 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|  |
March 2000
Greetings: I'm back. I began to think it would never happen. Between February 1 and February 28, I logged nearly 8,000 miles in my trusty green minivan. My tour began in Omaha, NE, progressed right out to the very edge of the continent in Charleston, SC, and ended on a very foggy night in St. Paul, MN. On the way, I nearly got creamed by a tornado in Arkansas (luckily, I found an overpass to park under while trees, hail, and house-trailers swirled in the air around me). Also, while playing the Budweiser Lowcountry Blues Bash in Charleston, I got to be king for a day. Earl King, that is. Earl King, who is a real, live New Orleans music legend (he wrote “Big Chief,” among other Crescent City classics), was supposed to be the headliner the same day I played. As it turned out, Earl missed his plane. So, after my set at a venue down the street from where he was playing, I was collared by a very agitated festival promoter who told me “Earl King missed his plane! You gotta help me!” The club was packed, the local backup band was on stage, the beer was free. I got up there and stomped my way through about 40 minutes of New Orleans classics, and got out before the crowd realized that that was it, and Earl wasn't showing. They sure liked my set, but I'm glad I missed the aftermath, all the same. In Asheville, NC, I opened for Trout Fishing In America and ended up sitting in on half their set, much to my delight. In Nashville, I wrote a song for my girlfriend Karen as a Valentine's Day gift, and played it for her over the phone the next day in front of a crowd of nearly 80 people at Mike Williams’ Picking Circle. In Lincoln, NE, I played the legendary Zoo Bar, where pretty much anyone who's anyone in the blues world has played. With all those posters of legends and heroes staring down on me from the walls, I got a standing ovation from the packed house. What a relief.A lot of my gigs were in the Midwest, where I noticed an interesting phenomenon. On the east or west coasts, the Midwest is the butt of many a joke, but in the Midwest, Iowa is the butt of most of the jokes. It was amazing. I found that I could get tremendous laughs from a crowd in Minnesota or Nebraska or Missouri just by saying: "You know: I had to drive through Iowa to get here!" It worked every time. Eventually, I found that with the proper delivery, all I had to do was say "Iowa," and they'd be in tears. Unbelievable. Speaking of the Hawkeye State, on my way back from Minneapolis-St. Paul to California, I stopped at the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake, Iowa to see where Buddy Holly did his last gig, and to send up a little prayer to whatever deity it is that protects (or doesn't protect, in Buddy's case) the traveling musician as he makes his way along the endless highway. I thanked Him for letting me get through another one and then shagged ass back to L.A. as quickly as possible. Thanks to all of the many radio, press, club, and retail people who made all of these gigs such a pleasure to do, and special thanks to Rick Galusha for the Midwest stuff, and to Mike Williams for keeping me in touch with the muse. Love, Bob
|
|
||||||||||||||||||||||
