The Streets of San Francisco

REM Tour ’99

Some people don’t like to climb, especially once the bus is moving, but I always prefer an upper bunk. Stoned, inebriated or exhausted, I can propel myself up and in, even if we’re rounding a tight bend at highway speed.

I’ve learned to sleep diagonally so I can stretch to my full height. The engine noise/vibration envelops you, lulls you to sleep. It’s also a useful sonic buffer, so you can’t hear anyone else snoring.

We wake in San Francisco. I do like tour buses, but I’m not gonna sit in the back lounge playing video games when there’s a city to explore. Unlike Los Angeles, I know no one here, so I spend much of my day roaming alone.

First mission: find some Micron 005s. I’d stocked up on similar pens in Osaka several months earlier, but I’m down to my last one. There’s still ink in it, but the nib is wearing down. I don’t mean to sound like a prima donna, but once you’ve tried Japanese super-fine felt-tips, Pilot Razor Points don’t cut it.

I do a little thrifting too. I might be the only indie rock musician in America in who thinks finding a Brooks Brothers oxford for eight bucks counts as a score. What can I say, I like good stitching.

Cutting diagonally along Market Street, I head to the Embarcadero Cinema to catch a matinee of The Buena Vista Social Club. Been a while since I went to the movies all by myself, really wanted to see this one.

There’s still plenty of day left when I emerge from the cinema. I’m on a dream tour with cash in my pocket but, thinking about the movie I just saw, I still find myself envious of the scene in Havana where they have a truly collective musical culture.

Wandering up and over one of San Francisco’s legendary hills, I see the Transamerica Pyramid, Coit Tower, and I think I catch a glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Then I realize that a limousine is following me. It’s got darkened windows. I stop, it stops. I walk, it starts rolling again. Creepy. I duck down a one way street so the limo can’t follow. I stand behind a tree so I can observe. The limo hovers at the corner, as if someone behind the dark glass is still trying to see where I went. Finally it gives up, takes off. I stick to small streets all the way back.

Weird stuff happens on tour, it just does.

Come dinnertime, a few of us attach ourselves to Dominic. He knows the town and leads us to his favorite restaurant called The Stinking Rose. It specializes in roasting entire bulbs of garlic which you smash down onto a plate and eat whole. Surprisingly delicious. Good thing it’s just the guys tonight.

We go to a bar afterwards. We’re fascinated by Dominic. It’s not just that he looks like Dennis Hopper. Most of our other drivers drove country bands we’d never heard of. Dominic has driven for Neil Young, Dylan, Kiss. Not necessarily the artists themselves, but he was on the tours. We need to know more.

“Tell us about Neil Young.”

“He called us the mooks.”

“Called who the mooks?”

“The drivers.”

Dominic holds up his wrist, modeling a beautiful silver bracelet.

“Neil Young gave me this personally,” he says.

He takes it off so we can read the cursive engraving on the inside:

To the Mooks

He puts it back on. I will continue to marvel at this bracelet every time I talk with Dominic for the rest of the tour. He doesn’t look like a mook to me, but who am I to argue with Neil Young?

It’s a Thursday night. The reason we have tonight off is because an REM show in the Bay area is a Friday night event. If it was just us, they would’ve just stuck us at Slim’s and hoped for the best.

Seems luxurious to get a hotel even though we barely just got on the bus. I have a small room to myself at the Bijou, whose schtick is that each room is themed for a different classic film shot in San Francisco.

My room is Vertigo. I love Jimmy Stewart. But what genius thought a darkly-painted room with a Vertigo poster could possibly offer a lick of comfort to a person trying to fall asleep alone in a strange city?

Well, I’ve got a few things to do. I hand wash some clothes in the bathroom sink. We’d already been on tour a while when the REM tour started, and underwear doesn’t wash itself. I hang them in the window to dry, looking down at the street below. Luckily I’m not too high up, considering the theme of my room.

I do some journaling with my new Micron, and manage to fall asleep.

# # #

Next day.

I may have already mentioned I don’t have a cellphone at this time. Management has cellphones, but no one in my band has a cellphone in 1999.

I call some family from the phone in my room, let them know I’m okay. I don’t have a laptop either. I write a couple of actual letters on hotel stationery which I mail downstairs before re-boarding the bus.

The venue is about 30 miles southeast. There was really no logistical reason for us to be in San Francisco except that Caron, our tour manager, always looks out for us in more ways than one. She knew a day off in San Francisco would be way nicer than being warehoused at a cheap motel by an airport somewhere.

The Shoreline Amphitheatre holds over 20,000. Our biggest show on this tour yet. It’s a beautiful afternoon, there are hummingbirds flittering about backstage, and since we’re here early they feed us lunch, too.

Back upstate, I’ve started recording some demos, early phases of a solo project. Would’ve probably made sense to bring a short stack on this tour but, since I’m chronically crappy at self-promotion, I’ve brought exactly…one.

I decide to give it to Ken Stringfellow. He was nice enough to give me his cd, and he appreciates it when I give it to him.

In the short run, this accomplishes basically zero in terms of advancing my career. But two years later, when I’m in London recording my album for real, Ken will be gracious enough to add his beautiful voice to the second single. Guess that one cd was well-spent after all.

Our show is a good one, even with the place half-full when we go on, we’re talking ten thousand, so you can’t say no one’s watching.

So far, there haven’t been any technical difficulties on this tour that I know of, but tonight my lines crap out several times. Tech guys crawl around trying to solve the problem, which is totally beyond my control. Still, with this many people out there, it’s a real trick to not to show any concern on your face, and just keep playing until they fix it.

After our set, I’m looking at the video monitor backstage. Not only did they film our show, they’re already showing video highlights throughout the amphitheater to keep people amused while they’re waiting for REM. How they edited a reel this quickly before iPhones I have no idea.

After changeover, when REM goes on, seeing as I can watch the show on this monitor, I grab a little dinner and make myself comfortable. The sound of the PA and massive crowd permeates the venue and is out-of-sync with the video, but I keep watching anyway.

It’s a two-day drive to our next show so we don’t hang around too long. Back on the bus, I’m having a little nightcap when Caron places her laptop in front of me.

“Here you go,” she says, “start typing.”

It’s my job to write the “tour diary” for our website, maybe because I’m adept, maybe because no one else wants to do it. It’s not called a “blog” yet. I’m pretty sure that no one is reading it, so I’ve taken to mixing what’s actually happening with something resembling science fiction.

Later, I’m surprised to find out that a LOT of people are reading it, and also believing what I’ve been writing is actually true.

“That’s so wild that your plane went sub-orbital on that one long flight,” a wide-eyed fan tells me, in utter seriousness. “Good thing Grasshopper didn’t get injured when he was floating around the cabin like that.”

“Yeah,” I agree, not wanting to burst his bubble. “I guess he should’ve buckled up when the captain told us to.”

This has been the fifth installment in this series.

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