Bob Malone }-- Essays & Road Stories

So there I was. 2:30 in the morning, Saturday night, 4th of July weekend. Sitting in my dead, broke down van, waiting for Godot’s Tow-Truck by the side of the road. But not just any road. This was the loneliest stretch of CA Route 17, a treacherous curving snake of a mountain highway that is the only way to get from San Jose to Santa Cruz. The only way to get to Santa Cruz at all, unless you are coming in from the north or south on the Pacific Coast Highway. The breakdown lane is half the width of a car, and the road is just wide enough that everyone drives nearly twice as fast as they should, barely making it around one blind curve after another. I too was doing this, when the motor stopped dead.

Thank God for the cell phone! I fumbled my triple-A card out of my wallet and dialed the number. After a very long time, I got someone on the phone.

“Due to the high volume of calls, your hold time will be about twenty-eight minutes.” Said an automated voice. This was followed by lame Muzak that wasn’t even a whole tune – just a twenty second loop of part of a tune, so they wouldn’t have to pay any royalties, the bastards.

“Due to the high volume of calls, your hold time will be approximately seventeen minutes.” Lame Muzak.

“Due to the high vol…”

A voice awoke me from my stupor.

“This is Triple-A. Where are you located?”

“Route 17, about fifteen miles from Santa Cruz” I said.

“What do you see around you?” the voice asked.

“Trees and an overpass, no signs, no mile markers.”

“Where did you say you were again?”

“Route 17, near Santa Cruz.” I spat, as if talking to a child with ADD, which perhaps I was.

“That’s in Southern California, I have to transfer you to the Southern California number, please hold.”

“Noooooooooo!! You idiot!!”

Lame Muzak. Twenty minutes passed.

It went on like this for quite a while, people who apparently thought that Santa Cruz had been moved 400 miles south in the dead of night, people who needed to check to see if my papers were on file, AAA had somehow turned into DMV since the last time I’d called, thus proving my theory that any organization with an acronym for a name can’t be trusted.

I sat in the dark, alone with the trees and the night and the endless parade of semis rounding the corner too fast and too close. At one point I decided to try the ignition again. If the van started, I would turn around, drive straight back to L.A. and quit the road forever. I’m forty. I’m not getting rich doing this. I have a wife at home who misses me. I just don’t need this shit.

The van did not start.

WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS? I asked the universe. The universe did not reply.

Finally, two hours after contact, the tow truck arrived. Apparently there’s a line on Rt 17, you break down on one side, they tow you to Santa Cruz, which was where I had to be. You break down on the other side of the line, it’s back to San Jose. I was about a hundred feet from the line. On the wrong side. Off we went to San Jose.

After dropping the car off, I took all that was absolutely essential to do my gigs out of the van – keyboard, clothes, cigars – and dropped them into the trunk of the cab that I had called.

One eighty dollar cab ride later. I finally reached my destination.

I was making this late night run because I was due to appear live on KPIG radio in the morning. I had played this same night at Sutter Creek Theatre, up in Gold Country – near Sacramento. Four hours away without traffic. I figured it was better to arrive at three am than to get up at five am. Up til the point the van died, I’d been having a great day. I’d played live on the radio on KVMR in Nevada City, a very cool radio station in a very cool town. Got to see my buddy Skip from the radio station – it was awesome to see him and his wife again. Met Skip’s dad, who at the age of eighty-something looked somehow younger than his son…that dude got really lucky when they were handing out the genes. I hadn’t played Nevada City in about four years, so it was great to reconnect with the people and the place. After that, had a very fun – if not particularly well-attended – show at Sutter Creek Theatre, which has one of the best Steinway pianos I’ve ever played. Byron and Laura Damiani, who own the place, were wonderful as usual, and Laura’s mom made me some killer moo goo gai pan to eat after the show. I was in a good mood on the drive down – blissing out with a good cigar and Robert Crais’s “The Monkey’s Raincoat” on tape.

In any case, I made it to KPIG. I got two hours of sleep, and I was not entirely sure where my van was currently located, but by God, I made it! John Sandidge – God bless him – loaned me his Volvo. It looked like a beater, but as soon as I started it up, it roared to life with that Volvo sound, a sound that seems to imply: This car will never die. You will get sick of this not very exciting looking automobile long before it ever develops any mechanical problems. As long as you drive this Volvo, you will never be stranded on the side of the road at three am…

John Sandidge, known to the locals in Santa Cruz as Sleepy John, is a real legend. If a cool musician is coming to town to play, you can bet Sleepy John is the promoter. He does four radio shows on four different stations. He owns the coolest antique shop in the world. He is mentioned by name in a Robert Earl Keen song.

During the KPIG show (which, by the way, was hosted by Sleepy John himself), a call came into the station. A note was passed to me. “Sandy and Frank, who own Carmel Valley Villa, are big Bob Malone fans, and invite you to stay at their villa until your car is fixed.”

As soon as I was off the air, I went to the computer to check out the Carmel Valley Villa website, and could not believe what I was seeing. I’d just been invited to stay at a super swank, high-end, $3,000 a night retreat in the hills above Carmel. For free.

“WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS!?” I once again asked the universe. Once again, the universe did not answer, but I didn’t mind so much this time.

I called Sandy, and we agreed that they’d come to my show in Santa Cruz the next night, and we’d head down to Carmel afterwards. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. If not for the kindness of strangers, I’d never have made it this far.

