Diary Of Amy Rigby

Trying

2012-02-18T04:23:00.003+01:00

New blog post over at my new home: http://diaryofamyrigby.wordpress.com/2012/02/17/efptoz/

Apparently there is no adding Google Friend Connect from Blogger to Wordpress.com sites (only the self-hosted . org ones) - sorry about that, if anyone cares! I still haven't settled all the way in over there but I'm trying.

Still Working On It

2012-02-03T15:44:00.002+01:00

Hi there, I finally managed to get a new post on my new blog location. I still haven't figured out how to move the Yahoo followers from here to WordPress - but meanwhile hope you'll follow me over there. thanks, Amy

Some Other Place Already

2012-01-19T15:06:00.000+01:00

I moved my blog from Blogger to WordPress two days ago. It's been a little complicated and there's still a few things I need to figure out (like how to redirect followers from this blog over to the new one) but it seemed like everything was going okay. Then around midnight - I don't know what I did wrong, but all these black bars started appearing over everything.

Then Wikipedia stopped working.

"Oh my God, what have I done wrong?" I wondered. "I've broken the Internet."

But today everything was pretty much back to normal.

http://diaryofamyrigby.wordpress.com

Help

2012-01-17T00:32:00.002+01:00

I didn't mean to open this design can of worms! Went over to WordPress, started working on a blog there, then realized I'd have to have the concentration to learn a new dashboard etc. Which I sadly don't right now. Then started looking at the (limited) blogger templates and next thing I knew I'd lost my old one. So...under construction. But here's a photo from yesterday in Catskill.

When The Tree Comes Down

2012-01-06T14:37:00.004+01:00

I searched our old address in France on Google and looked at the satellite image - it was like a trip back in time to just over a year ago when we came back from touring determined to fix the place up and sell it so we could move to the US. In the photo the shutters are off and yet to be painted, the front door is the dark green we decided against eventually, the massive barn door is scraped and only partially undercoated.

The satellite photo is dated December 2010. A year later, we're living on another continent. Maybe that explains why I feel tired and disoriented a lot of the time. When I'm not ecstatic.

Had some of my family here for Christmas. Managed to cook dinner for everyone even though we ran out of propane in the middle of the preparations, and Eric and my brother Riley had to drive all over Greene County trying to refill the tank (the 24-hour Home Depot kiosk chose Christmas Eve to break down). Riley's girlfriend Natalie used her iphone to locate a propane dealer, Nick's Gas.

"Nick, do you have gas?"
"Excuse me, what do you want?"
"We need gas Nick, we need gas! To cook with, for our Christmas dinner!"
"I am closing in three minutes. Also, I am not Nick."
"Please, uh - sir. They are coming now! Please stay open, please stay open."

How many times did we run out of cooking gas in the French countryside just as the juices started to flow from a high-priced chicken? Maybe the problem wasn't France after all.

But the festivities were festive and everybody loved the new house. Then we made it to the city and figured out how to make money down there: if you avoid getting a parking ticket, look at that $75 you don't end up owing as income! Better yet, go to Hoboken for the last Yo La Tengo Hanukkah show, don't get booted by the Hoboken parking police, and bam - that $150 we didn't end up having to pay (as some of the audience members and even one of the performers did) is now surplus lining our pockets.

That way of thinking made me feel good for a day or two, now it's back to reality and lining up/looking for work.

And trying to update my website/blog etc. I've started to find the white type on black harder and harder to read. Anyone else? I wish I could integrate my music site with the blog - it's all looking a bit disjointed to me.Out of date. But just like everything else after a major relocation, it seems like you can't do one thing without first doing three other things. Aesthetics, technology, culture...yes it's all accessible from everywhere but I feel a little left behind. So I just have to watch every episode of Breaking Bad - then I'll know what to do, right?

In the meanwhile, these ornaments have to go back in the box and the tree has to go...where? Do they pick it up here? Or can I take it to the dump. At least I know where that is - just out past Nick's Gas...

Not Fade Away

2011-12-14T12:21:00.004+01:00

It had all gone so well. A couple weeks of shows, traversing England, up to Scotland and back down again with no major mishaps. Even a quick trip to Sweden where Eric gave a talk about punk at the university of Malmo and I played my first-ever show in Scandinavia. No illness, no bloodshed. Nothing broken or stolen (except the Harmony guitar, on the flight over, and that had been brought back to life, better than ever without even a visible scar). The tour felt like a success: we'd played well, had decent turnouts and some fun, ending up with money left over to take home.

Along with that deep exhaustion that comes from being in constant motion. Is it worse than the deep exhaustion that comes from doing the same thing every day? Probably not - just different. I read an interview with Todd Rundgren where he says that at 63 he may not be up for the rigors of touring much longer and I'd been thinking maybe if we bumped into him in a motorway Costa Coffee or Days Inn we could talk about it, because sometimes I feel the same way.

I lugged my suitcase, messenger bag and acoustic guitar in a soft case on my back onto a NJ Transit train at Newark Airport. The suitcase was over the 50 lb limit so I'd distributed the extra weight - cables, microphones, clothes and my ancient laptop, more Rosetta Stone than laptop, so big and bulky that a septuagenarian at airport security had pointed out "you know, they make those a lot smaller these days, they call them 'netbooks'" - into the guitar case and handbag so I was an efficient pack mule. Eric had stayed behind in England to visit with his daughter and granddaughter for a few extra days. It was my first time coming home to the US from a tour in years, and I marveled at how things seemed to work so much better than they used to, from the shuttle trains clearly marked and red-jacketed polite young men guiding and assisting passengers. I slung my guitar onto the overhead shelf of the train bound for Manhattan and sat studying the couple across from me - in their sixties, he in black beret and overcoat; she with short-cropped henna'ed hair and little round black framed glasses, also dressed entirely in black except for multicolored striped socks. I strained to hear what language they were speaking: Russian? German?

French. They were speaking French. I felt disoriented, trying to remember where I was going. Where do I live?

When the train reached Penn Station, I hustled to catch the 7:15 PM Amtrak train for Hudson, flowing through and against the tide of humanity who seemed to be headed in every possible direction with absolute confidence and certainty. I remembered this feeling, deep in my soul if not in my head and joined in, reading signs and following arrows as if by osmosis.

"Can I buy a ticket on the train?" I asked the dapper Amtrak agent at the track entrance.

"Use the machine right there," he pointed. The clock said 7:13. I bought the ticket and ran back to him. His face was stony. "The doors are closed - you'll have to get the next train. Change your ticket over there." He pointed to a long customer service line.

I wheeled the suitcase around and got in line, cursing and sweating. Reaching behind to pull my hair up off my neck, I felt an unusual draft back there where my guitar case usuall- SHHIIIIIITTTT!!!

Running back through the throngs to NJ Transit, I was already simultaneously a) filing a false insurance claim for a stolen guitar; b) getting the old Guild out of mothballs; or c) (maybe it's for the best?) retiring.

By the time I found the Customer Service office, I was silently thanking the stern Amtrak official who'd closed the gate and kept me from boarding the train. Otherwise wouldn't I be realizing, just as the train reached somewhere near Yonkers, that I had to turn around and go back to find my guitar? At least I was still sort of on site, able to speak to someone in person, or fill out a form or...or. Please - I don't want it to end this way. A young woman in front of me in the Transit office line, hearing the sounds of anguished hyperventilating behind her, stepped aside. "You go first," she said.

The official looked like Kenny G.

"Did anyone..." I gasped, "find a guitar on the Newark Airport train?"

He smiled. "Does it look like this?" There it was. My Gibson. "It was just brought in. You can have it, but only if you play 'Stairway To Heaven' first."

Back in a terminal bar called "Kabooze", I shared a table with the guitar and drank the best beer I ever tasted in my life. When "Brown Sugar" came on the bar stereo, a weird speaker arrangement had Keith's guitar just above my head. Mick, the band, all the other stuff, was a barroom away. But Keith played, almost like he was playing just for me. I sipped my beer and listened to every lick. "This ain't over yet, baby," it seemed like he was saying.

"You Have Reached Your Destination"

2011-11-29T00:27:00.011+01:00

I was standing in line in a tiny guitar shop in Islington when I realized my bag was talking.

"You have reached your destination" said Tim, our GPS man with the crisp Continental diction. I'd forgotten tucking Tim into my bag for guidance as I'd set off on foot to find a music store.

Eric is convinced Tim's a camp out of work thespian picking up pocket money on the side. Not totally British, his accent hints at all sorts of seedy possibilities. We have such a close relationship with him, I felt a sense of shame exposing him in public like that. I almost blushed remembering how just that afternoon we'd fallen about the van laughing as Eric and Tim did one of their familiar routines:

Tim: Exit ahead. Then take the motorway.
Eric (hurriedly): Tim, how can we make the chateau less damp?
Tim: Take the exit.
Eric: (insistently) But the chateau, Tim, the castle! How can we make it less damp?
Tim: Take the motorway.

I had been rushing to buy extra strings for a big show at Union Chapel in London. It's one of those places you notice people playing at and think "now that's a gig." And here we were about two hours away from playing to a sellout crowd.

Two nights before we'd been at the New Orleans Jazz Club in Louth, playing under a flourescent strip light with a picture of the queen and a Confederate flag behind us. From the ridiculous to the sublime with a live session on the Mark Riley radio show, in the gleaming new spaceship headquarters of the BBC Manchester, in between as launching ramp in our rise to stardom.

Not our stardom, really. Eric and I were special guests of Adrian Edmondson and the Bad Shepherds, who we'd loved at the Rhythm Festival 2 years ago and who cover Whole Wide World along with a well-chosen selection of other punk era songs, played in a spirited folk style. That doesn't do the experience justice, and please forgive the use of the word "spirited" - I'm no music critic.

But there's always that feeling of possibility with a big show like this, born from watching too many movies, that you'll walk out on the altar a mere artist and working musician and go back into the vestry a star. "Chapel" had me imagining a humble, chaste and dignified rectangle but Union Chapel is a soaring octagonal domed space. It lends an air of gravity and importance to whatever happens there, I guess, but trying to do our set was a challenge because of sound restrictions decreed by the local council. "Let the room do the work" the soundman said, as if through divine intervention our musical intent would flow out if we just stood on the stage, limp chalices to be emptied of our offerings through supplication.

I remembered why I stopped going to church years ago.

Ade and his band were really sweet backstage in the communal "meeting room" but it was a bit like arriving at a party when people are finishing the last bottles of beer and starting to eye half-drunk ones, cause this was the last show of a long tour for them. That weary, punchy, near-hysteria had set in so the only place to find a moment's peace was in the non-locking toilets, where at least four different touring party members burst in to find me and Eric in varying stages of undress. Not playful conjugal rights in the toilet-type action but two shabby showfolk stuffing themselves into hastily mended and ironed stage clothes and trying to sort out a setlist that wouldn't trigger the volume meter.

Had tuning troubles to start, and I flubbed the end of a song. We played okay and got a few laughs and warm applause from an audience stiffly sitting on pews in their coats. Then there was that awkward time afterwards at the merch table, with people coming up asking for Bad Shepherds t-shirts, and the occasional happy fan. We snuck out for fish and chips with friends because our rider of hot meal had never materialized and caught some of the show's finale - again, the acoustics were creating too much "atmosphere" and not enough focused sound but the rhythmic energy of the group came through.

The next night was an old working men's club in Hebden Bridge, an interestingly artsy town outside Manchester. I felt kind of low after Union Chapel. Just wished it had been - more...what? Special, fun, something. It seemed like it should've been, with the massive dome and the big crowd and arches of stone and dramatic lighting. I checked the GPS to see how long the drive would take. Tim did the calculations: London to Hebden Bridge - 63 hours. WHA- oh, right, I still had him set for walking to the guitar shop.

The Trades Club in Hebden Bridge was an unexpectedly great place to play. Maybe because I hadn't wanted so badly for it to be great. It took three hours to drive there, and no time at all to get somewhere on stage.

Roy Rogers Is Riding Tonight

2011-11-23T09:43:00.004+01:00

Being in England feels familiar yet always exotic enough to keep me interested and intrigued. "Fit for viewing by persons GENERALLY" reads the symbol on a DVD in my goddaughter Daisy's collection of films and having watched the movie in question (some godawful Disney tripe called "Spooky Buddies" - guess I've been away from the world of kids' movies for awhile because I thought Disney was a mark of some kind of quality?) I'm even more confused by what they mean. Persons generally, as in not every person or persons generally meaning animals would probably benefit more from watching talking dogs in Halloween costumes. And I'm usually a pushover for animals talking.

I guess I should detail all the places we've played so far: Chichester, Bristol, Coventry and Hull. The shows have gone well with surprisingly good-sized audiences (though Bristol was a little slim...it's often that way but I still always enjoy playing there and they have some of the best Chinese restaurants in the country). When we collected the guitars from baggage claim, the headstock on the Harmony was broken so I've been struggling on a borrowed Gibson while our pal Andy fixes the damage. It'll hopefully result in just a characterful scar - I miss that guitar. I just don't click with the Gibson electric like I do with the Harmony. Come back old friend, please, in time for the London show on Saturday!

Sometimes it feels like I've written about every kind of gig and venue and there's nothing more to say without repeating myself or boring myself and anyone bothering to read things here. There - that's a shocking thing I realize from being out on tour: people actually read things I write on this blog or Twitter or Facebook. I find it amazing that a person in...Chichester would arrive with two Harmony guitars in the back of his car because he read that we were down a guitar. Maybe that's part of what makes going around and around again not a slog - I might feel tired of filthy stage carpet and nasty dressing room couches I couldn't imagine sitting on, but I'll never get tired of knowing something I wrote or sang or said connected with somebody halfway across the world.

And there is always something new to see, a wild frontier to conquer. We drove through Lincolnshire the other day. It was eerie with mist, big flat spaces and the occasional cabbage. My only association with the place is that as a teenager obsessively reading liner notes and band biographical material I learned it was where Bernie Taupin, Elton John's songwriting partner came from. Now that I've seen it, it makes sense that he'd fantasize and write lyrics about America's Old West - or anywhere that wasn't Lincolnshire. As much sense as a girl growing up in Pittsburgh would listen to a song called "Grimsby", completely miss the irony and long to travel and see this wondrous place.

So tonight, it's Louth. Not quite Grimsby, not yet. But there's always the next tour.

The Things They Left Behind

2011-11-08T22:21:00.004+01:00

Today was a beautiful, warm day - perfect for fixing the gutters.

Sometimes I get overwhelmed by the amount of stuff that needs to be done to this house. It's easy to forget that it was only a year ago we were here in the northeast US looking around at possible places to move to. We went back to France with a huge list of jobs that needed to be done to sell that house. And a vague idea of something called an "immigrant visa."

Now we're completely relocated and feel at home in many ways. Starting to become familiar with the area, meeting more and more neighbors and locals. Even venturing out for a gig over the weekend: "Live Rust" would be an appropriate title for the performance, it was that creaky. The sound didn't help but the audience were sweet. Stayed way too long after but at least it meant there were fewer drivers on the Long Island Expressway.

The gutters and winterizing feel kind of crucial because we're leaving for almost a month to play gigs in the UK and what if some harsh weather comes on while we're away? Apparently, the Previous Owners used to pour their all into Halloween displays worthy of visits from the local TV news crew; the Christmas lights were also industrial-strength - if only the same amount of care and effort had gone into keeping water out of the basement and windows from rotting loose!

But every now and then I notice little items that they left behind and I think those people couldn't have been all bad.

Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost Too

2011-10-30T12:31:00.005+01:00

We were waiting in the Social Security office in Hudson to arrange for Eric to receive his official card and number, now that he's fully legal to work in the US. There was a poster up on the wall of Patty Duke and the Asian guy from Star Trek in space outfits. I studied their pictures, glad it had their names underneath the photos, or else I might have thought they were just anyone's grandmother and grandfather doing PSA's for Social Security, and wondered why had the man been allowed to dye his hair but not the lady?

When we got up to the desk and there was another poster with two Patty Dukes, this one saying "Even my cousin's applying online", Eric looked questioningly at it and said - cousin? To a foreigner trying to make sense of America, perhaps it had a hillbilly ring to it, and what with gay marriage recently legalized in New York state...

Having gotten the idea from the other poster that Patty Duke was now a spokesperson for Social Security, I was all primed to tell him how she was one of the first American teenagers on television playing not only herself but her British-bred "cousin". How the Patty character had been so kooky and mischievous that a hot dog made her lose control while cousin Kathy had been sophisticated and posh, having lived most everywhere from Brooklyn Heights to Berkeley Square. To help bridge the cultural gap, I even threw in a little tidbit about how Herman's Hermits had been in an episode.

"Ah, Peter No-one," Eric said, getting the idea quickly that for moving the culture forward, Patty Duke Show was a step or two below the Beverly Hillbillies.

In France, it had been Eric explaining how things worked, or didn't. Here, it'll have to be me who provides simple, reassuring answers to questions like:

"I know 'ground beef' is what you call mince, but what or who is Ground Chuck?"

"What exactly will the children do to us if we don't give them treats on Halloween?"

and

"The snow won't come until late November or around Christmas, right?"

So - sometimes you have to lie.

Front Row Seats

2011-10-25T21:01:00.006+02:00

We'll soon be laying down the hammers and picking up instruments - can't wait to start playing and singing again! Come on out if we're near your town:

Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby on tour

Fri Nov 4 Grey Horse Tavern Bayville, NY, US
Wed Nov 16 Chichester Inn Chichester, UK
Thu Nov 17 The Fleece Bristol, UK
Fri Nov 18 Taylor John's House Coventry, UK
Sat Nov 19 New Adelphi Hull, UK
Wed Nov 23 New Orleans Louth, UK
Thu Nov 24 Mark Riley show BBC 6 Music on the air 7 PM
Thu Nov 24 Castle Hotel Manchester, UK
Sat Nov 26 Union Chapel London, UK (w/Adrian Edmondson)
Sun Nov 27 Trades Club Hebden Bridge, UK
Wed Nov 30 Kitchen Garden Cafe Birmingham, UK
Thu Dec 1 The Musician Leicester, UK
Fri Dec 2 Fibbers York, UK
Sat Dec 3 Rifle Club Whitby, UK
Sun Dec 4 Woodend Tennis Club Glasgow, UK

Autumn Shades

2011-10-20T17:09:00.011+02:00

Better than a shoe dream was a dream gig. Saturday night we went to Tarrytown to see Ian Hunter play.

We drove two hours through blazing fall colors on the Taconic Parkway, one of the loveliest drives on earth, unless it's raining or snowing at which point I think it becomes pretty treacherous. We were taking the road at peak leaf-changing time, so that every bend and dip and rise led to yet another "aaahhh" and "ooohhh" at the golds, oranges and reds. From me, anyway. Eric, being English, confines himself to curt nods.

Tarrytown is a monied version of small town America - lots of strollers and shops and the Music Hall dominating the Main Street. We went into Sweetgrass to say hi to John Wesley Harding who was opening the night's show. I almost gasped when I saw he was dining with Eleanor Friedberger from the Fiery Furnaces. The sweet indie princess said "hey, we have the same hair" to me and I immediately felt cooler than I have in probably ten years. If you feel like an anachronism...just wait it out.

We marveled at how quickly we were served, and how good the food was - in France we'd gotten used to judging the quality of a restaurant on whether we'd get food poisoning or not. I did miss those low-cost pichets of wine though - the price of a simple glass has nudged up to nine or ten dollars.

Tarrytown Music Hall is an antique vaudeville theatre - you can't call it "restored" because it looks like they didn't have enough money to do much more than clean the place up and turn on the lights - it is glorious in its untouched shabbiness. As we were picking up our tickets, a nice man came up and said he knew we'd be there because I'd written about it on my Twitter! A fan of both Eric and I, he made us feel like secret stars. I didn't even feel bad that the ticket envelope misspelled my name.

We were admiring the decorative touches of the theater when we ran into James Mastro - he plays guitar in Ian Hunter's band. Next thing we knew we were whisked backstage to meet the man himself and he is such a sweetheart, such a nice man. I felt like I was in my own version of Rock Dreams, seeing him and Eric chatting. It was good to see the other guys in the band that I knew from back in NY, Andy Burton ace keyboard player and Mark Bosch.

Wes did a great job opening and Eleanor came out and sang a song. When IH and band came out to play I realized we were sitting right in front of his piano - a perfect spot even though I loved when he picked up the acoustic too. Wow, he still has total charisma and one of the greatest voices - the way his melodies fall and then climb is so tied with that voice, to hear him now in person was almost too much for me - how many drives have Eric and I done to "Mott"? Lyrics that contain all the wisdom of the universe, he just tosses out there with a knowing laugh - hell! He is 72. There is hope. It was great to hear all the old favorites but some of the newer songs were just as powerful, Man Overboard especially.

I was so captivated by his performance I was almost able to ignore the texters, talkers and bathroom-goers all around (at least I think that's where they were going - they all looked like they took too good care of themselves to be smokers) - when did people become so constantly busy at concerts? And the dad with his ten year old sitting right behind us, giving a song by song commentary until the poor tyke was practically in a coma. Let the kid have his own experience, if that's possible in this day and age! Still, the band managed to inch the volume up. And in end there was enough devotion and focus in the room to bring about two encores.

We hung out way too late and the two hour drive after was longer without the fall foliage. Eric did the driving while I looked out the window at moonlight on the Catskills, wondering if it was all true, that we were really here in New York, or would I wake up back in France, wishing I could be out in the world?

An orthodox Jew in khaki shorts emerging from a rest area men's room and a crumpled envelope in my coat pocket reading "Rugby, Amy" confirmed that this was real life.

The Ecstasy & The Agony

2011-10-14T22:56:00.003+02:00

The day started off good - at 8 AM I found a shopping bag full of luxury ladies shoes on the sidewalk near my brother's apartment in Greenpoint. Prada, Robert Clergerie, Stephane Kelian; red suede, khaki, calfskin.

For a second I thought I must still be sleeping, dreaming the perfect dream. But I knew immediately they were too small. They always are. Still, I gathered a few choice pairs up - maybe my brother's girlfriend? She can walk anywhere in heels, and they looked closer to her size, seven.

I clutched them to my chest and then remembered: bedbugs, the scourge of New York City. Was the shoe bag a dirty trick, the result of an infestation? Someone's powerlessness turned to anger to a chance to play God? Was the infestee at this very moment up at her window with a morning cup of coffee, cackling at any fool stupid enough to grab herself some soiled high-end bounty?

Or maybe the bag was fallout from a breakup - a jilted lover reaping his revenge, hitting his gal where he knew it would hurt the most?

I took a closer look at the shoes, being careful to hold them away from me, and weighed the possibilities. They were definitely several seasons/years old. Probably a closet purge that took a benevolent turn when selling on eBay or through consignment seemed like too much trouble.

And I was so happy to be back in the city with all its stories, all the possibilities. I'd missed New York.

* * *

"FUCK YOOUUU!!" Honk Honk. "YOU FUCKING BITCH - YOU FUCK, FUCK YOOOUUU!!!"

Me? I looked up at the garbage truck shuddering to a stop next to me at the light. "Me?" I mouthed to the red-faced driver of the truck.

"YOU - YOU FUCKING BITCH - YOU BIIITCH!"

What had I done? Yes, I'd gotten on the eastbound L.I.E. in error and had just exited and was sitting at a stop light. But where had the garbage truck entered into the equation? What had I done to piss this guy off?

And the word "Bitch" carries the weight of intent and that confused me even more. Whatever wrongs I'd committed had been carried out unconsciously. His use of the word was making me feel doubly bad.

The guy continued to honk and scream and I raised my hands, a question, what did I do?

This only enraged him more. "THAT'S RIGHT - YOU! YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!" He mimed a steering wheel in his hands - I'd been driving. That was my crime.

My look of shock and dismay only set him off more. All that time in France had made me as placid as a Limousin cow. "FUUUCK YOOOOUUU!" he yelled, and raced off as fast as his dilapidated piece of shit garbage truck would take him.

I caught my breath and made my turn.

Yeah, I'd missed New York.

Immigrant Song

2011-10-08T23:14:00.006+02:00

I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.

Just been wearing a pair of rubber cleaning gloves for a month - they make it hard to write.

