). Then we went back to Mark’s, collected Mark and headed out to the Carousel Lounge for our early show.



(Apparently it's a conspiracy!)

What can I say about the Carousel Lounge? I think the pictures have to speak for themselves regarding the decor. The bartenders and local crowd were super-friendly. They sell only beer and “setups” (glasses, ice and mixers) for liquor that patrons are allowed bring in themselves. When we got in, we ordered beers and played “Pancho and Lefty” on the jukebox. And the bartender said, to no one in particular, “Townes Van Zandt.” I am, I confess, getting to be rather fond of this town.



(Me in the Carousel parking lot)



(Mark in front of the Carousel)

Gabriel and I had been discussing an experiment, trading songs instead of playing two discrete sets, and we decided to try it out at the Carousel. It was an agreeable way to go about things, with the added blessing that neither of us had to open the night, which generally makes us more self-conscious and thus less free in our performances. The only snag for me was having to sit goofily onstage every other song, but as Gabriel was the evening’s designated driver, I addressed myself to our last fifth of Kentucky Gentleman (purchased, you may recall, in Asheville, NC, from the state liquor store for the grand total of 7.95) as I sat, and didn’t mind the breaks a bit.

(Live MP3 - Me doing Townes Van Zandt's "A Song For" - http://econo-graphics.com/superdupersecret/ASongForAustin.mp3 )





After we finished, a band called Blue Squeezebox took the stage, three guys playing guitar, accordion and seven-string bass, doing outlandish but musically brilliant cabaret covers of a wide variety of songs. They did standards like “Autumn Leaves” and “It Ain’t Necessarily So,” as well as a wicked, wicked version of “I Will Survive” and “Election Day” by Blaze Foley, perhaps Austin’s best-loved and least-known songwriter, whose beautiful songs and wild and tragic biography are well worth checking out. The music was incredible and hugely entertaining, but hunger (for all) and alcohol (for me) were beginning to gnaw, so we reluctantly left in search of food.



We ate, parked the car by Mark’s, grabbed a quick beer and went to sleep. Austin, how do I love thee?

The next day we woke up, hit up Bouldin Creek again, tooled around for a bit, ate more spectacular tacos (and seriously, New York is glaringly lacking in this department. Come on, people!) and went to Houston.

Day 10: Son of a Gun, We’ll Have Some Fun on the Bayou!

Sorry to get so far behind here. As I am writing this, we’re back in ‘Bammy, heading northeast for the first time in nearly two weeks. Happily, the weather’s a little nicer than it was when we hit Birmingham the first time around.

I’d also like to apologize in advance for the fact that this posting is more or less all about food. We were in Louisiana, you understand. And we didn't take many pictures. We were too busy being in Louisiana.

We took off early. Said goodbye to JP, jumped in the car and made good time to the Mississippi border. Around noon, we were getting hungry, and Gabriel suggested barbecue. This naturally made me extremely happy, since I have been wary of overloading him with my personal gustatory passion/obsession, him not having been raised on meat. We decided that Maria’s betrayal may have been an anomaly, and we were willing to give her another shot, so we gamely typed “barbecue” in again, and found a list of places down the road. We set a course for the Rib Shack in Meridian.



Meridian, Mississippi, is not Paris. It’s not even Birmingham. The GPS pulled us off into what appeared to be the dustiest strip in a dusty town, and gave us the improbable command to turn right, toward the squalid train tracks. As we pulled up, we both remarked that this barbecue would either be incredible or inedible. Or, in all likelihood, the place would have closed three years ago. But up ahead in the distance, we saw a plume of smoke coming out of a concrete outbuilding. Showtime!

We parked the car and it was clear that this would be no strikeout. The place radiated the dark, seductive perfume of burning hickory inside and out, and there were paintings of happy pigs adorning the walls - classic barbecue iconography, but what they have to be happy about, I’m not quite sure.



(If I'd ever come up with a slogan this good when I was a copywriter, lo those many years ago, I'd be retired and living in the Dordogne by now)

Anyway, our sandwiches were excellent – true deep-south style, with a powerfully sweet sauce liberally clinging to the meat. But it was clear that meat, rub and sauce had all been prepared with expert skill and exquisite attention to detail, and in spite of the sweetness, they packed a huge amount of complex flavor into their small packages.