That night, I took the Volvo up to Berkeley to open for The Bobs at the legendary Freight & Salvage. This was the gig that prompted me to put together this little tour in the first place. The Bobs asked me if I wanted to do the show, and boy did I. The only problem was that it was 4th of July weekend…not a great time to draw a crowd, unless you are The Bobs. Still, I gamely got the bookings to fill out the weekend, warning the promoters that they would probably lose money and rue the day they met me. Our show tonight, however, was sold all the way out. The mood backstage was festive…we were going to have a great show.

And we did. I went out for my opening set on the Freight’s Yamaha grand piano, and got much love from the room. Sold a boatload of CDs. Scrawled many autographs. Lori “Bob” Rivera was also sitting in tonight. She was in the group before my good friend Amy “Bob” Englehardt replaced her nine years ago. So there were five Bobs tonight…a real treat for all the old Bobs fans in Berkeley, which is the group’s original hometown. They brought be back out to join them for the encore. We did a punk-acapella-speed metal-with-piano version of Leonard Cohen’s “Bird on a Wire” – which cannot be described, you just have to see it to believe it.

Post-gig I drove the ninety miles back to Santa Cruz. Route 17 again, late at night again. I was white-knuckled and cold-sweating profusely. This time I made it back. I was beginning to love that Volvo…even if it was blue with one white door.

Next day I was on KUSP, the Santa Cruz public radio station. I got the keyboard set up, and we went live. About a minute into the first song, the keyboard fell off its stand and went crashing to the floor. Well, it didn’t really fall off its stand, its stand was still in the back of my van, wherever that was. It fell off a shelf. I had deemed the keyboard stand “nonessential” and it never made it into the cab. Probably a bad decision, I thought now, but hey…it was five AM, and at least I remembered to bring the cigars.

Post-radio show, John Sandidge took me to a party at Bob Brozman’s house. Bob Brozman is one of the greatest acoustic slide guitarists in the world, so it was a real pleasure to get to meet him. He was even in my iPod! When he is off the road, he can be found at his house just outside of Santa Cruz. Surrounded by lush grounds, and his impressive collections of vintage cars, vintage guitars, and show chickens. It’s quite a place!

A few hours later, stuffed with barbeque and oozing somnolence, Sleepy John and I were off to Don Quixote’s International Music Hall, where my show would be taking place. Upon arrival, the first task was to figure out what to use for a keyboard stand. We finally settled on two bar stools with one milk crate on each, to attain just the right height. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done. Ann Rabson has told me that when she gets stuck without a stand she prefers two beer kegs with a piece of two-by-four on each one, if she can get them. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is playing the blues.

The crowd was small, as I had predicted, but very enthusiastic, so we had a good enough time. Frank and Sandy were there with friends of theirs who were in from Las Vegas and also staying at the villa. I didn’t know what they were supposed to look like, but I noticed Sandy right away. Damn! Who’s that? I thought. She looks like a model! She was a model, it turned out. Long retired, but still hot, as models will tend to be. This is getting better and better, I mused. Frank was one of those eminently likeable guys you want to be best friends with the moment you meet him. And every time he gazed upon his wife, the model, the happy-goofy look on his face seemed to say: I just can’t believe this is happening to me!

After the show, we piled into Frank’s SUV and headed for the Carmel Valley. On the way, Sandy called KPIG to request some Bob Malone (I was somehow simultaneously pleased and embarrassed by the whole thing). A few songs later, I heard myself singing “The Darkest Part Of The Night” which is a nine-minute long jazz influenced song of despondent, lonely hopelessness. The absolute last thing of mine I would ever expect to get played on the radio. But that’s the Pig for you. If you’ve got a depressing nine-minute song, they’ll play it. Provided it doesn’t suck. KPIG has never played a song that sucks. Ever.

We arrived an hour and a half later, and I was given the quick tour of the villa. Very impressive. It was decked with all the expected grand furnishings and high-class accoutrements, but what really made the place come alive was the art. Sandy had run an art gallery in downtown Carmel-by-the-Sea and she had the eye. Especially impressive were the glass sculptures by Jack Storm.

I was shown to my room – which was the zen relaxation suite, or something like that. It sure was nice…fountain burbling outside on my own private patio, asian-style furnishings. A little gong. The whole thing was very feng shui. I could hang here indefinitely.

The next day I awoke to a spectacular view and immediately hit the Jacuzzi, where I would spend much of the day. Frank and Sandy were having a big Fourth of July barbecue and I got to meet many of their friends, including Ray, Frank’s brother-in-law, who I immediately recognized as a kindred spirit. We started yakking away like we’d know each other for years. Another wonderful new friend in my life…all because my van broke down. Amazing.

Ray and I drove down the hill into town to stock up on cigars, and when we got back, I did a little impromptu concert on the grand piano in the living room. It was nearly the best gig of the tour! I sold a couple of hundys worth of CDs, and then Frank and I repaired to poolside to partake of the cigar stash.

I awoke Wednesday having no idea what fate would befall me. This was the first day the car-repair shop would be open since I last saw my van, so I supposed I would be getting the news soon.

The bad news: timing belt…$850. The good news: it was going to take two days! I mean, sure I missed my wife and my home and all, but an extra couple of days here could only do me good. Coffee in hand, I trundled happily back out to the hot-tub, settled in, and spent a long while soaking and watching the red-tailed hawks ride the thermals over the Carmel Valley.

Late Thursday afternoon, Frank drove me back up to Campbell to pick up the van…we took the scenic route and listened to Frank’s excellent mix CDs. What beautiful country it is up here.

By 10:00 that night, I was back in Hollywood. It had been a strange trip indeed.