I loved how Patti Smith was on our flight from England when we arrived in the US. I saw her getting into her seat up in business class. (We were in steerage, in honor of my grandfather who arrived at Ellis Island back in the 20s, all alone at the age of 11). It felt like we were being shepherded into the US by a high echelon Rock Air Marshall. The top would be Chuck Berry.

Then she stood directly in front of us in the line while we waited for Eric to go through US immigration for the first time. I've never met her, always been afraid to, too in awe to. But she seemed cool, standing there two feet away with her guitar on her shoulder, checking her phone. ("Excuse me?" someone says. She turns around, wearily expectant. Oh the price of punk poetess fame. "There's no cell phone use until after baggage claim, ma'am.")

We slipped past as she shut off her phone and the agent jokingly let Eric in to the United States, playing around with Eric's precious MBE, the sealed, US immigration-issued Mysterious Brown Envelope we'd been told to present, unopened, on arrival or risk blowing the whole thing. We'd been manically guarding it for three weeks. It was stunning, how lighthearted they all were in immigration at Newark. Polite, genial even. We almost expected them to offer us coffee and donuts.

I missed that. I missed the stupid fun we have in America. Like the young woman who was selling a stove on Craigslist. She gave us her address, and mentioned how when getting directions off the internet that one of the streets had changed its name. She wasn't specific with the street name.

As we passed Greg Browder Way on the right for the fourth time it finally made sense.

"It says here 'turn right on Cheesecock Road'."

I'm in love with the ease of things in America. You want to rent a car? Buy a bed? Get copies made? Send this, receive that? Building supplies? A $50 stove from Craigslist? A $40 dehumidifier? Easy - any time! Eat, eat, eat - fresh, local food, or unhealthy crap. Just say when. Every night around twenty to seven I find myself getting anxious, wondering if we have enough food, a bottle of wine. Then I remember the 24 hour supermarket a few blocks away.

Choice! Beer World down the road and the Wine Cellar right next to it with stuff from all over the world. Usefully within walking distance for when the snow sets in?

I love our new town. It's across the river from trendy, happening Hudson. Near Saugerties and Woodstock with their rich hippie daytrippers. But this is the land that time forgot. Small town America with enough of a freak quotient that nobody marks you as an outsider. The first time we looked around the place, the only people on the old-fashioned main street were a cop putting a handcuffed biker into a police car. I think they were laughing. Even if you are an outsider, everyone is friendly. The postal workers all came out to shake hands with us when we told them we'd moved in to town. The insurance agent clapped Eric on the back and thanked us for our business, apologizing again for not being able to insure the house during Irene.

"Let's go out for a beer sometime!" Then we saw him across the street in the local attorney's office. "I just need him to help me (cough) clear up a few things," he said sheepishly.

Irene the hurricane is just plain "Irene" here. Everyone was affected by the storm: water in basements, trees down, businesses closed temporarily. The weird weather continued until a few days ago: torrential rain every other day and the Catskill Creek that flows through town and the huge Hudson River just minutes away rising. There's been a swimming pool in the backyard where the Previous Owners had an above ground swimming pool, a circle of water several inches high where for the last year or two a nasty piece of plastic sat collecting moss and dead leaves.

The Previous Owners - we have an ongoing relationship with this shadowy entity. The house needs a lot of work. The Previous Owners didn't intend to sell the place but lost their grip and had to let it go:

"Why, why did you put this outlet at the top of the door frame?"

"Did you have to wood panel that room? And what's with the toilet nook?"

"Nasty vinyl tiles - on the ceiling?"

No stove, no refrigerator. Just a food-encrusted early model microwave cemented into the kitchen cabinets.

At first we gave Previous Owners points for building a bar and having a sound system in the basement. The building inspector said it was all a repository of life-threatening mold and should be removed as quickly as possible.

I walk around in paint-splattered clothes, looking longingly at the purple suede vintage shoes I forced hopefully into my suitcase over two months ago. There are lots of shows and concerts and markets and events happening at this time of the year and we'll get out to see something soon.

Fixing up a neglected house is the price of admission for living in one of the prettiest places in the world that's also conveniently located in the hugely populated Northeastern US. Tall tall trees with leaves changing color, the dark Catskill mountains on one side of the town and the enchanted Hudson River on the other. There's a bird sanctuary around the corner and deer, foxes, even bears have been spotted on our street. We watched a white skunk - weird prehistoric-looking creature - strolling by. I had to explain to Eric what it was, how they spray their distinctive, lingering scent when threatened. My older brother was sitting outside smoking a cigarette and noticed the creature sitting a few feet away. Eric's christened him "Mike". Like the name Dave in England, every other guy up here is Mike. The rest seem to be called Gary.

Ran into an old neighbor from Williamsburg our first day. We're two hours from the city but it feels like being there in some ways: the NY Times, Post and Daily News for sale in the gas stations, the accents of some of our neighbors who moved up from Brooklyn years ago, the Breakstone's butter and bagels and delis and friends coming "up from the city". I love being in New York again, to hear talk of Albany and Governor Cuomo. To see the aisle of pasta and Italian grocery items - I missed it more than I realized.

I just got a call that the contents of the shipping container are being delivered on Tuesday. What was in that thing, anyway? We've been camping in the house for over a month with folding chairs and restaurant table borrowed from the swell guy who owns the local coffee place (who is named neither Gary or Mike but Robert, so there goes that theory.) Once our own stuff arrives I think we can say the moving odyssey is over. There's still a lot more to do on this place, but I look forward to getting back to doing things I have a vague memory of doing before, like music and writing.

I might even wear the purple suede shoes.

Hacking It

2011-09-05T11:57:00.005+02:00

"So you couldn't hack it in Europe," said the British border agent as we headed from Calais to Dover with one last vanload. She'd asked what the purpose of our visit to the UK was and we'd told her we were moving our household goods out of France and over to the US via a shipping container from England.

Couldn't hack it in Europe?

This was not the time for a debate on semantics. But her statement instantly rankled. I felt judged.

Hack it? It's not something you do in France. There was nothing to hack there. The very idea of moving from the US to "Europe" speaks of removing oneself from hacking it. The old ways are too entrenched and ingrained and there's no cutting through, only finding ways around. Maybe that had been part of the problem with the place. If I was ready for an underfunded early retirement, maybe it could have worked.

Now, getting out - that's been a different story. That's like coming up out of the jungle with a machete, whacking vines and undergrowth and worse out of the way to reach daylight. It was so effortless, getting there. Kind of like treading lukewarm water, being there. But getting out?

Maybe because no one sells their house quickly in France, or anywhere, these days, we'd had it too easy. Not enough challenges. Not enough hack it. But since the house was sold it's been an obstacle course. Trying to satisfy the strict US visa requirements at the same time as trying to find and fund a house in upstate New York from thousands of miles away. Packing and moving a houseful of music equipment and some furniture to a friend's garage in England, and then a storage facility big enough to bring a shipping container to. Seeing the cost of the container jump from six down to three and up to eight thousand dollars, and then back down at least a little.

The US house purchase went through just as a hurricane watch started for the eastern part of the country and all insurance companies stopped writing home insurance policies. And they said the high winds and possible flooding were headed right for New York City.

"The house is a good two hours from there," I said, worrying about friends and family in the city being sent to shelters and worrying, just a little, about the storm bearing down on our uninsured new home.

But there was no time to worry because Eric, who had driven a rental van back down to SW France, filled it with the last of our boxes and furniture and headed for the port at Calais, had been involved in a traffic accident. He'd had to leave the now-undrivable rental van full of our stuff not far from where we'd broken down almost five years ago and travel back to England by taxi. (And as foot passenger on the ferry, though I like the idea of him rolling off the boat at Dover in a French cab.)

The hurricane spared the city and a few hours later I started seeing posts on Facebook about trees falling and catastrophic flooding near Woodstock and and on up into Greene County. Our new county. There were films on the internet of houses and even whole villages being taken out by floods.

We found out the next day the house was okay. A lot of people weren't so lucky - that part of the country was declared a disaster area. I felt guilty calling to get our electricity turned on, knowing how many people had been without power.

And finally we rented yet another van and took the ferry back to France, one last time, still trying to believe that moving everything to England first had been simpler and cheaper than trying to ship from France (and the moving companies all confirmed that it was). We drove to a garage near Lille and transferred our stuff from the disabled van into the working van and returned to the car ferry. No tearful farewell or regretful last looks - just a determination to complete the journey without using a public toilet or eating anything in a French service station, ever again.

The border agent was looking at me, holding my passport in her left hand and the ink stamp, instrument of my freedom to hack it, in her right.

So you couldn't hack it in Europe? I gave her a sickly smile and nodded.

Groundhog Day

2011-08-12T12:18:00.007+02:00

Where'm I at? Is it today or last month?

The house was sold almost three weeks ago and things were rolling - we went to England pre-riots and played gigs that all were enjoyable and well-attended. Even the one in Mildenhall Football Club ended up being fun. Got to see Eric's gorgeous granddaughter. Then we went to Paris for the final visa appointment at the US Embassy.

And since then we've been in weird semi-existence with Eric's passport in the ether. You hear about how tough the US is on immigration but I was sure we had everything they'd asked for and Eric had even tested negative for syphilis and chicken pox. No - they still need more. We've been trying to get them the additional paperwork they require, at the same time turning everything around for the US house purchase - all from the French countryside where getting things done is sometimes possible if it isn't Tuesday afternoon, or Monday morning or any time Wednesday or Thursday before 3:30, but not after 5:30. Multiplied by August.

We had to break down and get a French mobile - the final straw was trying to make a call from the only payphone within miles, the one attached to a wooden toilet cabin that serves a small camping area. While I tried navigating the bank voice command system, shouting "PERSONAL", "REPRESENTATIVE!" "NO" and practically screaming my social security number and other pertinent details into the ancient receiver, some poor camper was whimpering, groaning and eventually releasing his bowels on the other side of the wall. "Would you like to make a deposit?" "SOMEBODY ALREADY HAS!"

Later at the library, Eric and I tried to get on the internet to find a Fed Ex place while a safari-suited man across the table kept clacking his dentures. Why was it that the harder I concentrated and the more frustrated I got, the more his clacking intensified?

The only Fed Ex depot around was fifty minutes away - Eric drove us there in thirty.

"What's that burning smell?" I asked.

He took a turn on two wheels, clipped a chicken, roared past an old lady on two crutches and navigated the BUSES ONLY lane. "Somebody's brakes," he answered nonchalantly. Hmm - and I'm vouching for this man.

Still, there have been some lovely dinners and moonlit rambles with our friend Emmanuel - we're staying at his place in a tiny hamlet next to an ancient church. One of our paperwork deliveries showed up by UPS yesterday and we'd stationed ourselves outside the house so the delivery guy could find us. We had wagers going on whether it was the hamlet's first UPS delivery ever - he confirmed that it was.

The new owners of our old house are loving France. They adore the house - we went over for dinner the other night and their stuff looked so cute in the place. The kids have been swimming at the nearby lake every day, playing in the garden, riding the rusty old bikes we left behind.

They had to go away for a little while. And since we already paid for the phone and internet in the house up til the end of August, and canceling the service early to move away outside of France involved sending a registered letter and signing an attestation and packing and mailing the router via Chronopost and probably a trip to the mairie and another embassy somewhere, they said "hey, why don't you just come by and use the phone and internet here, at your old place?"

Which is where I'm sitting now. All the neighbors that we said our tear-filled goodbyes to a few weeks ago have gotten used to seeing us again. Like that old TV commercial "I thought you died." The double-takes have turned back into howdy neighbor waves.

It's like we never left.

Skeleton Crew

2011-07-17T19:58:00.007+02:00

We're camping out in the house now. There's four mugs, a couple of dinner plates. A towel or two apiece. A pot, frying pan and baking dish. Two laptops, a couple paperbacks, a television that will soon be made redundant, the 4th season of Peep Show, some garden chairs and a wobbly old table. Suitcases as nightstands. And all our musical equipment - we have a gig in Le Dorat on Saturday.

The rest has made it up to England. Like a modern divorce where everyone co-operates, this is a modern house sale - the new owner came down with a load of stuff before the final completion date, and offered to take a load for us. Shipping from France is complicated - of all the ports in this country, right now only one will do container shipping of personal goods so getting space is difficult and expensive. So we go through England - that's where we'll put everything in a container for the US.

Packing has been all-consuming, that and healing. I'm going back to the fine doctor in Bordeaux tomorrow, hoping that he'll give me the okay to put makeup on.

It's been pretty bizarre, having a nurse come to the house every other day. I feel like I should be wearing a turban and being taken out for a spin in a wheelchair. Feeling guilty about using what feels like a luxury, I'd asked at the hospital if they couldn't just show me how to take care of things myself. They insisted that it was more consistent with an infirmiere. I can see now that it also helps keep someone in employment in rural France. In a few days I'll say goodbye to her. Then we'll have a little get-together with our friends and neighbors, and the new owners. Strange, melancholy, exciting, terrifying. Did I say exciting?

Two months ago it was "will we outlast the bottle of balsamic?" - now it's the expiration date on the milk bottle. We'll be going off before it does.

Packing

2011-07-08T16:11:00.002+02:00

I'm sorry things degenerated for a while there into the equivalent of a TV clip show - sort of like that early Simpsons episode where Homer ends up in the hospital and instead of an actual story line, they just revisit past episodes? I remember what a shock that was, but how they turned it into comedy gold. No such luck here.

Ashamed to say I even sunk to re-using a photo from a post a year or two ago. But all that's behind us now, because I'm on the mend. Maybe I had a sort of revelation one night when I was feeling sorry for myself. It went something like: "Oh fuck it. Just...FUCK IT! I'm alive, I'm reasonably healthy if kind of banged up, I've got a lovin' man beside me, my family's all doing okay, we have a buyer for the house. What is, is."

Thought of stopping the blog temporarily because things are in such a state of flux right now, and it's hard to concentrate. But I'd miss it. Just as it's never a good idea to question the meaning of life while applying eyeliner in a dank basement dressing room with only beer crates for company, so it's best not to examine too closely why I share details of my life in public while sitting in a roomful of moving boxes.

More soon.

In The Club

2011-06-27T14:48:00.005+02:00

I went out for the first time in a week yesterday - the neighbors were having their annual get-together. Angeline from next door had been over to check on my progress and insisted we come. She said everyone would understand.

A little old lady demanded an explanation for my bandaged and battered appearance after I'd done the obligatory kissing, very gingerly, uncertain that we'd ever met before. "Chacun son misère," she said.

"To each his own misery." I'd finally made it.

France is full of little expressions that sum it all up. I guess American English is too ("it is what it is" springs to mind). I try to stay out of territory covered by pat phrases, but sometimes it's nice to be in the club. For a little while, anyway.

We told all the neighbors we'd be leaving soon, and that they will have a lovely new family in our place. With kids. I remembered Hazel joining us at the first neighborhood meal, and how she fled in tears from the farci and the toothless as they drank soup and red wine. The new family, will they join us, next year? the neighbors asked. They are really sad to see us go, and we feel sad too.

They've lived here there whole lives. Not much changes. They accepted us and now we're moving on. Their lives are very different from ours and in the end, there was never much to talk about.

The pears on the tree out back are coming in. When they ripen and drop, we'll be gone.

I get a little misty about that, and then remember what a nuisance they were, those damn pears. If you leave them on the ground, they ferment and gather wasps.

Maybe some day I'll feel like I have time to go collecting, cooking and preserving pears. But not yet. I have other things I want to do first.

Today I Am A Man

2011-06-21T12:51:00.008+02:00

Today's the day for Fete de la Musique in France. A few years back I wrote about about how Eric and I rented an electrogenerator and spent the day and night traveling around the area, setting up and playing for the few. A memorable experience but a one-time only thing.

I noticed this year what was supposed to be a day of musical anarchy has gotten even more and more organized - June 21 falls on a Tuesday, so posters and flyers advertise Fete de la Musique events for the 18th and the 25th because those are Saturdays and people are more likely to go out. C'mon, go nuts for a change, open the shutters and leave your house on a Tuesday night! Maybe in Paris but not in the countryside. So what's the point of this thing again?

We could have fired up the old electrogen today, but I'm recovering from Mohs surgery and that's a good excuse, right? I'd been fretting about this skin cancer thing - BCC, the non-deadly kind. Just a tiny little pore on the side of my nose that the dermatologist with the lousy bedside manner biopsied and sent me for surgery. I've had a hell of a time finding the most effective kind in France. Asking various doctors about what is absolutely standard these days (this is for surgery on the face, where conserving as much tissue as possible is what you'd hope for) I was told - nope, not in France. I asked if it was because the complexions are heartier, less pale, so less incidence of skin cancer? Not at all. It's socialized medicine. Mohs is too costly.

Going to the doctor in France is a mix of brusqueness and care that it is hard to imagine in the US, where health care is huge business. If they're going to sock you with a bill they better provide some service. It all works very differently here. The first time we saw a doctor for a checkup, I couldn't believe it when I called for an appointment - "Can you come in...tomorrow morning?" Expecting a delay of several weeks, I figured this doctor must not have any patients, but that's just standard. She took so much time with each patient, I wondered if perhaps she was charging by the hour. Then it came time to pay and we gave her our euros and she pulled a little pouch out from her desk and made change. I double-checked that there was hand soap at the sink, thinking of her handling money all day. When she retired, I called asking if she had any recommendations, anyone who was handling her patients now, taking over the practice? No. Nope, sorry, can't help you there.

Everything's covered, or almost covered, by the system. But when you get a gynecological exam or mammogram, you the patient are not covered - literally: no robe, no sheet, just drop your clothes right there in a corridor. But if you need a taxi, or a nurse to visit you at home - just call! It's taken care of.

I ended up finding a hospital in Bordeaux that does Mohs surgery so we drove there yesterday morning. I'd called beforehand, just trying to verify that I had an appointment, and did I need to know anything - this is surgery we're talking about. Nothing but irritation from the nurses.

But when I was under the knife (and it was a knife and it was awful and I'll never go through anything like that again without being unconscious. That option was not available to me nor were tranquilizers which would have been welcome. I can understand much better now the idea of cardiac arrest on the operating table. I prayed, I vowed to be a force for good, I imagined myself a soldier on a Civil War battlefield and thought "this has to be better than that." I apologized to the nurse for being anxious. "Vous avez raison" she said - you've got reason to be - I'm not sure if that made me feel better or worse) anyway, the nurse was holding my hand and being so sweet. The doctor took the whole day with me in between sending to the lab. He told me several times I'd done the right thing because the cancer was very deep. He stitched me up and left me so swathed in bandages I can only think of that poster of the Phantom of the Opera. They gave me a private room to lay down in in between cutting and sewing and for Eric to wait in. I told him after it was one of the worst days of my life but at least he was there to share it with.

So no Fete de la Musique today. I hope it's alright to write about this. I hope the stitches will be okay and the scar will fade or if it doesn't that I'll look dangerous in a chic way. Or chic in a dangerous way. The nurse is coming over tomorrow. In some rite of passage I never wanted (who does?), today I am a man.

The Chain

2011-06-16T15:46:00.006+02:00

I just told my next door neighbor that we're moving.

"C'est pas vrai!" She had tears in her eyes. I'd told her a while back it was inevitable. But I don't think she'd registered it until now.

But all that hard work that Eric did on the place, she said.

True, the man worked like a demon. But wasn't I there too? Is it just this part of France? Around here, when a man is on a ladder or loading wood into the barn or leaning out of a window painting, it's "oh, isn't he wonderful - look at him working". When a woman has a paintbrush in her frozen claw or is hacking through waist-high weeds with a scythe, it's "il faut travailler" (it's necessary to work).

I wanted to scream, then remembered I don't have to - we're leaving.

Instead I hugged my neighbor and told her I'll miss her. Which I will.

We have a buyer. We have somewhere we want to move. I looked for a video of this Fleetwood Mac song because I'd heard of a real estate chain but never knew how stressful it was to be in one. A rather short chain, thank God, but a chain nonetheless. Then there's doctors' appointments and visa interviews. Hoping all the pieces hold until the thing completes and we can move forward. Until then I'll have a hard time writing about it.

There were several live versions, but this has to be the best - Lindsey Buckingham has always been one edgy dude but here he outdoes himself.

I feel downright calm in comparison.

One Of The Flock

2011-05-22T18:43:00.005+02:00

I was running away from the news, from the computer. And looking for a snack.

Sunday afternoon in rural France. Good luck finding anything to eat. The shops and restaurants are closed. Most of the bars are closed. And even the ones that are open don't have much in the way of food. Some peanuts maybe?

Then I remembered - it's springtime! Vide greniers, flea markets. People selling old stuff and always a few tables with cans of foie gras, cassoulet. Bottles of wine, apples. Usually a cake or two.

So I was navigating the tiny roads, fuel gauge on E but no gas station between me and the closest flea market. I figured it was worth the risk, to get a snack.

I never imagined I could enjoy driving a manual car - not back when I was learning. But now that I know the roads, where to brake and shift, through muscle memory as much as anything, I feel capable when driving again. The way I used to do back on the open roads of the USA.

Back. I'm going back! I can't stop thinking about it. Everything I do I'm thinking, "if all goes well I won't be here this time next year." And this (brake, shift, shift, accelerate) will all be a memory. I am ready to go.

Round the corner in front of Chateau de Brie, start to descend and there's a car in front of me, slowing down. A flock of sheep is being driven along the road. They're so cute.

And annoying. Really annoying. The woman urging them on isn't really urging hard enough. She's smiling a little too smugly, and her clothes aren't exactly farmer clothes. A sheep farmer come lately?

At first I'm smiling too. Look at the little one, trailing behind his mother. So cute.

Then I'm cursing, the same as if I was stuck in traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge or on Chagrin Boulevard or Hillsboro Road. "Would you move your fucking....sheep?!"

Finally make it to the flea market. And it's like every person I ever met around here is there. Not friends I've made but people like the butcher and the massage therapist, and the evil boulanger and the kooky woman who used to sell old furniture. I'm thinking maybe I died, back by that flock of sheep. It could be that this is what it's like in purgatory, because nobody that I really really love is there, and we're all going to be stuck together for eternity unless I make amends for...things.

I see Nick and Angie and that hints at a more promising forever, but they're headed in the other direction. Then I hear Shania Twain blaring out of tinny speakers that are hanging everywhere. That would be about right, for purgatory. I like Shania okay, but with all the country music I love to choose from, it would be pretty sad if she was the soundtrack I had to purify myself to.

I hear the thumping of boots on a wooden stage, and across a field I see a team of country line dancers. All togged up in jeans, plaid western shirts and matching straw cowboy hats, they are kicking and stepping, slapping leather and turning and clapping, then changing position and doing it all again. Brows furrowed, mouths set in grim determination, eyes staring straight ahead - they don't appear to be having much fun. I see the woman who owns the lingerie shop execute a joyless heel and toe. The man who works at the dump, the lone male dancer, is the only one who smiles.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Inside I do a little of both while dialing in "wry smile" for a facial expression. Then I find the table with the cakes. I buy some and hurry back to the car, which I wisely parked facing away from the fete. I must've known I'd want to flee.

"If the car starts, and has enough fuel to get home, I promise to be a better person," I pray. I turn the key.

Then I see Bob Dylan's "Modern Times" on the seat. I put it into the player. "Thunder On The Mountain" comes in. It's not purgatory any more. Or if it is, it's not so bad, because someone I really really love is there.

The lousy and wicked and perfect things people do and the future in front of me and Eric, and whatever missteps behind and ahead - like a good acid trip, Bob still helps me feel like it's all leading to something. I guess that's called hope? Happy Birthday Bob.

I'm tempted to go back to the flea market and force them to stick Dylan in the player and see how the line dancers do. But the gas tank light just came on.

Nostalgia In Advance

2011-05-17T14:59:00.004+02:00

In the glow of an imminent departure, everything's bright and beautiful. The same thing happened when I was getting ready to leave Cleveland - all of a sudden the snow melted and even surly postal clerks were smiling. It's even more so here in France.

