Somewhere Between Southsea and Brixton

I often bring my laptop along on tour, thinking sure, I’ll have time to write. But that’s pretty much never the case. Between driving at least a couple of hours every day, soundchecks that take two hours what with the loading in and setting up and getting everything to work, then the mad dash to find food/somewhere to change clothes & put on eyeliner then back to the venue to play for two hours, sell merchandise, talk to people, pack up/load the car and find the hotel (though with the GPS we’ve managed to gain an hour or two that used to be reserved for driving around lost) there’s only time left for watching whatever must-see movie is available at three in the morning. Then it’s sleep until five minutes before the “full English breakfast” shuts down, pack up the car, spend an hour finding some decent coffee and un-disgusting food to eat, and then it starts all over again.

Oh no, it’s time to get back in the car.

In Transit

When I was looking at the NY Times online the other day, I saw this music blog they started a few weeks ago. It's written by some well-respected songwriters: Roseanne Cash, Suzanne Vega, Andrew Bird and another more kind of professional songwriting guy whose name I can't remember. They take turns each week writing about songwriting and creativity and a few years ago it would have really interested me. But reading it now I just felt kind of disconnected from it all. There was a time when I lived in New York and songs came to me at all times of the day and night and I couldn't stop writing. It was imperative that I wrote those songs and then just as important to get out and play them for people. I don't know what motivated me, but I just had to do it. Then I lived in Nashville and had a publishing deal and did the writing and the co-writing and I feel really proud of the songs I've written, on my own and with other people. Well, most of them anyway.

But the truth is I've only written about 5 songs in the last two or three years. After calling myself a songwriter for years, I'm not sure if I really qualify anymore. I hope I'm moving into some other classification now, or possibly just back to the all-encompassing "artist"? Luckily I've had this album to work on with Eric for the past year. Maybe I only came up with the number of songs I needed to, or else I'd be doing that classic "covers" album that so many people resort to when they hit the wall.

As I write this Eric's finishing up the last mix (and he apologizes to everyone who loves reading his site, including me, because he has done a huge amount of work on this record and hasn't had time for diary writing). Then we're getting in the car to go to England for a few weeks - I'll try to keep writing here. I can't believe how important the blog has become to me, as a way to stay connected. Am I taking my creative energy and putting it all here? I don't know why that would feel more satisfying than picking up the guitar or sitting at the piano (my new love) but for the moment it does.

We're both nervous and excited about our first album together. It's like having a new group or something. We find ourselves in the position of asking people to book our band. But the alternative feels sort of like those uninteresting (to me, anyway) entries about the unexplainable act of songwriting.

Sometimes it feels like starting over, after twenty(cough) years as a musician. Maybe that's what I am? It's a little nerve-wracking, this being in transit.

The Misfits

Eric and I got married last week. It rained, which the French say is good luck for the marriage. They have to say that, because it rains a lot in France. But the sun came out too, just as we were heading to the mairie. I took some advice and had a glass of champagne beforehand and it helped a lot. The mayor wore his blue, white and red sash and spoke slowly in French so that we could understand what we were agreeing to. When it was all finished I said “c’est tout” as if I was at the butcher or bakery. And asked for a mouchoir. Eric was smiling, as were Nick and Francoise who were our witnesses, and so were our daughters.

Then we went back home and tried to get ready for the friends who were coming over to celebrate with us. Everyone arrived at the same time, honking and spilling out of their cars cheering, and we all agree it was one of the best parties ever. The floor ended up soaking wet after the flowers and tablecloth caught on fire and we danced until three or four in the morning. Stumbled around in a fog for the next few days.

I could tell you about the screwups. How I never found the right jacket or stole to wear on top of my dress. How I made the mistake of getting my hair blown out beforehand and had to rush home and wash it because I looked like a female news anchor. How the cake turned out to be pure meringue under the gorgeous chocolate exterior, edible only after smoking a joint (or two). How Eric’s ring wasn’t ready, and mine broke minutes before the ceremony and had to be held together with Superglue. How the mairie had these weird dolls staring out from every corner, and played canned music that sounded strangely like the theme from "Rocky" when we'd signed the papers. But those things don’t matter. For a couple of misfits it was absolutely perfect.

The Snowball Effect

The good news is we don't have syphillis! French law requires a blood test before marriage. A long time ago it was a good way to prove the virginity of the couple. Phew - we passed. The bad news is our cholestrol is high. Not surprising after gorging on beef, duck, cheese and...cheese for the last year. The good news is brebis and chevre are still allowed. The bad news is I'm resorting to writing a "good news/bad news" post because things are getting kind of frantic around here.

It's the snowball effect of planning a wedding I guess. Even the simplest "we'll just throw on some nice clothes and invite a friend or two over" plans seem to keep gaining steam because it's a special day that you want to remember and so shouldn't things be better than average?