We got back on the road, full.

Crossing into southern Louisiana from any direction is cause for tremendous joy, as much because you’re leaving either South Mississippi or East Texas as because you’re coming into a completely unique and wonderful place. The air itself cooled as we crossed that border. We fished out my laptop and blasted “Gris Gris” by Dr. John, rolling down the road a good deal freer and lighter, bound for Cajun country.



(We took a wrong turn, hunting for a gas station. We found this church instead)

We got to Lafayette around 5:30 and stretched our legs at the Caffe Cottage, our venue for the evening. As a quick aside, Jeremiah McVay, Man in Gray drummer extraordinaire, completely hooked us up for his hometown, and we thank him profusely. He introduced us to his friend James Van Way, musician and booker at the Caffe (one of Lafayette’s most notable nightspots), set us up with sleeping arrangements through his friend Paige (indomitable riot, and drummer for the phenomenal Figs), and put his parents in touch with us, who very kindly offered to take us out for supper.

Jeremiah’s parents and sister met us at the Blue Dog Cafe, home of Louisiana artist George Rodrigue’s iconic Blue Dog. Dinner was, it goes without saying, fantastic. Cajun chefs really, really, really know how to cook, and this place was an excellent example of innovation mixed with tradition. There were crab wontons to start out the evening, essentially the perfect realization of Crab Rangoons, with the emphasis shifted to showcase the fresh Louisiana crustaceans. Then, of course, I had crawfish etouffee, which was every bit as rich and good as I had been craving, and Gabriel had crawfish enchiladas, which he reported to be excellent, but which I forgot to try in my fervor over the etouffee.

We got to the club, had a drink with James, met up with Paige, and then played some rock’n’roll. The audience was small but into it, and, as an added bonus, James, Paige and their friends recognized some of our more obscure covers (Townes, Big Star, Richard Thompson, John Prine). After my set, a fellow named Paul Papillion came up and asked me if I considered myself a positive person or a negative person. Then he swapped me a CD for a beer. Gabe’s guitar playing wowed everyone, incidentally.

(Live MP3s - Gabriel doing "24 Karat Man" - http://econo-graphics.com/superdupersecret/24KManLafa.mp3 - Jared doing "What You Get" - http://econo-graphics.com/superdupersecret/WhatYouGetLafa.mp3 )

When the show wrapped up, we all went over to a party down the street, chatted with folks, drank some more beer and ate boudin, a Cajun pork-and-rice sausage that Jeremiah had always warned me away from, but that Paige declared to be the food of the gods and one of the only things that keeps her from being a vegetarian. It was fantastic. Fan-bastarding-tastic.

We slept at Paige’s awesome place, woke up and went to brunch at Country Cuisine, a little soul food place near the interstate that Paige and her friends were raving about. Gabriel and Paige got catfish, and for some reason I opted for barbecued chicken. The chicken was good (really good, actually), but Gabe’s catfish rocked the damn house. Oops.

And then we waddled back into the car and went to Texas.

Day 9: Alabama - The Devil Fools with the Best-Laid Plan

So I admit it, I’m the killjoy on this trip, but in my defense, I have been made so by years of psychotic touring with Man in Gray (driving from NYC to Denver in two days, for instance). Not that I mind, of course, and there's something very satisfying about heroic hauls, but it is nice traveling with Miller – there are only two of us to coordinate and account for, and he has a richly developed sense of adventure, even on mundane stretches of the journey.



(You can't see it very clearly, but that's a hoof sticking out of the top of this dumptruck. It smelled real awesome too.)

As we drove through Nashville, stuck in traffic, Gabriel mentioned that he was hungry. I asked (not expecting an answer in the affirmative) if he wanted to find one of the places in Roadfood, but by the time I got that out of my mouth, he had already found a restaurant, and was punching the address into Maria (the GPS unit). Hooray! Plate lunch in Nashville!

Roadfooding used to be somewhat difficult, since it invariably involved trying to navigate through back roads in an unfamiliar place, often in a really residential part of town. Maria has changed all that. No matter how out of your way you’re going, she’ll get you there, and there’s never a need to call the place, ask directions, consult a map, or drive really slowly through town, pissing off the locals. Just punch it in and go.