Rural Backstage

French Toast

Blooming Courtyard

Noilly Bottle

Old Gear

The gear may be old, but the man is not. Happy Birthday Eric, the sweetest boy in the world - you only improve with age, like a vintage tape machine (well, maybe not this one...)

Souvenir

2011-05-04T16:49:00.021+02:00

Eric and I took a spontaneous trip to the Atlantic coast last weekend. Spontaneous in that we knew for weeks we wanted to go somewhere but couldn't make plans until exactly one hour before leaving. "Let's go to Soulac-sur-Mer", Eric suggested. He'd mentioned the place before. I had been looking at the Ile de Re further up the coast near La Rochelle, or Cadaques on the Mediterranean, on the way to Barcelona. But the drives were a little long - Soulac is a short ferry ride away from Royan, which is an easy two hour drive to the west.

After the hills and valleys, cows and old stone of the Limousin, the Atlantic Coast is like going forward in time from the sixteenth century to the part of the twentieth century when France resembles the France I imagined from new wave films. Royan was bombed at the end of World War II and it's now mostly white modern 50's buildings, brisk and stylish so you want to turn your shirt collar up, toss a sweater over your shoulders and put on some big sunglasses. Which is what most of the people on the ferry across the Gironde estuary had done, that very definite French way of declaring "It's the weekend now, and we are, tous, at ease. "They look like a SpecSavers ad," Eric said.

Soulac is a pretty little beachside town, with brick cottages built at the beginning of the 20th century. It felt like a bit of a secret, with very few hotels and a small commercial district with shops and restaurants. A large covered market building, mairie and ancient church. With a lot of the houses still closed up for the winter, it had an air of mystery and possibility that made it the perfect getaway; I immediately started imagining our new life there.

Dangerous, traveling without instruments. With only an overnight bag each and two rusty bicycles, a person starts getting ideas:

Eric's a rogue handyman with a glamorous past. Is he English? No one knows for sure, but he has a Hemingway air as he cycles around with his toolkit, wearing movie star shades bought, in another life, in Los Angeles.

I'm a disheveled seaside painter, with fraying vintage jackets and paint-spattered jeans, hair perpetually tangled from the salt air. I pedal my bike in gold antique platform sandals, rumored to have belonged to Carole Lombard.

Together we own a junk shop, and this being a seaside resort town, none of the junk is cheap. We drive a Mehari and live in the one block long "poor side of town" in a beatnik shack with a gravel garden. Every few months, we take a ferry back to civilization and break out the guitars, performing to an adoring crowd.

But, after eating at a couple of good restaurants, locating the hipster-ish bar, biking in the direction of the "naturist" beach but giving up because it was too far, walking one more time down all the streets of the town and bumping into the same people again and again, it was time to go.

We drove back through the Medoc, passing chateau after chateau - not the rustic, humble chateaux I'm used to seeing daily but huge, imposing structures, each attached to a famous vineyard: Lafite Rothschild, Latour. Like the war memorial and the gun turret painted with a cheery beach scene in Soulac, I made a note to "look all that up". If I got it together, all the looking up of battles and chateaux, historical artifacts and memorials (churches, not so much, maybe I spent too much time in them as a kid for them to hold any interest or magic), I'd reconstruct the Second World War and probably the one before that too, and the last several centuries.

Back home, I wondered if property in Soulac was really as expensive as they say (it is) and whether it might be a little bit sleepy in a town whose population shrinks to under 2000 in the winter (it would). But I held on to my beach life fantasy for two days, until Pilates class. Annie the instructor had us in an upside down pose where she came around asking each person a question, to make sure you were holding your neck correctly.

"What did you do this past week?" she asked Julia. "A lot of cooking and gardening and a lot of laundry and cleaning," Julia answered. A pause. "A lot of drinking."

"How many new lambs this spring?" she asked Helen. "28! A pretty good year." I was momentarily in an episode of The Archers.

I half-prepared an answer, about a weekend holiday in Soulac. It was like back when Sister Mary George would come around and sing to each fifth grader "What did you have for break-fast?" and you had to sing back "Orange juice and instant oat-meal!" even if you had rocky road ice cream mashed up in a glass of milk.

But I knew deep down what my question would be: "When's the next concert, Amy?"

Relieved to have my own special question, relieved to return to my familiar role (I've got a gig, therefore, I have a purpose in life) but a little sad to see the gold platforms vanish in a puff of smoke, I answered: "This Friday at the tea shop in Piegut - it's gonna be great!"

Doing The Math

2011-04-26T17:51:00.005+02:00

This weekend, I got a message from Angel Dean that the great bluegrass musician, singer, songwriter and social activist Hazel Dickens had died. (I wrote about Hazel, and Angel too, a few years ago here). Angel and I corresponded about how much Hazel had meant to us, and how when we met her years back, she'd seemed ancient. And how we'd both been shocked to realize she was the same age then as we are now.

How could Angel and I know, looking at 52 or 53 year old Hazel, what incredible stores of energy and creativity and whatever else can be inside a person, even as the physical side is ebbing a bit - how could we know she was not anywhere near finished - hell, she was only getting started in a way, giving what she had to give?

God, we were young then! Oh, we could be honored, and awestruck to be hanging out with someone who'd been where she'd been and done what she'd done. But how, at the age of 28 or 29, could we imagine what someone that old had left to do on this earth?

I've been thinking about Hazel a lot the last few days, how she never stopped playing and singing but kept on performing right up to her death at the age of 75.

Then today I was in the post office, standing behind a man, who was giving his date of birth to the lady behind the counter. "Mille neuf cent soixante quatorze" I heard him reeling off. Let's see, 1900 and 60 plus 14 so that makes it 19...74.

Shit. He's young! Not even 40. I was 15 in 1974. I look at his face. He looks, um, middle-aged. That makes me...old?

If not old, older. Always, always older than I think I am.

Got back home and saw on Twitter: RIP Poly Styrene, age 53.

No! She was just releasing her first album in many years. Recent photos show a lovely, enchanting woman with lots to give. From the beginning, in X-Ray Spex, here was a brain at work, questioning, challenging everybody's idea of what a girl was, what advertising did, the modern world. Saw her play at CBGB, one of the English bands we all would've killed to see but this show was more 3D, more fun, more colorful, more energetic and exciting than anyone could've expected (I just found this recording of it). She raised a daughter, had problems and was coming back again, with experience and wisdom and power.

53. Not old. Young.

The Tao of Bort

2011-04-20T13:38:00.003+02:00

After more than four years, we finally got around to finding the Limoges Emmaus the other day. Emmaus is like the big Salvation Army or Goodwill and there's one for every city. Unlike in America or the UK, where every town has dozens of thrift shops or charity shops, people in France must hang onto their old crap (because the new crap costs so much?). The Emmaus sells disused furniture, bikes, bathtubs etc. We ain't buying anything these days, except if it helps "staging" to easier sell the house.

The Emmaus was disappointing, though we got a nice old planter for 10 euros. But it was way out in the country, and we took a wrong turn trying to get back on the autoroute. I was glad we did, because we saw this weird place, like a guardhouse, sitting out in the middle of nowhere. "Bort", the sign read. A pleasant place, disconnected from everything but the occasional curious passerby and any contact with the outside world generated by the inhabitants within.

I can't get "Bort" out of my mind. It's sort of like "Limbo", where unbaptized babies went. Cushier than purgatory. We're not out of here, but we're not over there yet. Maybe we're in Bort.

It's an oddly relaxing place to be for a little while. Whereas before I might have taken any negative or disappointing event (the mean lady in the cafe, the lousy couscous dinner in a local restaurant, the "Le Gibson" bar we went along to looking for a gig because we heard the owner loved music and had a collection of Gibsons turning out to be a tiled billiard room with a wall erected across what had once been a stage, because "music oh la la, that's too much stress and all those charges, non merci, not for us" , the overpriced market full of sunburned English people, the boulangeries putting baguettes in bags printed with ads for new fireplaces and housing developments) to heart, in my current state it's all a big laugh.

Those broiled English are now potential clients for the house (hallooo, you wouldn't by any chance be looking for a lovely house in the French countryside would you? we may start to grab people by the arm and drag them along against their will to take a look) The couscous night was fun, because it meant not having to cook and we won't have to do it again. The cafe lady is miserable to everybody! If it weren't for the stress and uncertainty, I'd say that living like you're about to move isn't a bad way to go - we've got a clean, decluttered house with a nice kitchen, trees and garden moderately tamed, flowers in planters. The CDs are organized now, so every time I get in the car I grab something to listen to. I'm making a little money selling old clothes I haven't worn in years. I even painted the rusty cafe table and chairs for outside, something I've wanted to do for ages but couldn't find the time to make it a priority.

We eat croissants and chocolate and pastries to keep our morale up, I drink wine when I want to, we take walks for our esprit. In other words, we're being kind to ourselves during this transitional time. While still trying to get work done.

"It's a shame," a French friend said. "You speak French a lot better now, just when you're getting ready to leave!" Because the pressure's off, it's just for the fun of it now. I don't have to integrate or fit in.

I don't know how long this calm will last.

The Days Of Our Lives

2011-04-11T08:52:00.002+02:00

Reaching for a bottle of balsamic vinegar in the supermarket yesterday, I decided to go with the smaller bottle. Not for economy's sake but in the belief that I can control my future by adapting the container sizes: if a large bottle takes up to eight months to finish, isn't there a chance we might have to throw it out when it comes time to move? Can always buy another bottle if we're still here.

It's a life of more uncertainty than usual right now as people come and look at the house. The more viewers we can get, the better - somebody is bound to want this place. But it does make it hard to know how to plan anything involving travel, or being in a certain place at a certain time.

Friday we crossed one hurdle by getting Eric's visa petition into the US Embassy in Paris. Pulling all the paperwork together, getting the correct very specific photos, showing up during the one hour they were accepting them this month...we had to restrain ourselves from doing a buck and wing and raising the roof in the waiting area when they called us back in and said they had everything they needed for now. It was pretty cute when Eric asked the guy didn't they want to quiz us on our favorite films and record albums (we'd agreed in advance that "Who's Next" was an acceptable answer).

It was perfect timing that Kid Congo Powers and The Pink Monkeybirds were playing in the city the night before - it was great getting a chance to go out and see a sharp band play. So much fun, soul and charisma from Kid and his men. The audience was a laugh too, like central casting had gotten a call "we need a rock audience!" and sent out an assortment of types: skinny goth girls, shirtless guys who do that thing where you raise your arm and shake your hand in the air while holding out thumb and forefinger, lots of men with ponytails, pouting French Lolitas, pinstripe-jacketed rockers with tight black jeans and perfect shag haircuts, your classic Paris guy in white shirt, cashmere v-neck sweater and haughty expression and inexplicably a man in white puffy shirt and heavy brown leather jerkin and knee breeches - either an aspiring New Romantic revivalist or chateau tour guide off hours.

We liked it so much we drove a few hours to see them again in La Rochelle Saturday night. I forget how inspiring it is to see and hear someone really good play live - that's something I know is missing from my life out in rural France. Got up the next morning dying to play guitar, write and record. And there was another person coming to look at the house.

Like sand through an hour glass so goes the Modena balsamic vinegar...

It's A G.A.S.

2011-04-03T17:05:00.004+02:00

Wall of cassettes in Innsbruck
Back home trying to do my taxes and suddenly I'm reliving 2010 - revisiting a Starbucks in Wisconsin Dells, a Sleep Inn near Baton Rouge and a bad Mexican place in Chicago courtesy of an envelope full of receipts - when I'd hoped to be recounting the tour highlights of the past few weeks.

Is it enough to say it was a good trip? I'd always heard that Germany, Austria, and Switzerland were good places to play. Never got there until my late forties and now early fifties but I suppose that's just the way it was meant to be. The audiences are with you each step of the way, whether it's a black rock box or the swinging El Lokal bar/restaurant/club in Zurich or Dachau Cultural Center with the mayor of that infamous town in attendance.

Beautiful Cafe Jelinek in Vienna
Maybe it's this widening streak of grey in my hair, or living so far from cultural activity, nightlife and civilization that when I do stick my head up from the verdant trou that is rural France I've aged another year while they keep sending in younger versions of everything else: ultra-modern rest services on the autobahn and soundmen who've gone to school to learn to do sound but lack the requisite people skills and promoters with abundant hair and chic glasses - the gatekeepers or facilitators or whatever you call em are now decades younger and I start to think we're creeping to elder territory, like "look at those cute old people, when they're in motion you wouldn't believe they've been around as long as they have!"

One night in a German hotel there was an arts program on TV with this group called Kitty, Daisy & Lewis - I think we might have played the same festival in the UK in the last year or two so I remembered the name. A guy and two girls with a rockabilly look, sitting around singing and playing. Then it showed them on stage doing a concert and they had an older couple playing upright bass and guitar. I don't speak German but it sounded like they said it was the kids' parents, then they showed a picture of The Raincoats and I thought wait, that woman on bass looks familiar - she's Ingrid, that played drums with the Raincoats! What talented kids she has, and they seem to be doing great, with some help from mom and dad whether they need it or not. Evolution.

Or a couple of times I got all excited in clubs when I heard recordings of my songs played by young women - wait, I didn't know someone covered Knapsack! Then realizing it's only a fifteen-years younger version of...myself.

When we checked into a rather downhome hotel in Mannheim, we got a kick out of the crusty proprietor and his chain-smoking wife with her big glasses, dyed red hair and hacking voice - "did you get a load of those old characters? What a hoot!" until the lovely promoters at Blau said watch-cap-wearing ex-sailor and his broad (who sounded like a German version of one of Marge Simpson's sisters) had phoned to let him know that an elderly musician couple had checked in - us.

We're the older folks now. It's been in the works for a while, but it's finally starting to make some kind of sense. But only if I can get to grips with it as a wonderful opportunity. I kept noticing, on this trip, all the songs where I'm a mother and I think "what will I be next?" What is there, before Crone?

A gig in Berlin gave us the chance to visit our French pals Nico and Sabine, who've opened a nice bar and restaurant, L'Origine Du Monde, there. It was great to see them so excited about their new life, after the sleepiness of Chalus. How brave they are - if you're in Berlin, stop in for a drink or something to eat, or for one of Nico's French film nights!

Nico & his daughter Nina at L'Origine Du Monde, Berlin
We had to share room in the Ford Escort with Keith Richards, I've been reading his autobiography for weeks now and it's one of the best musician books ever. I don't know how they did it but he brought a whole life and world alive - you are there, inside photos you've stared at and records you thought you knew by heart. He's made me laugh and cry and want to pick up the guitar - I honestly never expected it. What a guy, and here I'd always thought he was so cool. He's not! I guess that's what makes him the coolest of all. I'll be sad when it ends and Eric will be out of a job because he's made a near fulltime occupation out of singing the chords to Brown Sugar every time I even reach for "the book".

What would Keith do?

Okay, I've got to get back to adding up these receipts - here's one for that Premier Travel Inn. Remember that one? It was just like the other ones, only instead of the painting with the two trees, there was one with three trees.

Climb Every Mountain

2011-03-15T09:30:00.004+01:00

I can finally say we put the house on the market, yesterday. All the work of the past few months has resulted in the cleanest, sparsest, most orderly and attractive place I've ever lived. Oozing with character. But it doesn't matter what we think, it's what somebody else thinks! So if you know anyone looking for a charming house in the French countryside, send them here

Have been lax about posting (or doing much of anything that doesn't involve a paint or scrub brush and some practicing) but wanted to share the news and also post our tour dates - we're just about to drive to Innsbruck. God that sounds glamorous...maybe not the driving part, but having been there I have to say it is a fabulous town and I'm excited. Though the next date is Dachau - what will that be like? That is part of the fun of touring - heading into the unknown, just a woman and a man with a dream, some guitars and other stuff, crammed into a car...

Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby tour dates

Wed 16 Mar Verein PMK Innsbruck, Austria
Thu 17 Mar Kultur-Schranne Dachau, Germany
Fri 18 Mar Treibhaus Luzern, Switzerland
Sat 19 Mar El Lokal Zurich, Switzerland
Sun 20 Mar B-72 Vienna, Austria
Tue 22 Mar Kampnagel Hamburg, Germany
Wed 23 Mar Crystal Club Berlin, Germany
Fri 25 Mar Blau Mannheim, Germany

Ami 8

2011-02-25T19:10:00.003+01:00

What day is it? I can't keep track anymore. We get up every day, put on painting clothes and attack another part of the house. We'd hoped to have the place up for sale by February (they say that and March are the big months for home buyers looking) but it wasn't ready. We're getting close now. Starting to put things in boxes, to "declutter". We're both envisioning a moment, not far off, where all we do is maintain the house. Follow each other around to tidy up - "Don't put that cup there!" I'll screech before lunging towards the coffee table with a bottle of ammonia and a rag. Eric will follow me around with his paint can and brush, dabbing at scuffs and marks on walls and woodwork. We'll have finally arrived, ie become just like our neighbors.

I don't see much right now - except to stand in store aisles staring at cleaning products and wood treatments. When we watch a film I'm examining brushstrokes and beams on the screen, wondering what color they used on that tongue and groove, debating beeswax vs. linseed oil. And I don't talk much, except to groan. Am I too ...mature for this? It's probably like moving your own stuff - there comes a point where you think "no way am I ever doing this again. Next time, I'll let the professionals handle it." But who has money for that? I console myself that there's honor in it, crawling around with brushes and rags in a place you've lived for a few years, a place you thought you knew. Seems you don't really know a place, not til you've undercoated or scrubbed every square inch.

And an old French house? It's only a step or two above cave dwelling. Rocks heaped together with dirt. Wood that's practically decomposing. Angles that barely intersect they're so acute. And that's just the layer from the 19th century. Before plastic was invented. When the modern stuff came in, they embraced it with a vengeance, pasting vinyl onto anything that didn't move.

Maybe I've gotten off too easy all the other times I've moved from other places I've lived. That film The Great Escape, where they dig and tunnel and bide their time so they can get out? It's sort of like that, only hopefully no one dies in this one.

So this post is a brief postcard from a home improvement show you'll never see on TV. When Eric & I were touring the US in November, we were obsessed with HGTV and "House Of Bryan," where a macho builder and his ballerina wife were working on their dream home. There was all sorts of cutesy Venus and Mars stuff, where he let her have her way ("but honey, I neeeed the biggest fridge freezer ever made or everything's just going to suck so much " and it was implied that she gave him sex in return for keeping the little lady happy. I swear they even mentioned him having a man cave. We thrilled to every male and female cliche. Like I said, we'll never be a TV show, we're too much like a transgender version of Adam, the hapless apprentice. Not to imply that Eric isn't thrillingly macho when he's swinging a hammer. But then, so am I.

Every day I see this car, parked in the exact same spot in the next village over. Compact, red and beige mismatched panels and doors, black and white zebra print upholstery - Ami 8. I park next to it if I can, just to get a closer look. In another life it would be my car.

In another life, I'd be a lady in a chic raincoat and scarf, driving my Ami 8 to the boulangerie, instead of a sad excuse for a shabby builder with permanent asscrack on display. The trees are almost all burned. So are the gloves.

And when I want to get away from all the dust, I know where to go. There are plenty of places in rural France where I can feel completely alone, just me and the countryside. But for a particular, almost-urban thrill, I found the place to search for the meaning of life in the vortex of a spin dryer (one probably even big enough for Sarah, wife of Bryan) - just me in the car in a car park that is the anteroom of the loneliest laundromat in the world.

Learning To Burn

2011-02-08T16:30:00.005+01:00

It was a beautiful day in SW France today. A perfect day for burning things.

I needed a change from building, painting, trying to make the house look good. Mick had been around with the chainsaw and this weekend he'd come back with little bundles of sticks, fire starters, and a canister of gasoline.

With a garden full of felled trees, chopped ivy and branches, I thought all it would take was heaping it all up, pouring on some gas and tossing in a match. Who knew that destruction was such hard work?

There's an art to burning. It's hard work keeping the fire going when most of the wood is wet. The center of the pile burns, leaving a lattice work of scorched and untouched branches and Mick showed me how you have to keep moving things to the center.

Angeline our neighbor watched me over the fence, amused. "Amy, Amy!" she called. She was asking if we read the paper. I wondered if this was a good time to talk about current events or the weather but what she was trying to figure out was if we had any newspaper lying around. It seemed a little beside the point what with a whole yard full of stuff to burn but I didn't want to argue so I took her offering of the Sunday paper, tour a couple of pages off, twisted them up and shoved them in.

After a while, I was sweating and cursing as the fire threatened to die for the third or fourth time. "Amy, Amy!" I looked over my shoulder and Angeline was passing an old shovel full of burning coals towards me over the fence.

It must have come from their woodburner. She'd gone to all the trouble of scooping it out in the living room, carrying it outside and up the garden steps. I thanked her and dumped it on the fire, determined to get the thing going again so she wouldn't be disappointed. As I poked more branches in she urged me on. "De sous, Amy! De sous!" In? Under? On? I thought it meant beneath but when I tried that she kept shaking her head.

The fire got roaring again and then suddenly it was the most important thing in the whole world to keep it going. Hunching, bending, grabbing and shoving branches and trunks, clawing bunches of ivy - I couldn't stop. I thought of things I could or should be doing, productive things, but none of them mattered anymore.

I thought of civilization. Culture, books, art, music, machines - hadn't we come a lot further than this? Wood in fire. Must not let it go out. Keep it burning. To burn is to live.

Angeline had gone back into her house. Mick and Eric were safely inside the studio. I thought of Maria Schneider and Tura Satana, two bad-ass babes who died this past week. How each in their own odd way made being female more complex and interesting. I grabbed a twisted branch and plunged it into the fire. Then I kicked it in with my boot, as hard as I could.

Ma Poubelle Nouvelle

2011-01-30T15:36:00.008+01:00

It's kind of like the woodburner. Last year, just in time for my birthday, Eric hooked up the second hand one we'd found through the classified ads. It had been a dream of mine, after seeing them in so many homes out in the country - the pile of logs in a corner, a cozy glow through the glass front, the dry warmth and crackling and popping and smoky smell. This thing was going to change me, or my image of myself - it wouldn't just be practical, but impart a new calm and wisdom that can only be achieved by staring into the flames.

The reality was different: logs that wouldn't stay lit, cold ash and charred wood in the morning, mess everywhere and, when the fire was finally going, heat that chapped your face and made half the room a no-go area. While the rest of the house stayed cold.

I'm not saying all woodburners are bad. I've seen good ones that stay lit all night long, that really do keep the whole room and even the room with the chimney running through above perfectly warm. This is a case of wrong woodburner, wrong room, bad logs.

That's how it is with France. Maybe I had a dream, a fantasy about the place. It's a common one for Americans, and the English too. You just say the words "I live in France" and people get a faraway look. They see Belmondo, think of the best meal they ever had in a tiny place they could never find again, picture Jeanne Moreau in a newsboy cap and Bardot in ballerina slippers and striped top. Or a towel, or nothing - sex. Countryside and castles, great thinkers. Wine and endless conversation. Art, intellect, sophistication. Freedom from pointless striving. A lot of people come here for that. I can't say I thought it through but knew it was something I wanted. Who wouldn't?

And all those things are real, at some point in time. But so are houses like peach-colored boxes, mountains of paperwork, websites that go nowhere, restaurants with fluorescent lighting and tiled floors and some of the worst food I've eaten in my life. Sidewalks with fences and planters and concrete balls stuck smack in the middle. Supermarkets with sullen checkout girls and food way past the sell-by date, markets with the same overpriced stuff you can buy at the supermarket. Stifling rules for everything. A general joylessness, or downright depressed feeling, almost everywhere you go. When there is somewhere to go - finding a place that's open when you want to go out is often impossible.

But honestly, I could probably take it all in stride, for the beauty, the idea, the genuinely lovely people I've met - if we could work here. If the gigs weren't so difficult.

Not just difficult - pointless.

Take Thursday night. We knew going into it that it was a pub, an ersatz Irish place run by an ex-madam and her husband, in the town of Angouleme. Last time we'd played over the din of talkers and drunks with a few actual listeners while the owner shook her estimable cleavage. Not great but not soul-destroying. It was my birthday and even though I would have liked a nice night out on the town I'd started to look forward to playing. We were hoping for a little more of a cultured crowd with the Festival de la Bande Desinee in town.