We're tempted to go in the opposite direction and make everything as crappy as possible after a shopping trip to Perigueux the other day. We've always found this to be a good alternative to Limoges but, aside from great artisanal food shops and organic butchers, it is strictly the sticks as far as clothing goes. We were held hostage in a woman's dress shop where I was bullied into trying on one hideous outfit after another, all with dipping hems, garish fabrics, "bohemian" embellishments or, at the other end of the spectrum, severe tailoring I haven't seen since I last watched "Working Girl". Eric didn't fare much better, with boxy jackets, strangely elongated shoes and shirts you wouldn't even let your dad wear.

The good news is, there's eBay. And we still have a shot trying some vintage shops, in Bordeaux and Paris. The bad news is we're running out of time. Cause we're trying to finish our album simultaneously. And the mariage is next Wednesday!

But the best news is, our daughters are coming next Tuesday - and there's no down side to that.

Composed

The shit I've written
Could fill a landfill
Fertilize gardens
It's hard enough
To come up with this stuff
But then what to do
With the detritus?
Reams and reams
Of consciousness streams
And lead balloons
Half-baked tunes
Flat metaphors
Wet wit
Shovel it under a blanket
To bake in the sun
When springtime comes
I'll use it again
Compost

Prompted by Sunday Scribblings

Terrible Twos

I’m currently obsessed with two French duos. The first are these grinning fools, one with serious five o’clock shadow, the other sporting a sideways fishing cap, who peer out from every shop window in every village in France. They’re on the poster for the film “Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis”. From what I gather it’s a fish out of water story about a guy from the south being exiled to the reviled Pas de Calais region in the north. It is the most popular film in France ever. I want to see it, even though I know I’ll barely understand a word while all the neighbors laugh hysterically. I would have barely crossed the street to see the US equivalent (something like “Dumb & Dumber maybe?) but here it’s research. Plus, the cinema is just a few doors down, on this side of the road.

Then on the opposite end of the spectrum there’s Carine Roitfeld and Emmanuelle Alt from French Vogue. I feel like I could study pictures of them forever and still not be able to put my finger on what makes them so terrifyingly glamorous and impossibly sexy. It’s like a schoolgirl crush, but again, I can justify it as important cultural detective work.

Deep Country

The other day Eric and I set off to see the doctor for our medical exams for the mariage. Even though we’ve been in France over a year, we have yet to choose a doctor which is what those websites about moving to France tell you to do immediately, but they’re obviously intended for people who are organized. Which we’re not. But thankfully we’re healthy so it hasn’t been an issue until now.

Though from what we saw at the doctor’s offices we tried, it would be awful to be sick around here and searching for a doctor. We’ve all heard about the wonders of the French healthcare system and I’m sure it’s true but out in the countryside things can still be a bit...country?

We spoke to one doctor in the next village over and she said to come by on Friday morning. We found the building, and when we walked in there were just three unmarked white doors. That’s it - no signs on any of them. Well, one had a photograph of children lined up at a urinal, so that turned out to be a toilet. Okay, that’s one down, we thought. One of these other doors has to be a waiting room, right? So we took a chance and opened another door and there was a patient and doctor having an examination.

The doctor admonished us to go to the other unmarked room which turned out to be a closet-sized waiting room, unventilated, full of eight or so people sitting uncomplaining and staring at us through the foul, fetid air.

I’ve been in some pretty low-class clinics in the Lower East Side of Manhattan back before it was all boutiques and cute coffee bars but this was really bad. I had to get out of there immediately. We tried another doctor in our village, thinking we could at least try to book an appointment and it wasn’t much better. Airless, with magazines several years old. And a harried-looking doctor sticking his head out to survey the victims, I mean patients.

We left and set off in search of lunch, realizing we’ll have to get some doctor recommendations from friends, and fast. A veterinarian might be better.

To shake off this defeated feeling we thought we’d try a nearby restaurant that we’d heard was good. They have concerts every Saturday night and we’d been thinking it might be a good place to play. But when we pulled up the parking lot was empty, and there was a sign on the door about a death in the family.

At this point I was getting really hungry and cranky. I wanted to complain about the emptiness of the countryside, how it was impossible to get something to eat, or be spontaneous, and how going to the doctor could make you sick. Not to mention the continuously lousy weather. And then I felt guilty for being so selfish, when here this family were off at a loved one’s funeral, and all I could think about was how it inconvenienced me.

We crossed the river into a village we’d never seen before and miraculously, there was a café open. We ordered steak frites. Rather, that’s what the proprietress told us we could have.

Sometimes I find myself holding on so tightly to expectations and ideas of what things should be like, I can almost forget to enjoy the real experiences that are going on. Maybe I’ve seen too many movies but I have these images in my mind of lovers on a ride through the French countryside stumbling upon a charming restaurant. This place wasn’t exactly charming. They were playing Alan Jackson. There were a lot of bad paintings hanging on the walls and the bathroom had an enormous poster of a chimp with a laptop sitting on a toilet.

But there was a drum kit and keyboard set up. We talked to the owner’s husband and it turns out they have live music, and chances are we’ll play there soon. The food was good.

And then we saw this rainbow...