We ended up at Swett’s, a cheery cafeteria near Fisk University that has been in operation since the fifties. We walked in and nearly capsized on account of the incredible smells of the place – real food, each item cooked expertly in its most luxurious incarnation. Gabriel got fried chicken with yams and turnip greens, and I got a vegetable plate with fried okra, mac and cheese and cabbage. We split everything, naturally. And was it good! Holy cow! With hot pepper vinegar on the side to boot!

We jumped back in the car, satiated to the brim with deliciousness, and continued south on I-65 to Birmingham. As we approached the city, the mild rain we’d been experiencing since Kentucky (really since DC, if I think about it) turned violent. It rained harder than I’d ever seen in my life, the skies blackened, and we turned on the weather report, remembering suddenly that Alabama is in the middle of “Tornado Alley.” The radio warned of “wall clouds” and two-and-a-half-inch hail, and told listeners to be on the lookout for any rotation in the sky. Good thing we were getting to town.

When we got to Java and Jams, it was still pouring nightmarishly. “Pouring” is the wrong word, actually. It was like someone had turned a firehose on the city, and water was hurling down with brute force. We got ourselves inside, got a cup of coffee from John, the affable proprietor, and sat and watched the rain.

Once it had subsided a little, we went to Homewood to meet our host for the evening, a fascinating guy named JP who had been in the Air Force, traveled throughout the world and become Birmingham’s “city ambassador” for CouchSurfing. We had twisted his arm to come with us to Dreamland, one of Alabama’s great barbecue institutions, for ribs and white bread (which, for years, were the only two things on the menu). It was, of course, a fantastic meal, set apart by the outlandishly good sauce – spicy, tangy and barely sweet, and as good on plain white sliced bread as on their magnificent meats. We were met at Dreamland by JP’s friend Deepak, and had lovely conversation and far too much food.



(The Dreamland appetizer - you couldn't get better food in all of Paris)



(Happy rib-eaters: Me, Miller, Deepak and JP)

Then Gabriel looked at the clock and realized we were supposed to be on stage, several miles away, in fifteen minutes. We paid, raced to the gig and set up, and just as we were about to play, JP, Deepak, JP’s girlfriend Michelle and their friend Crystal (a CouchSurfing “global ambassador”) walked in to watch the show. We played our sets and had a great time.

(Live MP3: Gabriel doing "For Your Love" - http://econo-graphics.com/superdupersecret/ForYourLoveBirm.mp3 )

Afterwards, we all went out to a birthday party at a very local bar in Birmingham to shoot pool, throw darts, drink, chat and finish off the evening in grand style. Crystal turned out to be a far better darter than I, and I accidentally bounced several darts off the board into the grim-looking trash can located inconveniently beneath the dartboard. I fished out as many as I could see, but left the ones that had disappeared into the murky recesses of Alabama bar garbage. Oh well.



(Michelle and Crystal)

We played some bar trivia, someone handed me a shot they called the “Three Wise Men,” who turned out to be Jim, Jack and Jose, and then we went back to JP’s to catch a little sleep.

Day 8: Kentucky, Gentlemen

We headed off from Johnson City and visited the Atlanta Bread Company, the Southern version of Panera. Same sort of weird corporate awfulness, and lousy coffee. Oh well.

The drive was long but very beautiful. Maria (our trusty GPS unit) once again guided us along back roads and state highways, rather than interstates, and we got to drive through the awesomely dramatic Cumberland Gap. We sat in stopped traffic on a two-lane stretch for an absurdly long time while they were blasting a mountain, but other than that, it was cakes and pies.



(Gabriel stuck in traffic but unruffled)



(At the command center)

One of Maria’s truly brilliant features is that she can find not only addresses but specific businesses and types of businesses, either along your route or near where you are. We typed in “barbecue” and found a place just off the road that we were very excited for. Sadly, it was a total bust – it seemed to have been crock-potted, rather than barbecued, in store-bought sauce. Can’t win ‘em all, I guess. We’re looking forward to getting back on track this evening, at Birmingham’s legendary Dreamland Bar-B-Q.

We pulled into Bowling Green in the late afternoon and went directly to Bread and Bagel, where we were booked for the evening. It’s a café that doubles as a venue at night, with good food and a small but excellent selection of beers. Jordan, the booker, was working when we got in, and we hung out a little bit and then went to work on songs on their beautiful stone patio.