That brought a few people in, beyond the ploucs with money who make up a good part of the population (plouc is a kind of French hick). But in general it was a tough bar gig, and we made it through two sets with some enjoyment. No big deal, just a paying gig.

Hung around talking to some of those who'd been into it. Packed up and ready to start loading out at 1:00 AM or so when the ex-madam called me back behind the bar - time to get paid.

She wanted to know what our guarantee was and I told her. Then she started demanding how we could charge something like that and only play for two hours. She'd had too much too drink and kept counting out the money and shaking her head and barking at me that we had stopped playing at midnight! midnight! What kind of value was that? I asked her why she hadn't just asked us to play longer, when our stuff was still set up? I knew that it was because she'd been too busy carousing and hadn't been paying attention. Her husband was too drunk to get involved in anything that involved putting words together by now. She sort of threw the money at me and brought out their younger nephew who kept asking if I could honestly say we'd done enough work to earn the guarantee. Like he wanted to shame me into backing down.

But why were we having this discussion anyway? There is no way they would ever value what we had done and what we have to offer beyond it providing some noise and color for a corner of their lousy bar. So yeah, we got paid what we were supposed to. I'm not completely depressed now because we've already made the decision to leave.

Wrong woodburner, wrong room. Bad logs. We just don't fit here, as musicians. We're not "rock" enough, or "garage" enough, or "60's" enough, or "punk" enough. Or "musicianly" enough. We don't do enough songs everybody knows. And even if we did there's no place to play. Over the last four years the number of places willing to put on music has dwindled to almost nothing.

I'm not harboring any illusions cause we've been all over the US and UK, Spain, Ireland, Germany, and things are tough everywhere. But I'm thinking of this year's birthday treat - a new kitchen bin.

A new poubelle is nothing to get excited about. No fantasies of snuggling around the kitchen, gazing at the garbage can, taking turns putting things in it.

But a few days before my birthday this year, Eric installed one under the kitchen sink. You open the door and it swings out. I don't have to trip over the bin or look at it when I'm not using it. I had no expectations but the thing gives total satisfaction. Because it works.

That's all I want, when we move away from here. Something that works.

I Got The Fève

2011-01-23T17:45:00.003+01:00

Our friend Peter is here helping with painting and decorating which is going at a fever pitch. He brought along some films to watch at night but I swear all I can do is look at the paint surfaces, wood grain, brush strokes on walls and woodwork behind the actors. And to think when we first came here I couldn't bear to be in the attic - old dust and cobwebs, weird rusty farm implements, ancient poison bottles, tiny wooden shoes - all a little Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte or Baby Doll or Miss Havisham or the French equivalent of any of those for my delicate sensibilities. Now I feel like I know every stone, board, splinter and beam intimately as I'm jointing, sanding and painting all the walls and doors and windows that Eric put in. And it continues - will we ever be done? We know we're on our way out of this place, getting it ready to sell, but it feels good to keep it alive, make it better than it was. It had been empty for years and nobody (except us) would look at it twice. Now somebody else is going to love it, I just know it.

Mick brought his chainsaw and took down the unruly parts of a half dozen trees so now there are three or four bonfires worth of branches and trunks to deal with. I think I feel a music video (or at least an album cover photo shoot) coming on.

We have a show this week in Angouleme - January 27 at Le Kennedy Irish pub run by a French couple. It's the first day of the massive Festival International de la Bande Dessinee which is probably a little like Anthrocon but with cartoons instead of furries? It's my birthday that day and I was picturing a trip to a nice little restaurant, good food and wine - a chance to wear something other than paint-splattered clothes and the baseball hat I need in the attic because my head attracts low-hanging beams. Instead it's a gig which is how I've spent a good percentage of my birthdays over the last twenty-five or so years. It's probably the most natural thing to do. There is no doubt that playing is energizing and life-affirming, even if it's telling the people telling us to be quiet so they can converse to get lost. Stomping on a distortion pedal and blowing back what was left of that old guy's hair probably isn't on the menu for Thursday - I imagine the apero crowd will stay safely indoors with shutters bolted in place while the comics-mad youth run loose in the streets of Angouleme.

Two days until I go back to the doctor - the place where he hacked now resembles a botched nose piercing. I'm hopeful it'll be okay but if it's not apparently it can all be taken care of. Whatever happens with that I'm supposed to have good luck this year - I got the fève from the galette we ate the other night. The fève is a tiny porcelain favor baked into pastry and almond paste, one per cake. I think this one is something special - mysterious and alluring, it's just the kind of thing I came to France to find. I'm going to treasure it.

Deadheading

2011-01-14T20:07:00.008+01:00

Got to move things along from yesterday's post - I feel bad about sharing something like that, really. Not that this is one of those upbeat I Love France sites or vibrant artist with so many creative irons in the fire sites or anything (though sometimes I really wish it was. Life would be so much easier than how it is right now, which is knowing we need to move on, really looking forward to it, but wondering how the hell to make it all happen.) The truth is whatever the writer feels like putting out there, right? So today I want to celebrate deadheading.

I took advice from our friend Mick who's coming by to do some recording tomorrow. He said it was a good time to cut back the hydrangeas, or hortensia, which grow like crazy in the summer and fill the courtyard with luminescent flower balls.

It was so satisfying, attacking these things. They were six and seven feet high in places, all brown and sad-looking. Now they've got crew cuts. Ready to be reborn in spring, to come back more lush and beautiful than ever.

And I've got a new blog post. There - that feels better!

Who Loves The Sun

2011-01-13T11:00:00.004+01:00

I'm trying not to freak out and panic after leaving the doctor's office two days ago looking like Jake Gittes post-reservoir.

I'd used the topical chemotherapy the doctor had prescribed for small but worrying sun spots and in some cases it seemed to be working. But this one, well he had to take a biopsy. Cut a tiny piece of skin from the side of my nose to send to a lab to diagnose for skin cancer.

He kept telling me, in French, that I'm too young for this, "how old are you again?" as if no one below senior citizen age in the history of modern civilization has had to deal with damage from the too much sun many of us had when we were young. Please, somebody tell me this happens all the time, nothing unusual, easily taken care of as long as the necessary steps are followed in a timely manner. Isn't that what you want a doctor to say?

The doctor knows I'm a performer - do you stand at the front or back of the stage? he asked, of course leaving me convinced I'll end up so disfigured I'll have to wear a veil for the rest of my life. Oh wait, they've banned the burka in France. So maybe if I have to I can learn to take it like a man, like Keith, flaunt the scars and dents.

So, if I'm a little silent, a little preoccupied, aside from a full home redecoration I'm waiting for the results of the lab test to help me figure out what I have to do next. And walking around looking vaguely dangerous.

Forget it. It's Chinatown.

Back Where You Belong

2011-01-03T19:27:00.006+01:00

Our car was stolen a few months ago and we'd accepted that we'd never see it again. Came up with all kinds of exciting scenarios for how it had happened: Russian car theft rings, deranged farmers with wild dogs who come down to the villages and lift cars every now and then, chop shops - we thought we'd imagined every possibility.

But the reality was much less glamorous. Some country sad sack needed a ride home to the next village one night, and "d'uh, I take this one!" nicked our lowly Ford Escort from in front of the garage where it had recently been repaired. Left it sitting there, parked on the sparsely-traveled street, for almost two months. A local, noticing the blight on the landscape, eventually called the police.

They summoned us to the village where the garage is located back in October. The day a paper had come from the auto insurance company, asking Eric to verify his identity before they could proceed with any claims. We'd met with four policemen in front of a shabby, ancient barn, all of them tall and in knee-high polished black boots (and the rest of the gendarme outfit but it was the gleaming boots that captured my imagination). The tallest one with the little mustache r-o-l-l-e-d back the barn door and shined his flashlight in.

"Is this your automobile?" he asked.

Eric, overcome with emotion, hid his face in my shoulder, sobbing "Oh my God." (He didn't really, but as they were acting so CSI, it would have made sense.)

As he stepped forward to throw his arms around the car, one of the officers shouted, "Ne touchez pas la voiture!" They instructed us to circle the car, as they held up stuff they'd found inside. "Is this your...CD?" (The Eels! We thought it had been lost forever). "Two ancient pines cones?" Check. "Is this your...bag of garbage?" (Three empty water bottles and a crumpled boulangerie bag, present and accounted for!)

After all this verifying, they took Eric into the station where he signed a report. Then we went away on tour for two months.

This past Friday, we went back to the garage. Sitting out front, looking the cleanest it has in four years, doors unlocked (ahem), good as or better than it was before - the Ford Escort.

Happy New Year!

Calendar Boys

2010-12-29T18:17:00.011+01:00

It's that time of year when the local fire department comes around with their calendars, accepting donations for the work they do.

People joke about how you better not stiff these guys, because they might hold it against you and ignore your call if you should ever need their help. I doubt that's true but it would be rude to not pony up and deny them the chance to give you a copy of their specially-designed calendar.

It might make sense to go with the old standard and use pictures on the calendar that make it something cheery to hang on a wall: flowers or puppies or local chateaux or firefighters in provocative poses.

But that would all be too random, too ordinary. I'm not sure what it's like in other towns and villages in France, but around here the calendars are absolutely literal: burning houses, cars turned upside down in flames, vans wrapped around light poles. They'd show one of the men in blue getting a kitten out of a tree but that would probably be too cutesy and might bring a smile and a warm fuzzy feeling - this is cold, hard firefighter reality and if you want to be reminded of where your donation is going, just check out the head-on collision for March.

I celebrate the sapeurs-pompiers and their calendar. I hope that none of the lurid photos in this year's version involved any injuries or loss of life - would they have remembered to ask permission to use the photos?

I'm a little miffed they left out the exploding woodburner.

Merry Christmas

2010-12-25T18:14:00.004+01:00

No kids, no tree, no lights.

We're having a quiet Christmas: unpacking from almost two months of traveling, and trying to whip this house into shape. Eric has tiled the kitchen, I'm on caulk gun and undercoat.

No foie gras this year, just a couple of steaks and some Champagne. Chocolate treats from my favorite patisserie.

A Steve McQueen film fest, and maybe "A Mighty Wind" which we know so well we don't really watch it so much as act out all the parts.

This morning we walked in a nearby village - checking out what's for sale, what's been sold. Looking at smoke coming up out of the chimneys, and a little bit of snow on the roof tiles. It was cold but lovely, walking in the sunshine.

Our fifth Christmas in France. I wanted to take some photos this morning but decided to just look and think about the other years.

We miss everybody but feel lucky to have seen my whole family in America and Eric's mother, daughter and granddaughter in England this month, along with lots of our dear friends.

I feel happy to be here with Eric, a musical hero who can tile a kitchen. And having had the chance to go out and play a lot of shows this year. I want to say thank you to everyone who visits this blog. I know I spend a lot of time on here complaining, crying "Why?" etc. I know I'll be doing that again soon. But it's Christmas, a time for celebrating. It's been a hard year and we made it through.

I could spin a holiday story about this display of two hulking wooden figures that sit in a parking lot in Nontron, a dull, pretty town famous for knives. But I won't - I just know that it makes me laugh every time I see it.

Running Between The Snowflakes

2010-12-23T12:42:00.007+01:00

"FROZEN HELL!"
"TRAVEL MISERY!!"

For days the British headlines screamed warnings of a snowstorm, freezing temperatures and icy roads. They urged people to say home, but where was home for us? We were on the road and still had gigs to play.

Maybe we died a few weeks ago in New Jersey, in the parking lot of that rogue Alamo car rental office out back of the Renaissance hotel on Route 1, and were now zombies doomed to criss-cross the highways and motorways and autoroutes of the world with a van full of battered equipment, loading in to bars and clubs and beautiful homes and even Boy Scout lodges at 5 PM for all eternity. That might explain the fact that we drove from the south of England all the way to the north of England, then traveled east to Norfolk, then back south to Kent and over to Dover and barely saw a snowflake.

It might also explain why the roads were practically empty. Like Bruce Willis in the Sixth Sense, we could only see the other zombies? Those rosy cheeked other customers in Costa Coffee - all dead? (The employees too, but that's nothing unusual.)

Occasionally we'd pass a car covered with snow, panic-stricken driver gripping the wheel inside, peering out through frosted windscreen. Meanwhile we cruised along in a ray of sunshine.

At every stop along the way, we were greeted with concern: "How was it out there? Was it awful? Can't believe you made it!" and we shook our heads, wondering what everyone was talking about. Eric's mother called, frantic that we were stranded somewhere. She'd been so worried we wouldn't make our gigs, she'd tucked some money in one of our bags, just in case.

The fact that we'd left our mobile phone behind somewhere in America only added to the drama/Sixth Sense scenario - people trying to get in touch with us got a mysterious "not available" message. And every time we stopped at a services and looked for a payphone, we'd see another rack of newspapers shrieking of certain peril for anyone on the road and we'd rush back to the van to try to beat the snowstorm that was coming from...everywhere.

When we reached the ferry and were ensconced with the lorry drivers and other zombies in yet another Costa Coffee, drinking our espressos and reading of Heathrow passengers stranded for days and driving expert Jeremy Clarkson having to ditch his car and walk 11 miles in the snow to Oxford, they made an announcement that our departure would be delayed: they had to board three busloads of foot passengers who'd been stranded at a train station in London due to weather.

When they finally let the weary hordes onto the boat, hollow-eyed, lugging their rolling suitcases, looking like every banished contestant from every reality show ever broadcast all brought together in one mismatched bunch, we had to chuckle at our good fortune.

No passport check at Calais, to prove we still really existed. That's not so unusual - they generally can't be bothered. And for hours through the frozen French countryside, as fog swirled and trucks sprayed, we held on to the idea that we were the only people, living or dead, left on the earth. France has that effect sometimes, especially after England - where did all the people go? Through empty towns with boarded up gas stations and eerie Christmas lights blinking on and off, until the snow had run out and we pulled up in front of the house.

I walked up to the supermarket, the air wet with rain and warmer, much warmer. Complete silence - maybe we had come back to our final resting place, a small village in rural France.

When the door slid back, I saw mounds of gift-wrapped foie gras and stacks of fancy chocolate boxes that would no doubt sit gathering dust in the recipients' houses until they were passed on next Christmas. I heard Ace of Base, who are always playing in some supermarket in France, as if the last twenty years never happened.

And there, in the glow of the cash register, I saw the beady eyes of Rat Face - evil checkout girl. Nothing had changed. I was still alive.

Or maybe that piece of candy I stole from the Giant Eagle when I was six had finally caught up with me and just like Sister Mary George warned, this was how I was going to spend eternity?

Jetlagged Ramblings

2010-12-10T11:14:00.004+01:00

Flying over to England the plane was filled with glamorous women with glossy long highlighted hair, expensive jeans and suitcases too heavy for their scrawny arms to lift into the overheads. I kept imagining that if the plane went down all that would remain would be hair products, bobbing up and down on the surface of the Atlantic.

I slept for a while after watching "The Kids Are All Right" for the second time. I loved this movie - Annette Bening's performance is right up there with Sissy Spacek in Coal Miner's Daughter and Paul Giamatti in Sideways for having me on the verge of tears throughout the entire film - awe and emotion, "how did she do that?"

The first time I'd seen the movie was on the way over to the US, back when I was still almost young (ie one month ago). Then, the main question in my head was how I'd survive touring with a hideous cold.

Now, heading back overseas, I was still trying to process all the things I'd seen and done on the trip.

It was screens that I remembered, that kept flashing in front of my eyes: the screen of my ersatz iphone, the EZ Pass LEDs, hotel and motel flat screens. The laptop on stage, laptops in cafes. People in the audience for the Hanukkah show looking at Facebook on their iPhones - why? Movies in movie theatres, chosen not for their merit but because they happened to be playing at the right moment - and how movies are filled with laptops and iphones now, as part of the action. Just as I used to enjoy watching movies from the 40s and 50s for the vintage clothes and apartment furnishings, I now find myself enjoying dumb romantic comedies from the 80s and 90s for the lack of technology - who cares about plot and dialogue, just see how the actors manouevre with phone cords and shoving coins into payphone coin slots, offices where people flip through rolodexes and file cards, slide folders across arid desktops.

Public bathrooms, where everything is automated now - you don't have to touch a tap or a soap dispenser. Wave your hand for a paper towel. And in all the rest rooms, or hotel bathrooms, you never really know what you look like, only that some mirrors are forgiving and some are brutal.

Have I been away awhile, or have servers in restaurants become even more aggressive in their "I'll be taking care of you today" insincerity - shamelessly working the tip, only to disappear midway through without a word, replaced by another "team member"? We count sometimes no less than six people to deal with in order to eat lunch at say, Bravo - a chain Italian restaurant. By the time we pay the bill, I feel like we should have a brand new set of friends for life. But we walk out to not even a robotic "thanks and come again" because the team has moved on.

At the same time some of the lowlier service workers, at Walgreen's or Shoprite, seem sincere and sweet in comparison to the disinterested, disdainful and often downright hostile people (well, women - always women) in similar jobs in France.

Did I mention the shows? We had audiences, and fans! Attendance is down for everything but it still feels worth it (though the balance sheet would argue with that - when, how, will I ever figure out how to make a living?). They really rub it in at the airport, charging $60 per extra bag, which takes a Russian American/British Airways attendant forever to process due to the combined computer systems - while you wait there's a stack of magazines full of exotic expensive homes and sleek motorcars to buy. Where are the rich people? I just see families with taped-up cardboard boxes and shrink-wrapped luggage begging to get out of paying the extra $60. Us included ("waive the fee! waive the fee!" we chant for the 45 minutes it takes to accept our payment).

The Newark crew were whooping it up as the carry-ons rolled through, cracking jokes and helping us get the guitars safely off the belt. Where were the full-body scanners we'd been promised? All I saw were ads for Zappos.com in the bins to be passed through the xray machine. The security guard waved me away when I asked if we needed plastic bags for liquids and gels - "Aw, they don't do that no more." The rules change daily. No wonder the fashion brigade looked so fabulous all through the flight.

We Were The Washington Monument

2010-12-02T18:26:00.004+01:00

There was one guy in the room, standing in front of the stage, as a Zombies record played and showtime drew nearer.

"It is what it is," I said to Eric backstage, repeating a phrase I'd often heard in the short time I lived in Cleveland and never completely understood. "Stuart's here, out in the bar, and my older brother John. Alan said he'd be coming, and maybe Graeme too. My old friend Sarah...and with the guy in front of the stage, that makes - an audience?"

"We'll play and it'll be fine," Eric said.

"Should I wear this dress?" I asked him, looking at myself in the mirror. Remembering that stupid drunk guy in Brighton, worried I'd look like I had expectations.

"Of course," he said. "You look great."

"Let's go then," I said and we laughed and did that little show folk thing that Fred Willard and Catherine O'Hara do in "Waiting For Guffman" - click click, sad face happy face, pull my finger.

There were seven in front of the stage now. We started playing the opening song and like magic the room was filling up. Familiar faces and sort of familiar faces and guys in suits and ties youngish people and ones with white hair and glasses. People in black rock and roll t-shirts and work clothes.

It was Washington DC on a Wednesday night and the room was suddenly full of people who'd come to see us play. There was laughing and shouting, pogoing and clapping. Croatians, Russians, people from England and the beltway. It was the last show of a winter US tour I'd looked forward to and then been too sick and out of it on cold medicine to fully appreciate. I didn't want it to end.

I Dreamed A Dream

2010-11-09T03:57:00.004+01:00

Like a modern Twilight Zone episode, a curly-haired guy in a houndstooth check mac, knapsack and red sneakers kept appearing again and again in the airport, shouting into a mobile phone about acquiring the WORLDWIDE RIGHTS to some book, and how they were FLYING 40 JOURNALISTS IN SO BOWIE COULD WALK THEM THROUGH THE EXHIBITION, and they've got MARKETING STRATEGY and FILM RIGHTS. We were sure he was either a cyborg, some kind of performance artist or the modern day equivalent of a man talking to himself on the street - only in this case he'd lost his book publishing job two years ago and now roams the airports and public transit systems of the grand cities of the world, talking to no one about what might have been.

He'd mentioned New York in one of his expository monologues, so we were betting, hoping even, that he'd be on our flight.

I saw him approach our gate, still talking at top volume, but then he looped around and headed away to another part of the terminal.

"But they're calling Final Boarding!" I cried. "What will we do for seven hours if he's not on the plane, giving us something to speculate about?"

"He must be scheduled to do his act in a different part of the airport," Eric said.

We were devastated.

Then I saw him coming back, still talking on his "phone", with an armload of newspapers. Have to keep current, if you're someone in such an important position (wink wink).

"Watch him be in coach," Eric said.

Sure enough, at the last possible minute he squeezed into one of the economy seats just a few rows in front of us. We high-fived.

Later I saw one of the flight attendants trying to explain to him how to fill out the customs form. It was a highlight of the trip.

In honor of our deluded fellow traveler (or fellow deluded traveler), here's the SURE TO BE SOLD OUT SHOWS we have coming up in the next few weeks. Glassy-eyed enthusiasm is the way forward!

Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby USA

Tues Nov 9 Valentine's Albany, NY
Thu Nov 11 Asbury Lanes Asbury Park, NJ
Fri Nov 12 Bowery Electric New York, NY
Sun Nov 14 Moose Exchange Bloomsburg, PA
Fri Nov 19 400 Bar Minneapolis, MN
Tues Nov 30 Motorco, Durham NC
Wed Dec 1 Black Cat, Washington DC

Lawrence Of Arabia Slept Here

2010-10-31T09:11:00.007+01:00

It felt like goodbye to something last night sitting in what used to be our local bar, the Lawrence d'Arabie - it's now a bar/restaurant called Le Saxo. We'd resisted going into the place out of loyalty to Nico, our friend and the old owner - in memory of what he'd created there. The butcher across the street will not set foot in the new place, nor have some of the old clientele. But the new owner is a sweet man, a bit on the anxious side (but who wouldn't be trying to make a go of a new business in France these days?) If you were in Glasgow or Nashville, Norwich, Wheeling even, it would be easy to find somewhere else to go. But here on a Saturday night within a thirty mile radius there are probably only a half dozen places to get a beer or something to eat. Plus, given that Nico really wanted to sell the bar, an embargo doesn't make a lot of sense.

But I felt this wave of nostalgia and even grief, last night. Nico hadn't offered just another option - he'd given us an alternative. It wasn't just a place with food and alcohol, it was our place.

Was it coincidence or fate that made us stumble in there four years ago? Chalus was not our village, but it has a lot of history and there's something compelling about it even though it's pretty dead. You get the feeling, walking around, that once upon a time there was a lot going on in. We walked into the bar called "Lawrence d'Arabie" that had an almost Moroccan feel, with colored lamps and bamboo furniture, and I think we heard a record by Nick Cave or Tom Waits or even Alan Vega playing. Now the chances of that happening in a tiny village deep in rural France are very very slim but I had no way of knowing that back then - I thought hipsters were everywhere! Not hipsters in the derogatory sense but people into interesting music, into the world, new things, old things. By the time we walked out we had arranged our first local gig, and we ended up playing there a lot over the last couple of years.

Completely wood and stone inside, the sound was difficult. In winter I had to play next to a huge roaring fireplace, and the right corner of the stage area was also the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes people sat in front of us grimacing and sticking their fingers in their ears (for two sets) and every time the pizza oven upstairs kicked in my keyboard would cut out.

But when we played, friends and acquaintances and visitors and locals would come see us. It felt like we were most of us in it together, and by the time we got to Dancing With Joey Ramone or Round or Take The Cash, we had usually gotten somewhere - we'd changed the atmosphere of a tiny spot in the middle of France.

Sometimes I didn't want to play there, I wanted somewhere bigger, better, grander or at least somewhere without such a good view of a toilet door. But it's where Eric and I really learned to play together, to work together, like soldiers in a foxhole, or window washers up on the side of a building - keeping the balance, looking out for the other guy, if one of us goes down we both do.

