Gigantic.51

Overdrive

It’s hard to convey 1999 as less than an epic novel in itself.

From Europe to Japan, South-by-Southwest in Austin to a video shoot in NYC, then out to Los Angeles. It was still only April 1st.

We woke up, did Morning Becomes Eclectic at KCRW’s grungy little basement studio, played the El Rey on Wilshire, then we were back on the bus and rolling again.

Our new bus driver was Ricky Presley from Tupelo, Mississippi. With that last name and hometown, I had to ask.

“You wouldn’t happen to be related to…”

“Our daddies were first cousins,” he said, deep southern smile.

He had The King’s eyes. I didn’t tell him the whole “blessed by Elvis” in Memphis story, might’ve seemed weird. At any rate, second cousin to Elvis or not, we were bound to be friends, he was a cool guy.

Ricky had a wife and daughter back in Tupelo. Before switching to tour buses, he drove a big rig for thirteen years, before that worked on an offshore oil rig for seven.

“It’s the hardest job,” he told me, shaking his head. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

After we played San Francisco, our next show was way up in Bellingham, Washington. Bit of a drive. At one truck stop, the waitress winked at us and gave us free coffee. Ricky had been through here plenty, guess she knew him.

As usual, I’d taken to riding up front in the captain’s seat, even sleeping there half the night just so I could wake at dawn and see the world unfold. Northern California mountain ranges, snow-topped eggshell blue in the morning light. I imagined the bus invisible, flying through timeless valleys thousands years before settlers and indigenous alike.

The mountains in Washington State were stunning in their own way. I was admiring them the next day from the University in Bellingham where we were playing.

“Nice environment,” I commented to some students.

“The beauty is just a facade,” one student said. Then came the litany of chlorine production, paper mill, high cancer rate…

When hanging with students in Bellingham, just say “nice view” and leave the environment out of it.

We doubled back to Seattle. It had been ten years since I’d lived here. Like Charlton Heston at the end of Planet of the Apes, I didn’t like what I found.

Walking along Western trying to find the old Cafe Mars, I was in stunned disbelief. The entire block had been demolished, unrecognizable. Roughly where the Mars had been, where we’d worked and cooked and smoked and drank and played poker when things were slow, there stood an impenetrable eight story, glass condominium. The Frasier Cranes of the world had won.

I went through at least three out of the five stages of grief standing there, not quite making it as far as acceptance. I’ve since had much time to reflect on the inevitability of change, but some of it remains heartbreaking.

I did get to see quite a few old friends, which was heartening. The Poughkeepsie scene continued to migrate to the Emerald City, Mark from Agit Pop was now playing with Steve from my old Seattle band. The world of people continued to evolve in unexpected ways.

After the show, our bus pulled out of Seattle in tandem with Jason Falkner’s bus. Jason and his band were opening for us. This next trek was our longest, all the way to Chicago, so Ricky and their driver, Mike, decided it would be best to drive together.

I stayed up a while then finally had to get into my bunk to get some real sleep. Ricky and Mike stayed in radio contact, amusing each other, keeping each other awake throughout the long night.

I awoke on the road somewhere in northern Idaho, Denis Johnson territory. I’d never been on this stretch of highway before. At sunrise the mountains looked like camel backs, the trees atop them like prairie dogs rising to greet the morning sun.

In my journal, I began sketching rudimentary ideas for a play that would take place on a tour bus.

“Prokofiev in Idaho,” says my journal, “Sam Shepard meets Wallace Shawn…”

Didn’t quite write that one. Maybe something similar.

Next truck stop, I was having coffee with Ricky and Mike, they were talking about the “overdrive,” which is when a driver logs over 500 miles a day and the company pays them overtime. This is how they make their real money, so they were psyched.

We finally had to stop in Billings so Ricky could get some sleep. Caron got him a room at a motel, the rest of us were up to our own devices. I talked to a girl on the street and got some info about the local scene, as it were.

We found dinner at Billings’ version of a micro-brewery, then walked to another bar up the street where there was an open-mic blues jam going on. Cover songs. Loose, mostly competent.

The house band saw us sitting there, wearing black and whatnot. They figured we were probably a band or something.

“You guys are welcome to come on up and play,” the singer said.

It was mostly an invitation, maybe a little bit of a challenge. We took him up on it.

When a band is just starting out on tour, things can be a bit tenuous. You’re still learning the songs, hesitate, miss connections. Once you’ve been touring a while, everything comes together, you just can’t make a mistake. By this point, we were about twenty shows past bulletproof.

Jonathan and Grasshopper played guitars as usual. Jeff was off somewhere, so Brian from the other band played drums. I played bass even though I’d never really played bass before, but it didn’t matter.

We pulled out Neil Young’s Cortez the Killer, a reliable cover we kept in our pockets for encores. As we hit that first resounding E minor chord, the building’s foundations started to shake. Looking out at the house band and everyone else in the bar, they appeared frozen, mouths open, trying to figure out what was happening. No one was talking, or even drinking.

Cortez only has three chords, you can really lay into them. As Jonathan sang about Montezuma and people about to be plundered, it was like we were the conquistadors. If the guys in the house band weren’t paralyzed, they would have hidden their women.

Afterwards, when we thanked the house band and handed them back their instruments, the leader with the grizzly gray beard said something like:

“Uh, you boys can really play.”

We never did tell them who we were or that we were even a band, we left them with that mystery.

We still had well over a thousand miles to go till Chicago. We would pass through the Black Hills and other places that had over the years already worked their way into my mythology.

It’s all America. But there’s an openness to the west that envelops and stays with you. No sense saying more than that.

Chicago transitions you back to the neighborhood, so by the time you’re doing relatively short runs between Northeastern cities, it makes sense in its own way. We’d get a short break soon, then back to Europe for that still-expanding reality.

Ricky gave me an official Pyramid Bus Company hat like the one he had. I wore it all tour, back east then overseas, bringing the West, its mountains, open spaces, and truck stops with me.

It’s tattered to the point where I can’t keep it on my head. But I still have it.

—

Click below for…

Gigantic

Ghost Tour

Kingston 76