We ate some fantastic pizza (perhaps the best we’ve had outside of Chicago, Boston and New York) and then Miss Umbrella, the band we were sharing the bill with, showed up and loaded in. We talked about music a little bit, they soundchecked, and I got up and started playing.

Now (backtracking a minute), when we were on the way to Asheville, we ducked into a Guitar Center to pick up a power adapter for Gabriel’s pedal, and the mohawked clerk mentioned that he was from Kentucky. We told him that we were playing a gig in Bowling Green on the 10th. He said, “oh, at the festival? I’m so pissed I can’t go.” “Festival?” “Yeah, there’s a huge free music festival put on by the radio station in Bowling Green on the 10th.” Oh great, said we to ourselves.

Anyway, we were warned again when we got to town not to expect too many folks out after a long day of free partying, and anticipated the worst. But by my second song, the audience had nearly filled the seats in the café, and everyone seemed real into it. Gabriel came on and did beautifully as always, and we chatted a little bit with folks while Miss Umbrella set up to go on.

(Live MP3s - Jared doing "They Will Never Give You Nothing in This World" - http://econo-graphics.com/superdupersecret/TheyWillNeverBowl.mp3 - Gabriel doing "Someone Like You" - http://econo-graphics.com/superdupersecret/SomeoneLikeYouBowl.mp3 )

Then Miss Umbrella came on and WAILED. They were fantastic. Please, please go to their myspace page (http://myspace.com/missumbrella) and check them out. Gabe and I sat through their set in a certain degree of awe and talked about how we never get to see bands like that in New York, and what a shame it is. We talked to them afterwards and asked them if they ever tour up north, and they told us they never tour at all. Which is ridiculous. We’re trying to convince them.



Anyway, they had offered to put us up, so we went back to the apartment where Aaron, the singer, Daniel, the drummer, and Logan, the bass player, live. We watched some South Park (tasteful as always), drank a little of the cheap whiskey we loaded up on in North Carolina, and fooled around on Aaron’s pedal steel, which none of us had any concept of how to play. By the end of the night, Gabriel wasn’t sounding bad, but I’d still not bet on him in a duel with Don Helms. But that’s beside the point.

In the morning, we went out for doughnuts with Aaron at the Great American Donut Shop, a recent discovery of his that proved to be the best and cheapest doughnuts either Gabriel or I had had in quite a long while. And then we headed south to Birmingham, very happy about all we had seen in Bowling Green.

Day 7: We Cut Off Your Johnson City, Lebowski!

(Me plundering Gabe's sunglass collection and lookin' fiiiiiiine!)

Short drive to Johnson City, TN and then to the venue – The Acoustic Coffeehouse. From the name, Gabriel and I had been picturing a very different sorta joint – it turned out to be a combination bar/café/coffee-shop/hangout on a dusty street, with a super-eclectic mix of folks hanging out reading, drinking, talking and generally having a good time. After saying our hellos and buying a Dr. Enuf (the local soda, since 1949), we went off to meet Ari, our CouchSurfing host for the evening and a medical student at East Tennessee State. We hung around for a bit at his place and shot the breeze, practiced a little and then headed off to the gig.



(Ari's house)

The first act of the evening was Don and Karen McNatt, a husband-and-wife duo from Nashville. We grabbed some food and a beer and sat down to watch. They were very good, and it was sort of fascinating to see professional Nashville folks at work - they worked the crowd brilliantly, and were very well received by the audience, young and old, and seemingly from all walks of life.

We took the stage next and enjoyed ourselves very much. During my set, an older fellow wandered in from the laundromat next door and watched most of the performance, clapping and cheering loudly. Made me feel real good.

(We dun forgot to record MP3s... but won't fergit again!)

After our sets, we joined up with Ari and his roommate, Norman, who had very kindly come to see the show in spite of their having a major psychiatry exam the following morning. We went to a quiet part of the Coffeehouse and hung around for an hour or two, having a great time for ourselves, talking about this and that and nothing in particular. Turned out they knew the Two Man Gentlemen Band, who had performed a couple weeks before. Small little world.

Then we went back to the house and went to sleep.



(The dusty streets of Johnson City)