I didn't think about any of this when we were sitting there last night. I just thought about how...dull the place seemed. Music kept at a barely audible level, an ipod shuffle, nothing that would put anyone off. No familiar faces, a decent meal with a sincere attempt to do everything correctly. I went in the bathroom, a tiny medieval closet under the stairs and thought of all the nights I'd gone in there after playing to wipe the eyeliner and mascara off from under my eyes. I'd go to the bar and there was always a glass of cognac there for me. Marquee Moon would come on, somebody pushing the volume up. Nico - a lanky dark Frenchman in a well-cut velvet suit jacket - would hug me and start shouting Amy! Eric! Amy! Eric! Le meilleur groupe en France!

Nico moved his family to Berlin - we hear he has a new bar there already. I think he's very happy which is good because he was often miserable in France. We'll move on too - I think the disillusionment really started sinking in for me when we found we couldn't call ourselves musicians here. A place I'd always thought was proud of and encouraged its artists requires you to jump through so many hoops it hardly seems worth it. The new bar owner had hoped to have us play there, but the charges and fear of putting a foot wrong have him hemming and hawing when we ask about a gig. None of the local bars are putting on music.

There's a sign on the wall outside the bar that says young Lawrence Of Arabia slept in one of the rooms upstairs when he was cycling through France. I think when we leave I'll put up a post-it note below, saying "here, for a few years in the second half of the first decade of the 21st century, Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby sang and played."

Thank You, Ari

2010-10-23T19:28:00.010+02:00

I know I shouldn't rely on the NY Times to be up to date or relevant, but I still look at the paper online - a reflex, maybe. Just like I perk up when I'm anywhere out there in the world and can pick up a copy. Maybe it's the familiarity factor - the font, the bylines I recognize from days of yore - my onetime hometown paper.

But I felt really disappointed, mad even, that they let a whole 2 days go by without mentioning the death of Ari Up. That is - Ari died on Oct. 20, on the 21st the British papers, every friend on Facebook, tweets and retweets of the news and - by late in the day of the 21st still nothing in the Times. How can a paper that tries to appear current, always with the articles about CMJ, even working rap artists into the crossword puzzles, have let that happen?

Maybe they didn't have an obituary ready to go for her, because punk never meant that much to the New York Times, or America in general, when it was happening. So they got a guy to do some patchy research and almost redeemed themselves by ending the piece with a quote from Vivien Goldman: “You cannot be a female artist on the wild side, very passionate and self-expressive, without being formed at least in part by Ari,” Ms. Goldman said. “In her feral 14-year-old way, she did represent a new archetype of womanhood.”

I had to be mad at somebody - it's a shock and it's not fair Ari Up dying so young, and they should have noticed sooner. If you don't know who she was, try this post by John Robb - not that I agree with everything he says (I saw what had been advertised as a Slits show a few years back and while I loved Ari's energy, it was a male pickup band and musically a let down...but still worth it to stand next to my daughter Hazel, a little younger than I was when I saw the Slits at Tier 3 back in 1979, completely enraptured, in love, as much with the idea of what was possible if you just got up there to express something, not looking like anyone's idea of what a girl should look like, not sounding like anyone's idea of what a girl should sound like. Made almost more powerful by the fact that Ari was now a woman in her 40s, cavorting around with crazy dreads and short shorts). But what he really captures is the effect The Slits had - visually and musically. I saw pictures of them for two years before hearing a note and was captivated - their messy hair, dark eye makeup, Ari with Jubilee underpants OVER leather trousers. There was no coyness. But it wasn't androgyny, the way Patti Smith could have been a girl or a guy - it was very female. Their album Cut came out sounding so accomplished and together but live at Tier 3 they still made enough of an ungodly racket to give us all hope.

So along with Ari Up's obituary in the Times yesterday, there was the most popular article - a woman of 55 declaring that it's okay to have long grey hair. She talked about the musical role models for women her age - Bonnie Raitt, Emmylou Harris, Joni Mitchell - and I thought "wow, here is a woman only FOUR years older than me and she missed it all." Did things really change that much from being 17 in 1973 to being 17 in 1977?

Yes, if you were lucky enough to hear about it.

Hilary Jaeger booked the Slits (and The Raincoats. And Y Pants. And Ut. And a lot of other groups all female, all male and in-between) into Tier 3 back when. She and her sister Angela brought Ari to see daughter Hazel play at a NYC bar last summer. The bartender wouldn't let Ari and Angela and Hilary in to the show - she carded them, demanding to see their IDs for proof they were old to be in a bar. After all, the drinking age in the US is 21.

I look at this picture and see these not-typical girls looking so cute and cool and Ari glowing and I'm glad I was one of the lucky ones and I laugh and cry...

Angela Jaeger, Hilary Jaeger, Karen McBurnie, Hazel Rigby, Ari Up

L'Experte

2010-10-19T16:14:00.005+02:00

"I've learned some things, these years in France," I said to Eric.

"You couldn't drive a manual car when you got here," he said.

I put a chicken into the oven to roast. "Why, four years back, I couldn't even roast a chicken!"

I thought about all the other things I'd learned. How to speak French, the difference between brebis and chevre. I'd never heard of grèves and I thought France was all shabby chic and women with scarves tied just so. I had no idea there were so many kinds of slippers, or knives. That neon yellow safety vests are for driving, orange for hunters.

How to tell a baguette from a batard, a financier from a religieuse.

Survival skills, like drinking coffee black - not because it's more sophisticated but because most of the milk is that long shelf-life kind. I didn't know how to steam and scrape wallpaper, but that's a must to know if you're living in an old French house and don't want to walk around permanently depressed.

"You know one other thing I've learned?" I shouted, clomping into the kitchen with an armload of logs. "This time last year, I couldn't build a fire!"

But now I did it easily, the first fire of the season - piling the smaller bits of wood into the wood burner, planting fire lighters, getting it going and then adding bigger logs.

A few minutes later, when the thing was really roaring, the room started filling up with foul-smelling smoke.

I checked the chicken - that was fine. I opened the wood burner and it was perfect, like a picture from Country Living magazine. But the fumes were making me queasy. I walked outside, looking at the chimney silhouetted against the sky, to make sure the smoke was coming out alright.

Back inside, it smelled like a hazardous waste site. I looked at the side of the woodburner and screamed.

Plastic letters, like you put on a refrigerator, THANK YOU spelled out by friends in the summer. I'd looked at them just that morning and smiled. It hadn't occurred to me to take them down - now they were melting and burning, the cheery colors dripping and running together like something in a horror film.

And suddenly Eric was lunging in fearlessly with a paint scraper, removing the molten mess and flinging it onto a pile of newspaper.

But then I already knew he was my hero.

An Education

2010-10-13T20:02:00.013+02:00

France continues to confound, amuse, occasionally delight and frequently drive me nuts. I guess you could call it boot camp, for what I'm not exactly sure. It turns every assumption about the civilized world upside down - I used to think I was kind of cynical and worldly but I look back on those days of dewy innocence with a mixture of embarrassment and wonder. Four years in this place will do that to a person.

I remember how a few French words thrown together on a sign above a sandwich shop - Au Bon Pain - could add a touch of glamour and quality to a bagel in midtown or a cup of soup at a rest stop on the Ohio Turnpike. Just by association - "hey, it's French, it must have that something extra." I never thought I'd be in France wishing I could get anything as decent as an Au Bon Pain Chicken Caesar sandwich for lunch but that is the frequent reality here.

Today I was all excited because I finally visited a Leroy Merlin store and it was a lot closer to what I'd expected of France: style, color, pizazz. The main color, in addition to the bold black and white graphics on the outside of the store, was that "Play Misty For Me" late 60's/early 70's bright green that I love. The clerks were wearing tattersal-check shirts white with green, everything looking very smart. The prices were reasonable, the kitchen and bath displays weren't completely hideous, even the colors on the rows of paint cans had the depth and intensity of the vintage French fashion magazines I flipped for back at art school in the 70s.

The place had sprung up outside of Limoges in the last few months, alongside some other mall-type stores. Driving into the complex, we'd passed something called Cafe Madeline. A cafe, one would assume. It was next to a McDonald's.

"Why don't we go over there and have a coffee?" Eric said, after we'd bought some paint. We've been fixing the house up to make it more salable as it's dawned on us we can't make a living here without traveling at least twelve hours away.

"Isn't this civilized!" I said. "I mean, I know it's a mall but at least we can get what we need, have a snack and go home, without actually having to go into Limoges." A trip there usually leaves one or both of us deeply depressed or traumatized.

It wasn't looking good as I opened the door of Cafe Madeline. Where was the coffee bar part of the cafe, the one with the espresso machine? All I could see was a mall attempt at a fine dining experience - the decor was photographic murals of people eating in restaurants.

"Can we just get some coffee?" I asked the hostess who greeted us with menus in hand.

"No, it's a restaurant - for coffee, there's the McDo (Mac-Dough)." She gestured next door.

"But it says `cafe'!" Eric said. "We're in France, and you're sending us to a McDonald's for the coffee?" She looked bewildered so we left.

Emmanuel brought oysters fresh from Bretagne over last night. That was delightful. The crisp fall weather with bright blue sky is perfect. Recording is good, and writing. As long as I stay out of the stores, restaurants, garages, insurance offices, "cafes", Limoges - I'll be fine.

Oh and the library's okay - I like the library.

"Just One More Thing"

2010-10-05T19:06:00.004+02:00

I've had a tiny, achievable goal for a while - to own a wine glass. A long-stemmed glass, elegant. For that one or two drinks in the evening. I said I'd wait until there was a kitchen shelf capable of housing a glass like that, and there almost is so I broke down and bought one. At Tesco, for 50p. Carried it in its own "road case" as Eric called it (the cardboard caddy they were selling them in) for three weeks, in and out of hotel rooms even. Thrilled to my first glass at home - perching on the couch, glass in hand, no more generic jelly jar or that squat amber French nonbreakable glass. The fantasy was real.

And then today I broke the glass.

I'm sure I can find another. The car is another story. It really is gone. Stolen from outside the garage where it had been repaired. The garagiste is mortified. He may know who did it but he tried getting near the place and the dogs came after him and scared him off. He asked the local police and they told him they were afraid of the dogs too.

I made like Columbo today, hanging around the shop across the street from the garage, seeing what was up. In honesty the only similarity between me and Columbo is that I was wearing a raincoat. I heard people in the shop talking about how "no one will park near here now" and strained to make out more. It's true, there have been more cars stolen lately. But the people in the shop were chuckling about it - do they know something?

We've got a plan, maybe only in our heads, involving a gang of us and an ambulance and some very loudspeakers playing "Ride Of The Valkyries". And a cage with meat and tranquilizers.

And a toast to the prodigal Ford Escort, with a slightly sturdier wineglass.

Goodbye Pork Pie Hat

2010-09-28T10:11:00.010+02:00

Up and down. Down and up.

Down the road to Brighton, up the stairs with a load of equipment. Had a good time playing - the audience was subdued, respectful almost. Which made us worry a little...in the UK they tend to get rowdy, loud. "You're doing fine!" someone shouted.

I'd worn a new old dress I'd picked up at a vintage shop in Norwich. Pleased to have something different to wear, something that hadn't been knocking around my suitcase for the last four months, something I hadn't seen myself in on YouTube, Facebook and mirrors in toilets before shows without dressing rooms. Ladies in the audience had given me some lovely compliments - it's usually the girls, not the guys, who comment on what you're wearing.

So we'd finished playing and packing up and I changed into whatever clothes I'd worn in the van all week. Sitting alone in the room with the last of our stuff and a guy stumbled in.

"You look A LOT better now than in what you were wearing before. That dress looks TERRIBLE. You shouldn't wear it ever again."

Like being slapped in the face. The ravings of a madman or the sage advice of a fashion expert? I mumbled something ineffective, like "other people thought it looked, umm, okay". What did it matter what this guy thought? He had what looked like a perm growing out. He was drunk. But like the lone bad review that sears itself into your brain, every critical word crisply echoing in your head for the rest of time while the positive press composts in a wet pile, his was the voice of authority, the one that says "You thought you were something, didn't you? Well you're WRONG."

Then he said he was looking for his hat.

I perked up. "A pork pie hat?" He nodded, excitedly. "I saw some guy leave with it a little while ago." His face fell and he lumbered out of the room, leaving me wondering.

Wondering why I'd tried to defend myself instead of just telling him to piss off.

Wondering why I hadn't told him that a man with a perm is in no position to offer fashion advice.

And smiling at the memory of the table of drunk people who'd picked his hat up off the floor and passed it around. "Hey, look at me! I'm a dork in a pork pie hat!" Low on the forehead, tilted back - they'd put that hat through its paces. "Take my picture, take my picture!" one of them had shouted. He'd leaned against the wall, glowering, the hat at a ridiculous jaunty angle. "Photo of a man in a stolen hat," he'd deadpanned, before they'd all fallen about laughing.

Did I wear the dress again?

Of course I did.

Most Wanted

2010-09-22T19:58:00.006+02:00

Drove the opposite way through France from last week, took a nice stroll and had dinner in Dreux near where Eric used to live, then camped at Baie de Somme, a services we know well as it's the first one from after Calais. Just as we parked and were going to sleep, some crazy wind and rain moved in and the van was shaken and rattled around like a tin can back when there were tin cans. That made sleeping difficult but catching the ferry easy because I couldn't wait to get out of there in the morning.

Spent the first part of our drive north to Scotland going through the papers and realizing that the Pope's visit was eerily following our tour routing: Glasgow, Edinburgh and Birmingham (though he stuck a London date in between there, ours isn't until this Friday Sept. 24 at The Lexington).

We were supposed to check into a Premier Inn near Newcastle and do a phone interview and have a rest but the van broke down. We sat on the side of the A1 waiting for help for almost two hours. The phone ran out of credit while we were trying to give our coordinates to the assistance people but we were able to text our friend Lindsay in Scotland to buy us a top-up. While all this was going on the Scottish interviewer called.

"Cannae you talk now?" Another truck screams past. How many times have Eric and I, separately or together, been here? You know somehow the situation will resolve but it's not fun. Never were able to do that interview but it made for a sweet article.

Arrived in papal-free Edinburgh (he'd already moved on) and played at Citrus Club. Somebody told us they'd seen the pope going by on a street where there was no one, Benedict desperately looking around trying to catch somebody's, anybody's eye. The show was fun and like the last venue we played in Edinburgh was immediately adjacent to a Chinese restaurant. Knew we were really moving up in the world because it was possible to play without blasts of hot greasy air like last time.

Next night was Glasgow. I realized I'm truly a musician now, when my first words to the soundwoman after hello were "That load-in is a bastard." Yes! I have finally become a complaining git.

It's a nice club though, Stereo, and even though we played for almost two hours it felt like it was all over too fast. Then there was a club night coming in so we had to do the loading out super fast, with some help from our Scottish friends. Got back to Lindsay's realizing we hadn't eaten since midday - that is the reality of playing in some of the best cities in the world: you're so busy working you don't have time to enjoy the place, cause once you're packed up and out of the club where do you put the vehicle with all your equipment so you can sit down in a restaurant in the middle of a bustling city centre? Especially if you've recently had a car stolen - taking no chances we had classic cheese on toast back at Lindsay's and sat around catching up.

Wish we could've hung around in Scotland - in between Glasgow or Edinburgh, two of my favorite cities. Instead we had to head on down to Hyde. The promoter called and said the pub had been broken into the night before. He jokingly said maybe that would bring more people out, so they could get a look at the crime scene. We should have known right there it was going to be a tough night. From the barbed wire and old tires around the junkyard entrance next door, to the dogshit scattered across the astro-turfed pub "garden", to the load-in up a wet metal fire escape because the police were busy dusting the inside stairs for fingerprints, to the leftover scraps of astroturf covering the surface of the stage, to the panicky soundman, to the greasy yet sticky surface of everything in the place - it was hard not to feel depressed. You know you're in trouble when you look to the resident heckler for affirmation.

But next night was wonderful, Kitchen Garden Cafe in Birmingham - like being in a weird aunt's living room. Odd garden furniture, slate on the floor and a relaxed feeling. We'd played there once before and saw familiar faces this time. It felt like everyone was on our side. The only thing that had changed was that the copy of Tim Rice's autobiography, a massive tome I'd used as a keyboard bench booster seat last time, was missing from the bookshelf. I had to make do with a hardback copy of Beach Music.

Now we're in the Norfolk countryside, taking a rest until Brighton, London and Manchester - tomorrow, Friday and Saturday (and Winchester on Tuesday). I often feel like Bonnie and Clyde where they hole up at CW Moss's dad's place when we stop for a few days out on the road. A couple of steps ahead of the law, somewhere on the sliding scale between doomed and most wanted.

Two Steps Forward, Etc.

2010-09-13T16:21:00.006+02:00

We had a nice visit with Marc Riley at BBC 6 Music on Wednesday. Then it was back in the van to drive down to catch the ferry. We camped at the port which allowed us the rare experience of being among the first in line when they start letting people check in.

We'd been scheduled to travel from Dover to Boulogne, but in the time we'd been in England that ferry had gone out of business. So now it was Newhaven to Dieppe. Dieppe's a pretty-looking town and the place was busy with shoppers. Seeing all the store windows full, displays of seafood and meat and pastries, delicious-looking cheese and flavored yogurts - Normandy has the food culture I wished and expected would be part of everyday life in France. It's a big country, and down in the Limousin we're sort of in Kansas.

It took another eight hours of Eric driving and me trying to think up scintillating conversational topics ("...and what was the second Dr. Feelgood album?" "How did Nick Lowe get his hair to look like that?" It doesn't take much to get full-length rockumentary going from Eric, just a few leading questions) to get home. Kind of crazy, considering we're leaving again tomorrow to do the same journey again, only all the way up to Scotland. But we had to come back, to:

- see the golden light at sunset in the Loire Valley

- check if Ratface, the evil checkout girl, had truly been fired from the local supermarker, as rumored. She was at the cash register yesterday, looking extra smug, like "I bet you thought you could get rid of me. Well you CAN'T."

- find a copy of the new Gil Rose et les Hydropathes album in the mail. Eric produced this very cool French group's new record. I got to sing on it.

- Pick up the next season of Cold Feet from the shelf, we are addicted.

- Get some warmer clothes. Still don't know what to wear on stage this fall. My summer dress is now a shapeless rag.

- Make sure the "rentrée" went off without a hitch. The predictability of French life can be quite comforting. The Festival of Wood will always be the 2nd Sunday of July. The Old Car Fair will always be the 2nd Sunday of September. The Celebration of Chestnuts - well, you get the idea.

- Get given hundreds of peaches and tomatoes by our neighbors. Then try to find people who aren't already laden with end-of-summer fruit to pass them on to.

- Be greeted with double kisses by the bank manager. This was before she saw the sorry state of our accounts.

- Have Sunday lunch with friends. Tomatoes, courgettes and parsley fresh from their garden, andouillette on the grill, tarte aux poires chocolat, Salers, red wine, champagne. Then tried to grout the bathroom tile.

- Pick up kitchen cabinet doors from Castorama, before they sent them back for fear of incurring "charges". Life in France is lived in avoidance of "charges".

- Find out the car had been stolen.

That last one, it wasn't planned. The car had been at the garage in a tiny village, where the very nice garagiste had made the necessary repairs for the old warhorse to pass its control. He thought we'd picked it up last week. We hadn't.

So it's back to work. We've still got the ambulance. Two steps forward, etc.

Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby
Two-Way Family Favourites in the UK

Thu 16 Sept Citrus Club Edinburgh
Fri 17 Sept Stereo Glasgow
Sat 18 Sept The Verge Cheshire
Sun 19 Sept Kitchen Garden Birmingham
Thu 23 Sept Prince Albert Brighton
Fri 24 Sept The Lexington London N1
Sat 25 Sept The Met Bury
Tue 28 Sept The Railway Winchester

Come see us and pick up a copy of the new album. MOJO gives it 4 stars!

Cheap Day Return

2010-09-05T20:50:00.009+02:00

I went to Brighton the other day for no particular reason. I went to go somewhere, because the train ticket to London was too expensive. When we were up there last week I'd seen a poster in the tube station for an Alice Neel exhibit and thought how great it would be to see that. But between visiting the baby and camping at the beach and worrying about this and that I hadn't gotten it together to get the cheap fare.

But going to Brighton was perfect. The train ride was almost not long enough. I love taking the train in England - total immersion in the culture onboard (Tony Blair everywhere - his autobiography dissected in all the papers, his photo repeated so often that the other passengers started to look like him) and out the window a chance to see into people's back gardens. The train went through Newhaven, where Eric was born, near the ferry docks. It touched me to see it this way, that slightly melancholy feel looking at a place through a train window gives - that and the deserted Parker pen building where his father had worked.

Arriving at the train station in Brighton I will always feel 21 - the age I was the first time I went there. It will always feel exotic in the way certain shabby, slightly tawdry but mundane English things do...a fascination born the first time I saw a Rita Tushingham movie, or stared at a picture of a cigarette squashed out on a plate of eggs and chips in the booklet that came in my older brother's copy of Quadrophenia.

It's good to feel 21 again in Brighton because I think there may be a ban on being any older than that in the place. Everybody's young, in packs, the girls in shorts, big sunglasses, the boys in haircuts. It was so much easier than being in London - the pressure was off. I wasn't looking for culture or enlightenment, just eyeliner. It was fine to spend forty minutes in what must be Britain's largest Boots, a space age wonderland of cheap cosmetics. It was the sheer pleasure of anticipation going up the escalator to TK Maxx, only to ride down an hour later - not completely empty-handed but shaking my head that I'd missed that something special surely lurking underneath the shoes Made In China, size 32EEE bras and sad tattersall-check fedoras.

Around the corner I ate a delicious sandwich - at 4 PM. Thinking of France, where eating lunch out at whatever time you're hungry for it is generally impossible, I defiantly shook my bagel in the direction of the Channel - that's right, it's after 3 PM, I'm eating lunch. And there's other people here, doing the same thing. Deal with it.

I wandered around, drank a perfect espresso at a place I know from when we play just up the street at Prince Albert (next gig there is Thu Sept 23). There was an American couple, coffee afficionados in the way only Americans can be afficionados of things, talking to the barista about how of course they always warm the cup first, sipping suspiciously, like they wouldn't really be happy unless they found something a little bit wrong. Which they couldn't.

I was happy, sitting in a park, watching a young girl, a guy and a rolling suitcase act out a farewell scene. Tried to figure out who was doing the leaving - my money was on the suitcase. Drank a glass of Spanish rose at a picnic table on a sidewalk and started the first chapter of a charity shop book I knew immediately was a winner. The sun was going down, the streets were emptier. Looked down the hill, over the tops of the old buildings, towards the water. Sipped the wine. Was happy not to be 21 anymore, though the girl, like the charming old Brighton I remembered, was still in there somewhere.

In The Club

2010-08-27T15:08:00.001+02:00

We set off for England with a brand-new, non-working dishwasher in the ambulance. Camped part of the way to the ferry near the beautiful town of Blois, on the banks of the Loire River. Too bad it was hard to find a decent boulangerie or cafe in the town when we tried to get breakfast the next morning - I hate to say I've come to expect disappointment when dealing with food and France. Without careful research and precision-planning I usually end up wishing we'd packed food and made our own pot of espresso in the van.

For the first time in several years they let me into the UK without a big fuss - I'd toed the line and got the family visa they insisted would make it simple. Uh, yeah - simple like back in the 18th or 19th century in that I can only travel if accompanied by a husband. Ah well, maybe being publicly referred to as chattel is the easiest way to a life of absolute leisure? Just don't tell Eric my plan.

England felt like a carnival wonderland - people! lights, shops open! We spent the night with Andy in Herne Bay - ate dinner and strolled around in Broadstairs. Interesting old seaside town, with Dickens' Bleak House up on a hill. Andy gave us the gossip on the guy who owns it now.

We found out the dishwasher is working after all! So now we've got a fully-functioning dishwasher, in the ambulance. Yes, in campgrounds people give us disdainful looks, moving their sleek behemoth campers away from our rusty heap, but we are smug in the knowledge that there's a fullsize dishwasher in ours. Not plugged in of course, just being used as an endtable/towel rack. We'll get it back to France eventually.

Rhythm Festival was fun, Coventry we had an amazing turnout. Blah blah blah - I could blab on about gigs and nice people and how the food has gotten very good in England, but looking back through my blogs and diaries of the last 20 years you can read that stuff any day (except the part about food in England). The big news is that Eric became a grandfather on Tuesday. His daughter Luci had an 8 lb 8 oz baby girl named Tiger-Mae. I feel so pleased to have shared this moment with Eric.

Just after we got the news (I say "got the news" as if we were busy doing other things but the truth is we were pacing the floor, street, wherever would have us anxiously waiting to hear) I was in the supermarket and the woman in front was telling the cashier she'd just been with her daughter who'd given birth that afternoon. "Harder going through it with your child than giving birth yourself", she said. I wanted to hug her, shout that we had sort of been through the same thing. I kept quiet, I'm only a step after all. But I felt like a brand-new honorary member of an elite club.

He Lives

2010-08-17T09:03:00.006+02:00

Filmmakers Stephen Kurowski and Marina Trammell were visiting us and captured the excitement of Chainsaw Man in action.

Going Up The Country

2010-08-13T17:46:00.010+02:00

On Angela's last night visiting from the US, she and I traveled up north a few hours to meet some other American friends who'd kindly invited us to join them at a chateau/chambre d'hôte. France is a big country, with the landscape changing subtly and/or sometimes drastically from region to region. We drove to the north of the Limousin towards Bellac, where the rolling hills become steeper, the villages perched up on rocks. Then we cut across east to the autoroute (A20), passed the Pays D'Oil sign which means you've officially passed from the southern part of France to the north and exited near Chateauroux.

The immediate area was called La Brenne - flat with marshland, darker trees and lighter-looking soil. Following the GPS, I turned down a tiny road and was hurtling along at 30 miles an hour (okay, 30 feels fast to me on this type of road) when I saw a car stopped to the side (no shoulder) and a man standing there facing away from us. I slowed down and saw a little pickup truck stopped several yards further down the road and another man standing outside of it, looking in our direction. We thought it must be some kind of accident.

And then I noticed something lying in the middle of the road - a vague pink and light brown shape.

"Oh my God, Angela - one of them must've hit something!"

"What is it, a deer? A dog?"

"I don't know - maybe some kind of big bird? Oh, I think I see blood. I guess I have to drive past it. Oh shit, this is awful."

We rolled closer and as I got alongside the man, I could see he looked distraught.

"What is it?" I asked, afraid to look. He shook his head sadly and pointed towards the shape on the ground.

It was a bag of cement. The pink and brown bag had fallen out of the back of his truck and broken open with the impact. Half of it was spread across the road.

I offered my condolences and drove off. Looking in the rear view mirror I saw him and the other man pick up the bag, one man on each end, and carry it carefully back to the truck like a limp body.

You live in a place and think you've seen backward and then you realize there's a whole other level of nowhere. Maybe because the Limousin is the famous French back of beyond they've become rather sophisticated with that idea - pictures of cows and old peasant faces on postcards. No one's bothered to tell the area around Chateauroux that it's hicksville. First impression is that it lacks the determined downhome charm I've gotten used to further south.

My pals Kate and Scott, their two kids and a teenage friend traveling along were high on France, having just spent a wonderful week in Paris. We beat them to the chateau, and I immediately felt almost apologetic - what looked magic on a website was a little shabby and down at heel in real life. I don't know why I felt like it was my fault, but I think it's only fair that visitors be spared the reality of France, at least for six months or so. Then it can start to dawn on them that the food's often lousy, the clothes and home furnishings sometimes hideous, the town centers a mess of bollards and planters, ill-placed wrought iron fences, ugly 90's-inspired graphics and charmless "snack" places selling frozen pizza. But first you want them to see only the beauty.

Once we got over the shock, which included the son of the house mutely shaking his head "no", sending Kate away the first time she had knocked on the door and asked if this was, indeed, the chateau, we had a good time talking and drinking wine while we waited for dinner. The house was once a grand place, no doubt about it - a tall Creusoise-style brick beauty. We'd all had a gander at a dark wood dining room, almost formal, and having arranged via email to eat dinner there, pictured ourselves feasting like nobles.

The lady of the house was nice enough but hadn't been very forthcoming about how anything worked - just showed us to our rooms and poured some wine when we'd asked for it. The host, who'd been in frequent email contact with Kate, was not in evidence.

Around nine, Kate's son Hugh said "Mom, I'm hungry."

Kate explained that the people were preparing us a meal and to be patient. We all wondered what it would be. Something simple but expertly prepared no doubt. Country cooking with a twist? I'd seen the website - they'd mentioned homegrown veal, pork and beef from the Limousin.

Nine thirty came. Angela went up to peek into the kitchen. She came back outside looking concerned. "There's no cooking going on in there," she said. "Just the lady and kids sitting at a table eating dinner."

A half hour later I went in and asked didn't they get the email that we were planning to eat dinner here? She shrugged and gave us a xerox'ed and laminated menu, with prices handwritten, crossed out, written again. No veal, no pork - some salads, chops and pasta. Or croque monsieur. All nestled conveniently in the freezer, awaiting our commandes.

We groaned and gritted our teeth, knowing there was no other option. Ordered what we could. And it wasn't any worse than a lot of the restaurants I've eaten in near Limoges. The French fries were really good.

We kept wondering what had happened to our host. He'd seemed so hospitable and charming in the emails, but now he was missing. And the rooms we were supposed to be staying in were now "off limits".

Maybe the lady was keeping so much to herself because hubby was bound and gagged, or stuffed and mounted in one of the bedrooms? We spent all night listening for howls and screams.

Next morning, he called in from Luxembourg, still very much alive. He was alive but his car had broken down and was pronounced "morte" by the lady of the house. He explained that paying for the rooms by credit card was not possible.

"No problem," said Kate. "I'll just go into the village and use an ATM."

Turns out there'd been a vicious storm in the region back in January, which explained the fallen trees all over the property. We'd thought it had just been lack of funds to pay for landscaping help. The power lines were still impaired, so - no ATM.

It was possible, however, to go into another village and use a card in the bar/tabac. The bar owner would then fork over the cash.

I had to get Angela to the train station in Chateauroux. The last we saw of Kate and family they were heading to the village bar/tabac. I hope they made it out of there okay. It was probably difficult to get the bar owner's attention, what with the two guys telling how they rescued that half bag of cement.

Summer Holiday

2010-08-10T08:43:00.003+02:00

My friend Angela has been visiting from New York for the past week. She brought sunshine and great cooking skills. Before her it was Andy, carpenter supreme, with a dishwasher which is a dream come true if we could only get the thing to work. Before Andy it was Robert Rotifer who came to record. Today we'll visit with Kate and Scott from Chicago in a chateau up north. Later this week our friends Peter and Karen are coming from Norfolk, bringing my goddaughter Daisy. The stork (they still have those, right?) is coming any day to bring Eric's daughter Luci a baby girl.

It's turned out to be a really nice summer. In the past few weeks I've:
- Barbq'ed in the dark
- Swam in the lake
- Taken a few long bike rides
- Admired the nice new kitchen Eric and Andy put in
- Picked basil, purple potatoes and swiss chard from a friend's garden
- Sunbathed in the courtyard for the first time since we got here
- Ate steak off the grill for Sunday lunch
- Drank pastis in the taverne of Montbrun chateau
- Cooked spaghetti at 3 AM for Gil Rose et les Hyrdropathes
- Danced to the Flamin' Groovies in an empty auberge by a river

I've found my true calling at last - slacker.

The Bois Of Summer

2010-07-28T19:48:00.021+02:00

Jean-Luc looked at himself in the mirror. He admired his bleached blond crew cut, the way it bristled up slightly longer in the front. Smoothing his sleeveless black t-shirt, he tucked it smartly into tight black paramilitary trousers. Rubbed a little oil over his brown biceps, admiring the color, the grain - like wood. He smiled at his reflection, his short mustache catching the light. When had it started turning grey? He made a mental note - look into facial hair bleaching possibilities.

Outside the white van that served as his dressing room when he wasn't using it to haul supplies for his gardening business, the crowd was getting bigger. He cracked the door and peered out. Man, it was hot today. He surveyed the crowd - two hundred people maybe? More if you counted the children. Three hundred then.

He nodded at Scottish Brian, who was leaning against one of the P.A. speakers, talking to a lady. Brian helped him out sometimes at these things, but he tended to get distracted. Brian snapped to and strolled over to start the CD player.

The music pulsed out of the speakers: a loop of the intro to "Who Are You?". Jean-Luc jumped down from the back of the van and sauntered out. He strolled up to the first of the three chainsaws lying on the ground, grabbed the starter and pulled. It whirred into action. Over to the second bigger chainsaw. This one took a harder pull to get it going, but J-L got it just right, the mix of brawn and timing, making sure to dip his shoulder to get in a gratuitous bicep flex. Two chainsaws going and the intro music loop was about to run out - he rushed to the third and, all business, booted foot down, pull, on.

When the music changed he had to be ready, and he was. The first three chords of "Eye Of The Tiger" he planted himself in between the speakers, just to the right of a block of wood his own height. By the fourth chord, the first chainsaw was in his hand.

The audience was silent as he worked. Riveted - or maybe it was just the heat. By the end of Eye Of The Tiger he'd knocked out a curving shape from the rectangle of wood, kicking a few pieces of wood away with each slash of a guitar chord. Then he was onto the bigger, more powerful chainsaw. As "She's Like The Wind" came on, he stroked the wood and began hacking out big chunks, passionate, doing it with heart - like Swayze.

The anticipation was growing in the crowd. People began murmuring. What would it be? A voluptuous woman? The head of Johnny Hallyday? The shape of a mushroom? Those were very popular in this region.

A younger man without a shirt on strolled up and started shouting that he could do better. He gestured with a cup of beer and reached for the chainsaw. J-L pivoted it away from him, barking over his shoulder to Brian to intervene. Brian took the young man by the arm and led him back to his drunken friends.

Yngwie Malmsteen screeched through the speakers now as Jean-Luc grabbed the last chainsaw, the one with the longest, straightest blade. Sweat running down his face and arms, he pierced the wood, thrusting furiously but with absolute precision. As the music reached a crescendo he took three steps back, then ran forward, chainsaw fully extended and plunged it into the center of the piece. Hands at groin height, he rotated the saw as the guitars ground down and then, chainsaw hoisted aloft, stepped to the side and faced the audience.

The applause wasn't quite what he'd hoped for. People tilted their heads from side to side, trying to make out what the sculpture was. It might've been a woman - it had round parts and graceful parts, long bits and short ones. Did it really matter? Jean-Luc thought to himself. They'd all been there for the creation of the sculpture, collaborators in the moment. That's what it was really about.

Jean-Luc grabbed a microphone and thanked the people. He offered the sculpture for sale: 100 euros.

Brian took the mic and translated Jean-Luc's words into English. After all, there were many English people here. Probably a few Americans too. And face it, the outsiders were the ones most likely to get out their wallets.

No takers. Jean-Luc looked at his sculpture, admiring it. He felt pleased with what he'd done, but these hicks wouldn't know art if it bit them on the ass. He sighed.

He'd switched off the chainsaws but now he grabbed one and got it going again. The crowd was beginning to wander off to find shade, get cool drinks. J-L took one last loving glance at his work - then sliced the sculpture in half.

"For only 50 euros you can take home one of two spectacular artistic creations, made right here before your very eyes!" Brian's voice came through the speakers, his Glasgow accent still strong in spite of years spent in other places. "Do we have any art-lovers in the crowd?"

The two pieces of wood lay on the ground. Jean-Luc walked back to his white van. He toweled off and picked up the chainsaws. Tomorrow was Monday and there would be gardens, waiting or not waiting for him.

The Morning After

2010-07-25T17:59:00.006+02:00

Every day this summer feels like I'm recovering from the night before: first it was gigs, then jet lag, then the late nights with the band who were here recording and then the first summer visitors from America. Then it was the night of the bat.

Then it was Paris, where I trekked out to the western suburbs to stand in a broiling courtyard with people of many lands arguing with guards to be humane and let us into the (slightly cooler) building. When I finally entered what I thought would be an outpost of the British embassy, I realized it was just a company hired to take our passports and paperwork, put them in plastic bags, collect biometric information and then eject everyone back into the world without a passport, possibly having given up our identities for them to sell in another country. Maybe we were even now members of a new low-grade espionage ring to be called up at a later date - I'll let you know, or then again I won't.

Next it was the morning after my night in Paris, where I'd wandered the streets purposefully, seeing the YSL exhibit at Petit Palais, the Willy Ronis show at la Monnaie, eating at L'As du Falafel which really was as good as they say, and finally seeing "Taking Off", the Milos Forman film from 1971 which was very funny with some good musical surprises.

Where I used to have dreams of looking suitably chic in Paris, these days I've lowered my expectations to trying to at least not look completely Limousin rube, or like that American lady in the Alexander Payne segment ("14th Arrondissement") of "Paris Je T'Aime". Though in some ways she is my hero.

Today I'm recovering from our gig at the Site Corot last night. Held in an unused auberge in a lovely spot near a river, next to some old glove factories, it took five meetings and three months to organize. Many people showed up, having been told we were either a) a "rhythm & blues" group or b) country music. They stayed for about three songs and the rest of the set we played to our usual ten friends and the few assorted French people too polite to desert us. But the river made a nice sound and we still remembered how to play.

So it's a good tired.

Bat, Man

2010-07-17T14:36:00.007+02:00

I learned a new word in French last night - chauve-souris. Actually that's two words and I knew them separately as "bald" (chauve) and "mouse" (souris). Put them together - bat.

Last week we had visitors and sat outside every night, so it was no surprise that there are lots of bats around here: we watched them swooping and diving in the courtyard. And one got in the bedroom, briefly, which gave me a chance to practice my horror film scream, twice. I couldn't believe there was this cartoon-shape nightmare creature flying around the room.

My hero Eric shooed him (I don't know why I assume it was a guy) out and I figured it was an aberration - maybe we'd wailed on keyboard, guitar and wine bottle for a little too long and he/it was trying to escape and got disoriented.

But it happened again last night, and this time the thing decided to stay. Hunkered down, or up, on the wall in the front room. I hit the floor screaming, covering my head because there's some myth about bats tending to get tangled in hair. Eric tried to get it out the window while I cowered and then crawled on all fours to another room and barricaded myself in.

It wouldn't go. I tried to calm down and we did what anyone would do - went on the internet and searched "How To Get A Bat Out Of The House".

A more common problem than I thought, there were pages of advice. A lot of them mentioned rabies, and the possibility that in a state of unconsciousness, ie deep sleep, the worst could have happened to us and that is to be bitten by a bat.

Now I know we'd been watching a Neil Simon comedy from the 70's earlier but it had never been completely coma-inducing. Had we been bitten then, I guess there's the chance we would've both been infected with the unquenchable urge to speak in breezy repartee. But that wasn't happening, yet.

The American sites really pushed the fear aspect: "HAS THE SECURITY OF YOUR HOME BEEN BREACHED BY A WINGED INTRUDER?" shouted one. They all assumed the general public possesses near-expert falconry skills, directing us to "Don heavy-duty leather work gloves, preferably elbow length, and toss a towel, net or pillowcase over the bat, taking care not to disturb it, then carefully carry outside and set free. Whatever you do, you must get the bat out of your house."

I went on the French sites, thinking they'd take a more matter of fact view. But frequent mentions of la rage, rabies, didn't help.

Staring at the photos of cute, furry bats (trying to ignore the sharp, bared teeth) and reading why a wild winged mammal would leave the freedom of the great outdoors to come into a house, I calmed down a little. Amazingly, one site pinpointed a very specific time period - the middle of July to the middle of August - when young bats are learning to fly but have yet to develop navigational skills. I looked at the calendar: July 16. Ah! I began to feel more compassionate.

The bat had worked its way into a corner cupboard and was nestled in between a fake fur winter hat and a felt Stetson (or at least that's what Eric told me. I was still too terrified to look). He opened the windows, as suggested by the "Critter Catchers" site, turned out the lights and shut the door.

This morning the bat was gone.

And so was the Stetson.

Hard Pruning

2010-07-14T11:51:00.004+02:00

FOR SALE: ONE GARDEN STRIMMER, USED ONLY EVERY NINTH SUNDAY

WANTED: SIX OR SEVEN HUNGRY SHEEP.

Three years ago, the first summer here, I was all gung ho about the prospect of having a garden. Simple, I thought - pull weeds, plant stuff. Then stand back and admire.

But gardening is insanely hard work. Time-consuming, bone-wearying. Then you go away and everything you worked on is all grown over and strangled with weeds and vines.

That's what I've learned - you can't walk away from a garden. You have to tend it carefully, be out there all the time working. Which is fine if you can pay someone else to do all your other work.

I've had such pleasure from the few roses that have managed to poke through the tangled mess. Pulling weeds gives momentary satisfaction. Aah, that looks better, that clear patch there. A real feeling of progress.

Turn around and there they are again.

In my mind, I'm wearing a floaty chiffon dress, platform espadrilles, a picture hat and soft clean gardening gloves as I snip a little here and there, and butterflies circle in the soft evening light.

In reality I'm hacking with a rusty scythe, shrieking as rose thorns pierce my arms and legs, spitting out pollen and shreds of grass.

I'd been looking at books and asking advice. Trying to cut this bush and that stem two buds down to encourage maximum growth. Our friend Mick informed us yesterday that tests done on rose bushes showed they grew exactly the same whether pruned carefully or cut with a chainsaw.

WANTED: ONE CHAINSAW. OR BLOWTORCH.

The Load Out

2010-07-06T22:45:00.008+02:00

I must be in France because it's eleven o'clock at night and still light out. It must be the Limousin because no cars have driven past in the last few hours. Drinking red wine and sifting through piles of receipts, business cards, set lists and a couple of parking tickets.

It was a month of hard touring - long drives, late nights, reasonable turnouts in most places. Nothing went too wrong! Except for not being able to sleep it was a good time.

Should I be recapping? I just don't have the energy. We saw some friends and family, enjoyed playing, sold records and ate well everywhere. Relished the friendly service in America. Loved the audiences except for one very talkative woman in Atlanta.

Now it's time to get "back to" something here. Wish I knew what. First I'll watch this Jackson Browne video. Substitute "me and Eric" for "roadies". And feel happy.

Miss You

2010-06-23T03:12:00.002+02:00

Saw Mick Jagger on Larry King Live the other night. God he sounded so phony, trying hard to appear to be a nice guy. Still, it was interesting when he talked about needing a huge audience to energize him, otherwise he wouldn't be able to perform. Sort of like the Suzanne Somers book about using hormones to animate a dormant sex drive...he should've tried playing with us in Minneapolis earlier that same night.

Now we're back in Chicago, resting for two days before we go to Detroit, then New Haven and Boston to finish up the tour. "Resting" meaning doing a radio show, replacing Eric's blown speaker, trying to send out the rest of our CD orders and, this being Chicago, eating everything in sight.

I wish I could sit down and write a recap of all the places we've been and people we've seen on this trip, but the Mexican restaurant down the street is calling - I think there's a large margarita with my name on it sitting there, salt glistening on the rim like the sweat on Mick's brow or Suzanne's heaving bosom.

I Get Out Of Breath

2010-05-25T08:52:00.005+02:00

The necks are off some of the guitars and the guitars are in the suitcases - good thing it's warm weather now because there's not a lot of room left for clothes in there. The CDs are almost ready, the downloads too, the cars and hotels and places to stay with friends arranged (for the first week anyway). We'll be seeing my entire family this weekend and I can't wait. We're on our way to catch a train to Paris and then a few flights to Cleveland, our spiritual home in the US.

We even managed to cut back some of the jungle growing in the back garden. Last night, around ten o'clock, Eric set a camera on a ladder in the courtyard and we sang a few songs. In the rush to get everything ready, I can forget what it is we're even doing it all for. We sang a PF Sloan song and a Jackie DeShannon one, into the French country air. The light was fading and the birds sang with us. I hope the neighbors didn't mind.

Definitely Going To Be There

2010-05-17T23:15:00.011+02:00

Many years ago, I sat in a second or third grade classroom on Valentines Day with my decorated shoe box/mail box, hoping I wouldn't be the one with the least Valentines. Can I blame that memory for a lifetime spent wanting to be liked?

I often read about how contented some people become after the age of fifty - life gets better as they become less and less concerned with what other people think.

I want to get there, I really do. But how can I, when nowadays on any gig listing or ticket link, there's a box that tells you how many people are interested in your "event"? How many are planning on going?

It used to be you could put that kind of worry out of your head until walking into the club. A promoter might say "Hmm, ticket sales have been a little...slow. But don't worry - we'll get walkup!"

Or worse, the bar staff proclaiming, as you entered the club - "The phone has not stopped ringing all day! This show's going to be packed." At which point, you'd want to tell them, "Look, run home and get that copy of War and Peace you've been wanting some free time to get through - it's going to be a long, quiet night."

Is people ticking the "Yes, I'm Interested, Definitely!" box the today equivalent of calling the club in lieu of attending the show? Do less ticks actually bode well? Or should we be on the computer at all hours of the day and night, racking up imaginary fun concertgoers who want to tell the world weeks in advance that they're going to be at our show, unless something better comes along or it rains that day?

I like to think our audience are people with so many interesting pursuits and important jobs to do (brain surgery, Chipotle manager) they don't have time to trawl the internet registering their gig desires

The best would be to stay off the club sites completely, and oh how I wish I could. But then I'd miss all the cute surprises promoters plan for us - like putting our names wrong, or using a picture of Eric at 20 and me at 45, ("hmm, this mother and son act - now that's something you don't see every day! Where do I click to say I'm for sure going to be there?") Or putting a six-piece power pop band on the bill without mentioning it? Or having our show scheduled sometime near midnight on a Tuesday, after the prog rock extravaganza in the bigger venue outside?

I shouldn't focus on the negative - the majority of promoters work with us to try to do something that makes sense as a show, not just an attempt to get as many bodies in the door as possible. If we just wanted a packed club, dancing, singing along, laughing and crying at the memories, having the time of their lives, there's always the tribute band route. But you have to have at least been popular for a little while for that to work.

The thing is to work and keep working. Can't go out wearing a real or virtual sandwich board in every town and collar all potential audience members. Can't do everything, can't be everywhere at once.

Except, ideally, on record. I don't know whether I go out to play to let people know about a new record, or make new records so there's a reason to go out and play. But Wreckless Eric and I have a brand-new album we're putting out ourselves on June 1 - it's called Two-Way Family Favourites and is available here and at our upcoming shows. You don't have to tell us in advance that you're coming. Just be there.

Situation Normal

2010-05-11T11:22:00.010+02:00

It was a weekend of odd gigs. I've finally realized that any gig in France is an odd gig.

The first, at an Irish pub run by French people, in the city of Angoulême. We walked in and there were two huge TV screens going and some very focused men in sports jerseys watching rugby. The stage had a bodhran hanging on the wall, along with rusty instruments and photos and drawings of grizzled Irishmen enjoying a good craic.

Signs in French on the walls advised that in an Irish pub it is customary to walk up to the bar and order and pay for your drink and then take it to your seat. In France, even in the humblest bar or cafe, if you sit at a table the patron will come over and serve you.

The owners were sweet, demanding immediately that we "tu" rather than "vous" them. It was a little challenging, trying to do a soundcheck with a bar full of people - amazing how just being in the same room as a soundcheck turns the average man or woman into a qualified sound technician.

"The voices, is not loud enough? Your music, it's very good - but trop fort."

"This, over here, bring down. And that one, there - bring up. You see? You sing nice but those sounds get in the way."

"You play music?" This said as we stood there with guitars in hand. I wasn't sure if the guy was extremely dull-witted or just making a value judgment.

All of a sudden I was starving, and ran out to find a banana or something. I'd forgotten that it was a holiday in France - everything was closed, except cafes. I was starting to shake when I ran into Emmanuel on the street. He'd come to see us play. Angoulême is a pretty town and worth a visit, but probably better when the shops are open. Still, he helped me find a luxe patisserie and their clafoutis (a traditional baked cherry and custard treat) was the best I've tasted.

When we finished the soundcheck, the owner had set up a table for our dinner - huge thick slices of ham and pate, some Camembert, bread, and a massive bowl of frites. With a cute little pottery jug of red wine. Not exactly the healthy eating we've been aiming for, but it would have been rude to refuse.

Then Mickey our friend the French to English translator showed up and we went for drinks in a chic wine bar. Everything looked "chic" to me - I get used to the country bumpkin style in the deep country of the Limousin, where you rarely see big sunglasses and high heels...they'd look pretty out of place in the middle of a pasture.

The gig was us playing for about twenty interested people and the rest a parade of Saturday night revelers, varying in age from sixteen to sixty. Some would stroll past the stage, gape for a minute, then move on. Some cheered for a while, until it was time to go have a cigarette. There was an older gent who approached the stage politely to tell us we were very good but could we please play quieter, as he was having trouble conversing with his friends.

Two sets later, after ample hugs from the owners, the female half especially, who rumor has it was a "hostess" in North Africa in a former life, we drove through the moonlit countryside: past a few chateaux, a kooky lit-up antique car showroom in the unpronounceable La Rochefoucauld, villages and sleeping cows. Left the car full of equipment parked out front, for the next day when we'd be setting off early for another show - a record fair in Perigueux. Sunday...France...I made a plan to pack a banana.

If You Knew Suze

2010-05-05T14:42:00.006+02:00

We're still rushing to get all the parts together for this album - I'm kind of embarrassed to say this is the first time I've ever actually put out a record without the help of a record company and it's a huge amount of work. There've been a few for-fans things I've copied and sold at shows and from my site, the 45 we pressed up a few months back too, but to try to coordinate the manufacturing, the downloadable album, the finances, the publicity, the licensing etc and cap it all off with a tour - have to keep calm and putting one foot in front of the other.

Took a break from it the other day for our anniversary and headed to the Dordogne to eat and spend the night at Rouge in Tocane Saint-Apre. I'd heard about this place from Kim and it was lovely - run by a NZ couple Paul and Janice who've resurrected an ancient building with their bare hands and have good food, a chambres d'hotes w/charming decor and a swimming pool.

Monday we went with Emmanuel to just outside Perigueux to see Graham Day & The Gaolers. The posters, calling them "The Goalers", had the concert starting at 7:30 PM - we rushed down there, arriving before the band themselves. In a search for something to eat, impossible in a small French town on a Monday evening, we ended up in a classic old bar. So often these days you walk into a bar or cafe and wonder what mid-century glories the proprietors trashed to achieve a decor of beige tile, smoked mirrors and taupe plastic, but this place was perfect.

Ever since I saw the art nouveau Salers bottle in a cafe and Emmanuel explained to me about gentiane and all its varieties, I've wanted to try it. Apparently it's very good for the digestion. What better place than a bar where the owners were so involved in a card game when we walked in, I wondered if maybe they didn't want to serve us. To the contrary - once the game had ended they plied us with drinks, helping me hit on the right combination of Suze, ice and pastis so that I am finally able to say I have tried gentiane.

Loved Graham Day and his group but can't say it was fun. Typical of concerts in France, everyone stands outside the antiseptic "salle" until the moment the group starts playing so there's no chance for any ambience to build. The second the music ends, the room empties. The DJ, Alain Feydri, played some very cool records but it felt disjointed, with the turntables set up in the room with the bar, the smokers standing out on the steps. Wished it could have all been combined, and I'd have thrown in the bar owners, their 50's moderne wallpaper and ancient telephone, and the Suze too.

I'm back to playing the computer keyboard now. Eric's making a new radio show downstairs - hooray! We will get this stuff done and be on that plane to the US in exactly...twenty days. Maybe I'll be toting a bottle of Suze or Salers - in lieu of a t-shirt, "I spent the last year in SW France and all I got was a new album, and this lousy bottle of digestif."

coup de fil

2010-04-26T18:38:00.003+02:00

The phone rang, a not too frequent occurrence around here. The time difference, something - even my own family can't seem to get the coordinates right to reach me except via email. But the same goes for bill collectors so that's a plus.

It was Annie, the pilates instructor.

"Saw you and Eric on bikes yesterday, riding into the village."

And I was off. As the words spilled out, the most boring mundanities tumbling into the receiver, I realized I hadn't spoken but a few sentences to anyone except Eric in weeks. The dam had burst, but the reservoir was full of recycled lines from an especially dull episode of The Archers. "Yes, we're trying to get fit. Bike riding, walking, weights and no bread or dessert. It's so hard!"

Too polite to interrupt, she let me ramble on. "They've been putting gravel down on the sidewalks out front - it's been a nightmare. When are they going to finish the roadworks around here?"

"And it's still so cold! But the other day there was a beautiful blue sky and some sunshine. All the flowers are starting to come in, so that's nice."

Silence.

"I mean, it's better than being sick - we've both had our fill of that this winter. And running out of fuel all the time."

Someone stop me, I thought. But I kept on. "Have you noticed the price of produce just keeps getting higher and higher? I spent four euros, that's right, four euros - on a barquette of strawberries yesterday."

She finally broke in to tell me she'd be starting up classes again. And that she had to go.

I hung up and opened the door to the studio. There was feedback, organs howling, tambourines shimmering, guitars and vocals careening around the room. Eric stood between the speakers, looking triumphant.

"Who was that?" he asked.

I just shuddered. Then climbed back into the time machine.

Stuck Inside Of Ma Ville

2010-04-20T15:20:00.008+02:00

I'll admit I've been obsessed with the ash cloud. It doesn't help that we're now trapped in a small village in France with no working automobile - the car's in the shop for a new exhaust system and the ambulance's suspension is so shot it's undriveable.

Oh wait, we've got two ancient bicycles, so that's something.

At least we're not stuck in an airport in Europe or the UK, trying to get...anywhere. Or a train station in France, though they say that strike is ending, for now.

I feel in limbo - afraid to mail anything to the US, and figuring it's pointless to get my mail sent over to me right now even though I know there's a check in there that I could use. And then there's the matter of a package that should be winging its way to me right now - are you ready? my glasses, the ones I thought I'd lost forever back in America last summer. Found, resurrected! The tracking information says, ominously, that they left US soil on April 17. After that, it's blank.

Finishing the record is imperative now, so I guess it's for the best we don't have a car to go anywhere. And the files can be transmitted via the internet, to be turned into records to sell on tour. But is there a wire we could slip ourselves into to get to America next month, if it comes to it? I was even checking on the Queen Mary. It sails from Southampton on May 15, and takes six days to reach New York. We could be just like my grandma and grandpa when they left the old country. Funny, the website doesn't show a price.

Janette, our neighbor who drives the real ambulance, said there's another volcano set to blow that's going to flood Holland and Belgium.

Jacky, another neighbor, sipped his Pernod at 11 am in the local cafe and said why would anyone ever leave the Limousin? It's perfectly placed to be out of the way of everything.

Oh, good.

Today Piégut, Tomorrow The World

2010-04-16T13:54:00.007+02:00

We're playing in a nearby tea shop tonight - the rise to glory follows shortly with a new album and tour dates (a few more to be added still):

Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby

Sat May 8 Le Kennedy Angouleme FRANCE
Sun May 9 Marché aux disques Perigueux FRANCE

Wed June 2 Lovin' Cup Rochester, NY, USA
Fri June 4 Bowery Electric New York, NY, USA (w/McGinty & White)
Sun June 6 Sixth St House Concert Media, PA, USA
Tue June 8 The Saint Asbury Park, NJ, USA
Wed June 9 Black Cat Washington DC, USA
Thu June 10 Berkeley Cafe Raleigh, NC, USA
Fri June 11 Star Bar Atlanta, GA, USA
Tue June 15 Mohawk Austin, TX, USA
Wed June 16 Bryan St. Tavern Dallas, TX, USA (w/Salim Nourallah)
Fri June 18 Schuba's Chicago, IL, USA (early show)
Thu June 24 Majestic Cafe Detroit, MI, USA
Fri June 25 Thunderbird Cafe Pittsburgh, PA, USA
Sat June 26 Cafe Nine New Haven, CT, USA

Fri Aug 20 Rhythm Festival Bedford, UK
Fri Aug 27 Grub Cafe East Grinstead, UK

I'll get back to updating the blog soon, we're finishing up the album in between rocking with pastis and scones.

Side-Lying Series

2010-04-07T17:51:00.004+02:00

I was laying on my side at Pilates class, trying to relax and concentrate at the same time. Only problem was the lady next to me. Well, not her, but her shirt. It was a black band t-shirt, and with her back to me I could read a list of UK tour dates: Corn Exchange, Cambridge; UEA, Norwich; Colston Hall, Bristol. Nice venues. What group, I wondered. I had to wait until she turned onto her other side.

Australian Pink Floyd

I quickly rotated so she wouldn't think I was staring at her chest. Now it was even harder to breathe. Knowing that such a thing as Australian Pink Floyd exists is hard enough. That this group had toured all the way across the world, being welcomed into big halls in Great Britain, really made me wonder. And on top of all that, that someone would actually buy a shirt to commemorate the occasion.

I thought of talking to her about it. Maybe she'd just grabbed the nearest clean shirt. Maybe it had come from a charity shop where, in the heat of the moment, she or her husband had thought they'd snagged a genuine Pink Floyd t-shirt? Maybe she was having a laugh, wearing it ironically, like someone might have worn an Osmonds t-shirt back in the days when everyone didn't proudly admit they secretly love everything awful.

Or maybe it had been the best night of her life, seeing Australian Pink Floyd.

Damn, now I kind of want to see them.

DJ

2010-04-01T16:07:00.005+02:00

I was looking for a picture of Duane Jarvis, who died one year ago today. This is the only one I could find on my computer - I'm not sure who took it but I cropped it from a larger picture taken at the Bluebird in Nashville.

Please, please resist the urge to say something along the lines of "hmm - there's Townes Van Zandt looking over DJ's shoulder - I bet the two of them are having some laughs up there in heaven now, jamming together and making beautiful music." I can't stand that hokey idea of a great big music free for all in the sky.

But, thinking about Duane today, I can read something appropriate into the songwriter's songwriter gazing out as DJ bows his head and plays. Duane was a sweet and humble guy, and the same kind of musician - never wanting to get in the way, just underpinning, grooving along, being quietly supportive. I look at this picture and remember.

Hope Springs Eternal

2010-03-24T10:50:00.009+01:00

I don't even know where to start to update this thing - all I know is I can't stand the sight of my last post at the top of the page any longer.

We're holed up with our friends Peter, Karen and Daisy in the Norfolk countryside. Like Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow - we're battered, bruised, wounded. Not quite able to face the long drive south.

Ireland was cold. So cold that Eric burned his leg on a space heater, and was then too cold to notice how bad the burn was. He got food poisoning and laryngitis, I had all other manner of complaints. The ambulance, filled with a host of medications, was feeling like its old self again.

Ireland was depressing. Stuck in winter mode. There were unfinished apartment complexes and shopping malls everywhere. All the people in the service jobs are now Polish. Before we left, I'd had some great conversations with Irish journalists - that was almost the only talking with actual Irish people I did. For all the publicity we had, you'd think me and Eric playing was some kind of event - but articles, radio interviews and a TV appearance are not enough. The shows were really badly attended, the promoter so maudlin we ended up consoling him.

The people who did come told us they loved the show. We had some laughs and stayed in a nice hotel in Cork, after rejecting the cold water fleabag they initially sent us to - "But Pete Doherty stayed here!" shouted the desk clerk. When we caught the ferry from Belfast to Stranraer, I found myself writing down the phone number of the entertainment company that booked the onboard entertainment - a woman in her 60s who sang Patsy Cline and a man that whipped the Mother's Day crowd into a frenzy with "Danny Boy". At least you've got a built-in audience on the ferry. As an alternative to playing in a mostly empty club in Cork on a Thursday night, how bad could it be?

Should I be telling you this? I could just as well say we triumphed, that the shows sold out, and the Irish crowds carried us around the towns on their shoulders. Who's going to check? Or I could talk about the food (pizza) or the wonderful friends of Eric's that we stayed with, who train horses and who really made the visit for me.

We stopped off to visit our pal Lindsay Hutton in Scotland. Always relaxing staying with Lindsay. We sat back and waited for him to cue up a nice film for us. Along with a great Cramps collection he had a Fleshtones documentary - I'd just had a great time seeing them in Bergerac before leaving on the tour. In the movie they talked about how hard it was to keep going, playing for small crowds. "Wait a minute," I thought. "In Bergerac, there were probably two hundred people in the audience. At the rate we're going, we'll be lucky to play for that many people on the whole tour." We begged Lindsay to put on a cheerier film, like "Atonement" or "City of God" or something.

Things picked up in England - we started slow in Bristol and Portsmouth but Brighton was full and fun. Birmingham in the Garden Centre was a little odd but there was a line of people waiting in the rain to get in. A Black Country pub gig on Saturday night made Basingstoke last year look like a tea dance - our host Chris and his band were so warm I hardly noticed the drunk people shouting abuse and throwing things at us. I enjoyed playing simply because it was so bizarre and because it mattered to Chris. In the film version, we would've brought the audience around, to where they became hushed and reverent during Don't Ever Change and started swaying and singing Whole Wide World, arms aloft. A few actually did. But mostly they carried on drinking and simulating sex on the pool table.

Ten years ago I'd probably be looking online for haircutting classes or law school applications. But it starts to sink in that I may be too old to start over doing stuff like that. There is that Stena Lines ferry number to try. They take over-50's.

But. We played the first four tracks of our new album for Karen and she loved it - I started getting that hopeful excitement again, that same feeling that keeps me going. Hope or foolishness, or both. We've got a US tour coming together pretty well for June. Some English dates in August. The Garden Centre said they can fit us in again for October. And if we got the Stena ferry job, well we'd end up in Belfast anyway, so...

Exposé

2010-03-04T12:50:00.006+01:00

You remember I wrote about our useless experience at the Pole Emploi (French employment agency) the other day? And Eric described it in more detail than I had the stomach for.

It was all under the guise of trying to find out how we can work as musicians here. Now I can reveal, we were actually doing undercover work.

Everything came out in the newspaper yesterday when Le Populaire revealed that employees of the Pole Emploi are badly trained and unable to handle the number of confused people they have to deal with every day. They lack anything but the most basic ability to log people into the system. Some of them have even gone on strike to call attention to the situation.

Just call us the unemployed man's Monsieur Woodward and Madame Bernstein.

la reine des pommiers

2010-03-02T22:06:00.005+01:00

Could it be that this dark cloud over me is lifting? I hope so because lately I have been depressed and unable to shake it.

Today, three good things happened: I had a message from Peter Zaremba of the Fleshtones and I'm hoping to go see them play in Bergerac this coming Sunday. I may have seen their first gig ever at little Club 57 and many times after, but it has been awhile. I even forgive them for that time after Mardi Gras when we were held by police because they left the hotel without paying - I know it wasn't their fault.

What else - I sent off all my tax info, shockingly early. That audit put the fear of God and/or the IRS in me and my record keeping this past year was the work of a pedant-in-training. One of the benefits of time spent in France!

But the most wonderful thing that made me feel like a queen or princess at least - a guy came and cut back the fruit trees. They were a brambled, tangled mess and one or two of them were threatening to die. I haven't known the luxury of paid household help but this was better than that because I can definitely clean and scrub but knowing how to deal with plants and trees is beyond me. The local garden man worked like a demon out there and when he finally came in, scratched and sweaty, I felt like Marie Antoinette as I offered him something cool to drink. But he had other clients to see.

Now there's a pile of branches in the garden and even though it's not exactly legal to burn stuff in your backyard, the jardinier said as long as there aren't high winds like there were this weekend everyone does it. And since Eric and I have spent the last two months doing an informal stage on blowing shit up and watching stuff burn, I think we're up to the task.

The Italian

2010-02-27T12:41:00.017+01:00

I dreamt, or was it real, that there was a violent storm outside. Lightning, thunder, and branches and cows flying past the windows.

Just like I'm not sure that this really happened: we were in an employment agency in rural France, being interviewed by a black-haired young lady in black shorts, tights and high-heeled boots. The place was called Pole Emploi, and we were trying to find out how we could declare ourselves as musicians. She was sifting through sixty years of songs and albums, two artist's lives, and shaking her head because a lot of it happened and continues to happen somewhere else, not in France, not even in Europe. She didn't have any information about what we could do, anyway, but would put us in touch with someone who did, if she could find them. Then she showed me an ad for an orchestra in the Languedoc who were looking for a saxophone player. I told her I'd go home, learn to play the sax, and give them a call tomorrow.

And maybe I dreamt that I found myself wishing we were somewhere else. I was looking at a website about this elite in France, the people who have status as working musicians, and how they have a right to salaries, even for when they're not working - but the government gets to tell you how many hours you have to work a year, and where. But if you adhere to the rules, well you do benefit.

And then I was driving in a car, listening to the new Charlotte Gainsbourg album, thinking how much I wanted to like it because she's got to be one of the most charming people in the whole world, but how she's an actress after all and therefore can only be as good as the people she works with. At first listen it left me cold but "Time Is The Assassin" was starting to work on me - something to do with the strings.

Then, I'm not sure, but I think I was in a nearly full cinema on a Wednesday afternoon and there was a film about Serge Gainsbourg and how he had this weird papier mache-headed alter ego telling him how to be the artist he became, as if he wasn't capable of doing it on his own because everything's set up to reinforce the idea that you should toe the line, and it takes some evil, unruly spirit to help you break free from that, either that or a woman. Because all of a sudden it was women telling him what to do. Like Brigitte Bardot saying, "Serge, I need you to write me a love song, zee best love song in zee whole world!" and you just knew it would be "Je T'Aime" only the projector started shaking, they turned on the lights and said it would be a little while. Which gave me the perfect opportunity to leave.

There was a policeman sitting in his car right outside, staring at me, and I felt so conspicuous leaving like that. Maybe he was sent by the state to keep people from leaving the theatre before the movie ended? The film had the effect that movies about writers and musicians often do - they make me realize that it is very hard to show the act of creating, at the same time they make me want to make something myself. Sort of like when I used to be in a TJ Maxx and hear Enya or Meredith Brooks or Colbie Caillat or Shakira playing (that buzzing pop music that always plays in those places) and think "Why am I shopping, I want to go home and write something so that someone like me might be shopping and hear my song and think 'Why am I shopping, I want to go home and write something'. And on and on...

As I turned the car around and went out the back way to avoid having to pass the gendarme, I saw another Pole Emploi office. I don't think hot pants girl was in there but possibly someone even less helpful.

And I turned Charlotte's album back on, and remembered that Charlotte was Serge's daughter and what a shame I hadn't stayed to the part in the film where she was born, how that would have really brought it all full circle.

On to the supermarket where, in the wine aisle, I spotted the one bottle of Italian wine in the whole store, a Chianti. I realized I needed a change, some variety. As you do. So I went for the Italian.

I know that part was real, because I just put the empty bottle in the recycling.

Lynch Life

2010-02-23T19:15:00.003+01:00

I'd forgotten how great Twin Peaks was until Emmanuel brought it over the other night when I was delirious with fever. Hadn't watched it since it was on TV twenty years ago, and Eric had never seen it. It is making life better, watching this show again. It helped me be kind to the checkout girl at the local supermarket, even though I'd vowed that I was fed up trying to be nice and getting rebuffed.

"I pride myself in taking a punch and will gladly take another because I choose to live my life in the company of Ghandi and King. My concerns are global. I reject, absolutely, revenge, aggression, and retaliation. The foundation of such a method, is love." In the words of Albert Rosenfield.

There sure are a lot of logs around here and I'm appreciating each and every one. Part of my new esprit comes from our quest to get up every morning and go for a walk, to try to get healthy for touring next month. Amazingly, the sun seems to be out from 8 - 10 AM, before the grey sets in, so if we rush out there first thing we actually get to see it.

My energy even extends to getting my tax return together way earlier than usual. I finally feel like I'm coming out of the darkness from that audit last year. Not to say things aren't still in a state of total confusion, it's just I'm not feeling as beaten down as I was.

Wish I could do better with my writing here, but I don't want to stop - for right now I'm putting the occasional update and hope you'll bear with me until I can concentrate again. Blame it on the wood smoke.

Turn, Turn, Turn

2010-02-19T14:37:00.004+01:00

Counting the days until our Irish/UK tour:

Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby

Thu March 11 An Cruscian Lan Cork IRELAND
Fri March 12 Andrews Lane Theatre Dublin IRELAND
Sat March 13 The Black Box Belfast UK
Tue March 16 The Thunderbolt Bristol UK
Wed March 17 The Cellars Portsmouth UK
Thu March 18 Prince Albert Brighton UK
Fri March 19 Kitchen Garden Cafe Birmingham UK

(see here for ticket info, etc)

And we're starting to confirm US shows for June - I'll post those soon.

Meanwhile, Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby farewell to the Lawrence d'Arabie is tomorrow night. It's never been an easy place to play, what with tough acoustics (stone walls and tile floor), the massive fireplace at my back and the toilet directly to the right of the stage. But I'll always have fond memories of the place, from owner Nico pogoing and pumping his fist in the air to confused retirees sitting with fingers in their ears. But change is good. It's time to move on.

C'est Moi

2010-02-15T16:34:00.007+01:00

We played in the medieval cave at La Petite Fontaine Saturday night and, as could have been predicted, the acoustics were...challenging. But it was a nice place and a good crowd of people, many English and some French including two women in their seventies who'd gotten all dressed up and sat there bobbing to the noise, until one of them rose to do a little dancing. I was losing my voice but it was uplifting to play again - it was the first gig we'd done since the Kevin Coyne shows in December.

Driving home through the snowy, moonlit countryside, bundled up and starting to come down with a monstrous cold and sore throat, I imagined we were Omar Sharif and Julie Christie in Dr. Zhivago, the ambulance a sleigh gliding across the frozen steppes. I was clearly getting delirious.

Yesterday I felt awful and then the heating stopped working again. This is the third time this winter we've run out of fuel. I crawled out to the barn to get some logs for the fire wearing hideous sweatpants, clogs, bathrobe, quilted down vest, scarf, hat and then collapsed back into bed, leaving it to Eric to take care of me for the rest of the day.

There were icicles on the awning out back, and in one way they looked beautiful and in another like the bars on a prison window. I was miserably ill. Emmanuel came over bearing a nice bag of Portugese figs and the first season of Twin Peaks. And then, desperate for cold medicine, I rummaged through an old bag of toiletries and found a box of slightly out of date nighttime sinus medication. How many times back in the US have I cursed those Walgreens stores that are on every corner - but the familiar logo was like a wave hello from a dear old friend.

Today, I feel like I want to live. I've been very caught up in "Madame Bovary". I'd started it last year but the type was too small, I needed to wait until I had a better pair of glasses. Then I read Tom Perotta's "Little Children" and there's a book group in there who read the book - I knew I had to get back to it.

And in my fever yesterday, I wondered how I could go so long in life without reading it? It was some consolation, thinking that if we weren't here, at this moment, in the French countryside, me sick in bed, I might not be reading the book.

A fuel delivery is coming tomorrow. And another gig on Saturday. I hope we'll be en forme by then. Right now we're possibly more Ratso Rizzo and Joe Buck than Sharif/Christie.

Kings, Dukes, Cowboys

2010-02-11T12:10:00.003+01:00

I'm cheating a little with this photo - I took it back in December, when snow was still a novelty. It's one of the local chateaux, which aside from having a moat and drawbridge and sitting very strikingly on a hill is also the place you go to get your car registered.

Finally gave in and got a winter cold and sore throat, and yesterday I could barely move. Today is better. I have to get better fast, we've got a gig in Le Dorat Saturday night. A new place for us, owned by a Scottish couple. We'll play in the 11th century cave that they've renovated.

We managed to translate the joint biography Eric and I have for gigs, with the help of our friend Emmanuel, into French. Much more challenging than you'd think but it seems a must for trying to get more work in France. When you consider that the term for "freelance musician" is "intermittent du spectacle", you kind of get the idea how wordy things can become. We were reduced, at one point, to going on Johnny Hallyday's website to find some language for summing up almost sixty combined years playing music. Forget it - the guy is too much of a monolith to need any basic biographic info. But his site is awesome!

The more French I learn, the more I wonder about basic style and subtlety - and all those French films I've seen translated into English, and whether I've really seen them at all. Looking at the reverse - take for example, Roger Miller's "King Of The Road" (on the soundtrack "Into The Wild which we watched the other night). On the screen, the lyrics rolled by for "Le roi de la route" and if you took the meaning literally from the translation, instead of a lowdown hobo vagrant type Roger sounded like some fussy fop doing a little slumming in a boxcar.

Or the title of another movie I got out of the library: "Macadam Cowboy". Which we decided was preferable to "Cowboy du Minuit". Or, my current favorite - "Shérif, fais-moi peur!" - "Dukes Of Hazard". Learning a language is just the beginning - there's a whole mentality that goes along with it all. I guess being bilingual is when you can pick and choose, one from Column A, one from Column B, depending on which suits the situation best. Maybe fluency is also reading cues that aren't conveyed by language at all - getting the intention from picking up on the style.

Now I'm listening to Eric finish up the mixes for the Gil Rose et les Hydropathes album he recorded here. I got to sing a little on it. They are my new favorite group, sing mostly in French and some English - a perfect blend of style and content. I think Johnny and Roger would both approve.

A Little Hope

2010-02-04T19:18:00.004+01:00

The sun came out the other day and I was able to dry the laundry outside. The whole woodburner thing has traumatized me, cause I looked through the back door at my vintage Vera napkins drying on the rack and panicked - it looked like they were smoking, so naturally I assumed they were on fire.

It was just a little steam.

All it takes is some sunshine for me to feel almost 100% more positive (except for visions of things burning). The countryside this winter is the darkest, emptiest place I've ever known, and I say that as one who spent two whole winters in Cleveland. But when the sky turns blue, it makes all the difference.

I feel hopeful. It'll soon be time to hit the boards again: this month we have our first show in Le Dorat and our final performance at local bar Le Lawrence d'Arabie before it changes ownership. The new people don't want to do music. They just want to turn it into what the French countryside so desperately needs - an English pub.

We're working away on our various projects and trying to finish that long-promised covers album. And next month, Eric and I will be playing for the first time together in Ireland, as well as visiting some of our favorite UK haunts:

Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby

Thu March 11 An Cruscian Lan Cork IRELAND
Fri March 12 Andrews Lane Theatre Dublin IRELAND
Sat March 13 The Black Box Belfast UK
Tue March 16 The Thunderbolt Bristol UK
Wed March 17 The Cellars Portsmouth UK
Thu March 18 Prince Albert Brighton UK
Fri March 19 Kitchen Garden Cafe Birmingham UK

(see here for ticket info, etc)

And we're in the process of booking US shows for June. So, plenty to look forward to! I think everyone will be very impressed by the new stage show complete with flash pots and smoke machines.

Fifty Plus One

2010-01-29T14:44:00.005+01:00

My birthday was the other day. It was easier than last year.

Last year was fifty - that involved a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Fifty was "goodbye to all that" and "what was it all for?" (see one side of that new Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby single).

This year's birthday was a nice break towards the end of a long dark month. A month not made any better by knowing it was a long hard month everywhere, for everyone.

Have I suddenly become the most negative person in the world? Or have I always been this way? Having passed that watershed year last year, am I just settling into my role as full-time crank?

But the birthday, that was fun! Nothing bad to say. It started with a haircut. I decided to try this new hairdresser, an English one. I felt a little disloyal, being in France, but I thought maybe he'd be good and he was. He greeted me at the glass doors of his converted barn, in the middle of the deep countryside, impeccably dressed in a pin-striped suit and Beatle boots, speaking in a full-on Manchester accent. So for that alone he got my vote. His wife does coloring and he cuts the hair, Michael William is his name for anyone wandering lost in rural France who just realized their roots need a touch-up.

Then came the installation of the woodburner. Newly coiffed, I hurried back to help Eric finish heaving this cast iron stove into place - he'd been slaving all afternoon to box in the pipe, determined to have the glowing log fire of my dreams in place in time for my birthday - what a nice man.

We'd decided to go to Rochefort and or La Rochelle for something good to eat and a movie. Three hours is kind of a long drive for lunch, but we've fallen in love with that part of France, the Charente-Maritime, and will use any excuse to go there. Heading west toward the Atlantic, as soon as you pass Angouleme the light becomes clearer, brighter, the buildings change to a lighter stone, and there's sky everywhere.

Typically, we were kind of late for lunch but we found steak frites and strolled a little in Rochefort. Then we went to the old port in La Rochelle: gorgeous white stone buildings, boats, lots of shops and cafes. We found the only version originale movie playing - City Island with Andy Garcia, a film pretty much on par with the crappy DVDs we buy for 4.99 at the local supermarket. In other words, we enjoyed it immensely. We were the only people in the whole cinema, except for the projectionist. When we left at the end even the cashier had gone home, and it was only eight o'clock.

We'd spotted a nice-looking little restaurant near the water and went in for some oysters. I asked if there'd been some catastrophic event that had wiped out the entire population of La Rochelle, but the waiter said it was just the cold weather, honest. We ate oysters fresh from L'Ile de Re, a half hour away. Eric joked that my family and friends were all supposed to have shown up in the empty restaurant, to surprise me. If it had been last year, for my fiftieth, I might have fallen for it.

Back to the hills and forests of the Limousin. I know it's kind of canned, the whole Facebook birthday wishes from everybody thing, but it still pleased me to go online and see that. The virtual equivalent of a roomful of pals - true, they all came for the open bar but they still mean it, don't they? And the fact that no one actually emails anymore made it that much more exciting to open my Gmail account and find that rarest of things - a sweet note from my daughter. In the warm glow of the log fire and computer screen, I reflected that as birthdays go it had been better than okay.

Rural Gothic

2010-01-24T13:10:00.007+01:00

We went searching for a used woodburner yesterday.

Don't be alarmed - this isn't the same kind of woodburner that exploded last weekend. That was a rather old one in the barn that was supposed to run the heating system, an alternative to the more expensive fioul option. Though our local plumber had deemed it still capable of working, one of the neighbors told me it hadn't been used in something like twenty or thirty years.

I felt proud that I was able to comprehend that much from Francoise. She speaks so fast and her eyes are going every which way behind her glasses so I'm either trying to follow her gaze or what it is she's talking about. But I realized a while ago that she usually says everything at least three times, so if I can hang on a little while, it begins to sink in.

This is my fourth January in rural France. As we drove down into the Correze to check out a poele a bois, a woodstove you set up in the main room of the house, I remembered driving down that way when we'd first arrived, to pick up the bike I'd won on eBay. I had looked at a map and it really didn't seem so far. There were lots of roads on the map, and I imagined them mostly with houses on them.

I couldn't imagine a three hour drive where occasionally we'd see smoke from a chimney, or a tiny village and not a soul in sight. I couldn't conceive of how empty the countryside is here.

All the things I thought about France are constantly undergoing adjustments. Like many Americans, I used to think "France - Paris. Cafes, chic people, art, literature." I used to think it would be possible to find a nice little restaurant out in the countryside, to get a cheap lunch on one of our excursions. Now I know much better - unless you do some research, plan your route around stopping somewhere to eat, and most importantly calling to make sure the place is actually open at this time of year and serving food, you end up having to find a giant supermarket that's open from 12 to 3. I make sandwiches.

We'd been to dinner at some friends' house the other night, and their cozy woodburner pushed us over the edge - if we're going to be here out in the middle of a forest, with piles of logs everywhere, we might as well take advantage of the country life and be able to sit around a glowing fire.

It's rural gothic. People in slippers at the hardware store, a cafe with bad coffee, 50's moderne bar and four dozen dusty pairs of thong underwear hanging on the wall, from a charity contest several years back.

It's Michel trying to tell me the name of the composer of a particular song. "Bud E. Delay."
Me: Bud E...Delay?
Michel: Bud E. Delay.
Me: Buddy D'Lay?
Michel (trying a little harder): Bud Iddlay.
Me: Bud Iddlay, Bud Iddlay?

Bo Diddley, I finally realized, after a few more people got involved in sounding it out.

It's comprehending the difference between "péypère" - sort of semi-retired, laidback, easygoing (masculin) and "mémère" slovenly, letting-it-all-go, sluttish, bad-humored (feminin) and ideally, straddling the two because going in the one direction is boring and going too far in the other direction is depressing.

We found the people who were selling a nice prospective woodburner, on top of a mountain, in a housing development. When the deal was done, the three of them, a man and two women, tipped the thing into the back of our car, spilling ash everywhere. He ran and got a dustpan and brush and moved the dust around on the carpet with it. Then we drove off, leaving me to wonder how to make use of this growing understanding of the countryside. At the same time realizing that such a question is completely beside the point.

Le Boum

2010-01-17T15:29:00.005+01:00

There I was being all smug, talking to some friends about keeping warm in winter.

"We have one electric heater that we huddle around," said Angie. "The house is freezing."

"We tend to just stay close to the wood burner," said Chris. "And wear lots of sweaters."

I told them about our fabulous heating: blistering hot radiators, scalding water on command. How both Eric and I are lightweights when it comes to surviving the cold.

But when we got home, the heating had stopped working. We worried that we'd run out of oil and figured it was time to switch to the alternative - using the old wood-burner system to heat the radiators. Problem is we'd never used that part of the system before.

We bought fire lighters and scavenged wood from around the place. It's been a while since we had fuel delivered - the stuff is damn expensive - and this being a lean month we got all enthusiastic about heating with wood.

"We can take turns stoking the fire!"

"It smells great, the woodsmoke, doesn't it? So cozy. And it doesn't cost a thing - there's nothing but wood around here."

The fire was good and strong but the radiators still weren't getting hot. I got a little nervous when Eric was standing in front of these pipes and valves, twisting and turning them. What if something went wrong and steam and hot water came spraying out?

We left the 19th century behind and were sitting in the kitchen in front of a space heater when an explosion shook the barn.

The part with the heating system was full of smoke and we called the sapeurs-pompiers (firemen). Luckily we'd sprung for their annual calendar when they came around a week or two ago. But had our donation been enough? I wondered if they had a telephone system like Domino's, where they know your house (and the amount you gave) by the phone number. If it was under a certain amount, maybe they'd take their time coming?

They told us to get out of the house. We figured we weren't in much danger - these buildings have stone walls a couple of feet thick. But we were pretty shaken up.

A firetruck arrived, blue lights flashing. The guys all trooped into the barn with flashlights. The smoke had cleared by now. The wood burner had blown up - sending the cast iron doors flying across the room, spraying the barn with hot water, steam and ash, and making a fuel delivery an absolute must. No possibility of heating with wood now, ever. Not with the old system anyway.

Six or seven firemen stood around the exploded burner, surveying the damage. They chuckled but were sympathetic, and they pointed out how lucky we were not to have been in the barn when the thing blew up.

I thought they'd leave at this point, back to the station house to play cards or eat cassoulet. But then another fire truck turned up, and a police car. Our neighbors were all coming outside to see what had happened. The Chalus firemen had to say their hellos to the St. Mathieu firemen - lots of handshakes. By now there were about fifteen firemen hanging around.

Angeline next door said, "Offer them something to drink."

I asked if they wanted some coffee or wine.

"Aperitifs! Aperitifs!" a couple of them shouted.

"Some wine?" I asked again.

Their leader shook his head. "Le whiskey?" he asked. "Ricard?" I said we didn't have either of those.

"Forget it." The French have standards, and this was not a wine occasion. Then they went back to hanging out. The St. Mathieu firemen, who'd been first on the scene, had to show the Chalus firemen the exploded wood burner. Everyone stood around laughing and talking for another ten or fifteen minutes. By the time they left, they'd probably forgotten why they were even there.

And I know a lot more about heating than I ever intended to learn.

Obligatory Snow Post

2010-01-12T13:37:00.004+01:00

"I got the blues so bad, Clyde." We watched Bonnie & Clyde the other night. It gets better every time I see it.

Is there anyone who doesn't have the blues around now? We've barely been able to leave the house for the last five days. Until today we were pretty much stuck in the village and I felt myself feeling sad and empty, mostly because the good bakeries are all in the next village and fresh bread and pastries are what I live for. I thought of setting out on foot but figured it would end with Eric having to search for me and then stumbling onto a snowdrift and spotting a mittened hand clutching an icy baguette sticking out.

I did manage to take a very peaceful walk on Sunday when the sky cleared for an hour or two. I wanted to make sure one of our neighbors had enough to eat. I was happy to see that someone had brought provisions in for her.

Now Focus

2010-01-06T23:52:00.008+01:00

We were watching the signs go by: Antwerp, Leuven, Amsterdam, Groningen. Felt like we'd been on the road for weeks. Eric asked if I was hungry.

I turned to answer him, expecting to see him gripping a steering wheel. Which would have been odd, because we were sitting on the couch. The film we were watching, "Still Crazy", about a group of aging rockers who reform and tour the dumps of Europe, had us revisiting the types of places we'd been spending every evening in, only a few short weeks ago.

"Look at us," I said. "We can't stop touring. When we're not out there, we watch other people doing it. We could be watching "The Man Who Would Be King".

"Is that really much different?" Eric asked.

We started with Saxondale, the brilliant Steve Coogan series about an...ahem, aging roadie who keeps fighting the good fight while running a pest control business in the suburbs. The music of Focus screeches and yodels over the opening and closing credits.

The show only ran for two seasons, so to stretch it out we watched Oil City Confidential, the new documentary about Dr. Feelgood. I knew enough about the band to be interested, but wasn't prepared to be completely blown away. Wilko Johnson is a complex, entertaining narrator and the way Julien Temple pieced together band footage with old British gangster films (what movies are these clips from and where can I see them?), photos, clippings and some soft fictional footage was clever and imaginative but to a point. One of the best band documentaries I've seen.

Then we went back to Saxondale for a few more days, until we'd watched even the extra features a few times. Not ready to move on, we fell back on Still Crazy which is corny as hell but always works for me.

I keep coming back to one scene - there's this snowy parking lot in the middle of nowhere. The band pulls up to a deserted cultural center and follows a lone set of wet footprints in through the theatre doors. The place is completely dark except for cold blue stage lights. A smoke machine is hissing, the smoke swirling and catching the dim light. Steely Dan is blasting from the P.A. while a shadowy figure sits in silent reverie in the center of the theatre seats, hands folded as if in prayer. The sound man.

They ask him if there's any way he can get someone to clear the ice away from a treacherous loadin area. Like the Grim Reaper, he points them to a broom closet, where there's a crude shovel and bag of rock salt.

After the interminable soundcheck, he tells the band about the highlight of his year, no - his life, when a certain Dutch group came to play, only three short months before. He rhapsodizes about their musical brilliance, their humanity, while barely hiding his contempt for the band in front of him - as if to say, "see what I'm reduced to now, working with you losers".

To emphasize his point, the dressing room has one of those hospital-style TVs mounted high up on the wall, where a video of Focus' live performance at this very venue plays relentlessly. The group asks if they can turn the TV off, or at least turn the sound down. He says he'll see if he can find a ladder. But he never comes back.

Shit. That wasn't in the movie, that was some Belgian venue a few weeks back.

I Hereby Resolve...

2010-01-01T20:31:00.004+01:00

I celebrated the New Year by looking at my horoscope - Susan Miller advised me to figure out which bad habit was always cropping up to set me back. Peering into the lights of the Christmas tree (as much as one can peer into a strand of twelve budget lights on a misshapen pine branch), I thought for a while.

"Self-sabotage. That's my worst habit." I remembered all the incidents of self-inflicted ill-timing (Norwich stage dive anyone?), strings broken at key moments mid-show and me with no spare G or D. Relationships I knew were only going to lead straight to the sackcloth, or the therapist's couch, often embarked on just as I had a new record out. Split-second decisions made almost in defiance of good judgment and the resulting fallout that constitutes, if not the entire thing, then at least major portions of my adult life.

I blame a lot of it on being half-Irish. Who is more willfully negative and fatalistic than an Irishman or woman? Things are bound to mess up anyway, so having a hand in the disaster at least lends a sense of control.

But how to change something so ingrained, so much a part of my makeup? It would be like asking someone to have their dodgy eyes exchanged for a better pair. The new ones would help you see better, but all the adapting you'd learned, the odd perspective you'd grown up with and adjusted your behavior to, would have to go out the window. Leaving you more effective, possibly, but in a cold Children Of The Corn kind of way.

No, I decided that maybe the best course of action was to work with the bad habit. To embrace my contrariness. By cannily planning to do the opposite of what I should be doing, surely I might succeed about 50% of the time, due to ingrained bloody-mindedness and the law of averages?

So here are my new year's resolutions:

Drink more - one or two glasses of wine a night is not nearly enough. Why not aim for a whole bottle?

Why bother trying to maintain some kind of an artistic profile? Putting out records, busting my ass booking and playing shows, maintaining websites, trying to get promoters to put my name on the poster - why? Embrace obscurity. Demand to play in a darkened corner of the stage, wearing a hood, with my back to the audience. Become a "whatever happened to?", another Bobbie Gentry.

Accept that I may have already said everything I need to say. Exalt in the emptiness.

All my journals over the years sing the same sad refrain: "I need to make more money." "How can I make more money?" "There must be some way to make more money." Never seems to work. This year my goal is to earn less. Or nothing.

Stop worrying about getting in better shape. So what if my clothes no longer fit - that's what those big sweatpants they sell at the market in Chalus are for.

I have yet to begin investigating all the canned and frozen, heavily-processed food I see in the French supermarkets. Why fret about making balanced meals with fresh ingredients when there's a wealth of already-prepared exotic crap with high sugar and salt content to choose from?

Spend more time on the internet. There's probably a very good reason why I need to know what other movies the guy who plays Matthew McConaughey's buddy in "Failure To Launch" has been in. And while I'm checking that out, might as well take a look at Terry Bradshaw's bare ass scene from the same movie. Which reminds me, how have the Steelers done this year? Better check and see...

And on and on. By resolving to do worse, any promise I fail to keep will at very least keep me right back here at square one.

That Lonesome Valley

2009-12-29T18:35:00.015+01:00

At least I didn't sob when we put my daughter on the train in Angouleme yesterday. My mother used to do that every time we said goodbye and it always made me feel bad. Like the life I'd be returning to was so unspeakably awful, such a disappointment compared to what she'd hoped for me, that maybe a total meltdown was in order. Or did she just miss me so much as soon as I was out of sight, that the mere thought of the void I was about to leave turned her into a blubbering wreck?

All I could feel yesterday morning, as Hazel regarded us from under perfectly lined eyelids, smiling sweetly and waving calmly from her window seat on the TGV, was pride, hope, happiness. Even though so many questions remain unanswered for her just-starting-out grown-up life, and even though she barely washed a single dish all week and constantly bummed tobacco rollups from Eric's daughter Luci's boyfriend Luke, being near her - even to say goodbye - makes me glad.

It was good to be together with "the kids". We ate a lot, watched Peep Show, wished it would stop raining. Then Christmas turned sad with the news of Vic Chesnutt's death. Eric and I had been invoking his name frequently during the Kevin Coyne tribute shows as there was a point where he was supposedly going to come to Belgium for the shows - no doubt a mere pipe dream of the well-meaning but inept promoter.

I remembered him saying, southern boy-style "I love me some Kevin Coyne" when Eric and I played with him in Angouleme last spring, replacing the missing Raveonettes on an interesting double bill. He'd been pretty surprised to see us in the middle of the French countryside. I liked him from the first time I shared a bill with him at Fez, back when I'd just begun playing solo shows, and after that I always looked forward to seeing him, at this club or that.

At Winnipeg Festival a few summers ago we were on one of the workshops stages together, where everyone had to play favorite cover songs. He started strumming "Ode To Billie Joe", one of my alltime favorites, and I got all eager and joined in immediately on guitar, as musicians are wont to do.

"No." He shook his head at me so emphatically, I practically threw my hands up above my head so he could continue with full confidence that I wasn't going to play any more. It filled me with admiration, knowing how hard it can be in those free-for-all situations to demand the right to play completely solo, without the well-meaning participation of anyone who has some inkling how the song goes, and often those who have no clue whatsoever but just need to keep busy. He apologized as he started again, saying his timing would be too hard to follow.

Boy was he right. He played the song like he was telling a Flannery O'Connor story, and I listened. I know he was a very creative songwriter - he should also be remembered as a great, unique singer.

It broke my heart, the statement from his record label saying he died surrounded by family and friends. He was loved by many, many people. But this line keeps running through my head, from a Kevin Coyne song called "I Confess" that we'd been playing last week, with Kevin's sons Rob and Eugene: "I'm a rebel and a rebel is alone." Kind of like someone might sing "Everybody's got to walk that lonesome valley, they got to walk it by themselves" at a Southern funeral, it comforts and explains, a little. Only Jesus doesn't step in to sort things out.

I did feel like crying today, after we dropped Luci and Luke at the airport. They're expecting a baby. Breathtaking, wonderful news. Wreckless Eric a grandpa! Me, I just want to follow them around with an umbrella, open doors, make sure they always have cups of tea, seats on the train and that everyone treats them well.

Something Red & Green

2009-12-17T09:26:00.005+01:00

I've been trying to write a post about the Kevin Coyne tribute shows, Gent, and coming back to spend the holidays with my daughter Hazel and Eric's daughter Luci and her boyfriend Luke. Foie gras, oysters and a huge mysterious bird called a chapon that we ended up eating around 11 PM last night.

I can't make it all fit together. And I don't have an appropriate holiday photo either. But I wanted to send everyone who drops by some holiday wishes, cheer, love and gratitude for visiting my blog. It's been three years since I started writing regularly (or semi-regularly). Even though I find myself straying into Twitter and Facebook, sitting down and writing here is still the most satisfying, and I want to keep going.

Even if it's a lame, cobbled-together post like this one.

Stage Outfit

2009-12-09T11:31:00.003+01:00

It won't stop raining here in France, so we're heading to sunny Belgium.

Join us for "The Real World: Gent" as Eric and I bunk down in an apartment together with Jon Langford, Brendan Croker and Rob and Eugene Coyne and also some Belgian artists with names I've yet to learn (damn, I've caught that Bataclan disease) - all in preparation for the series of tribute shows to Kevin Coyne we'll be doing in Belgium for the next week.

I haven't had a chance to put together a new stage outfit, but I'm imagining something like the one above, from a ladies room door in Austria.

Don't forget to check out the new Wreckless Eric radio show and our new single, available as a 7" record right now, and as a download very soon.

I'll let you know how we get along with our roommates - Eric and I are planning to be like the gay couple from "Best In Show", with our own candles and linens and silk kimonos. We're still looking for a cute little dog to rent to drive everyone nuts.

His n Hers

2009-12-07T13:32:00.003+01:00

Red guitars, Dusseldorf

Men's & Ladies room signs, Slovakia

Heavenly Georgia & Ira, Le Bataclan, Paris

Lunch on the Autobahn

Star Treatment

2009-12-02T23:27:00.002+01:00

I'd been wishing they'd put our name on the big marquee for the Bataclan show, underneath headliners Yo La Tengo.

Then I saw the sign on our dressing room door.

Habituel

2009-11-30T00:16:00.006+01:00

We're finally checked into a hotel after being either in the van or venues in Katowice, Vienna, Fribourg and Florence. In four days. I honestly don't know how we kept going after the drive from Vienna to Fribourg which was over ten hours but such is the power of rock. As soon as we get to the venue and hear the sound of Yo La Tengo soundchecking, a Pavlovian response kicks in and we start unfurling guitar cables, sharpening pics and rewriting the set list.

Poland was really interesting and I'm eager to go back there. I didn't think I'd be saying that - in fact I almost thought we were going to turn around and head back to Germany once we crossed into Poland because the road was so bad our heads were practically banging against the roof of the van from the jolts. They'd put up a lot of helpful signs that had a symbol for "bad road" - silly, because the spots where the road smoothed out were so rare, that's what they should have been announcing. But it's amazing how quick you can get used to anything - after the initial ten minutes of cursing and exclaiming and wondering if anyone would miss us if we didn't show up at the gig we were shouting at each other to converse as if we did this type of thing all the time.

By the time we got to Katowice, the road was more normal. It was all looking faintly exotic, an intriguing mix of austere Communist architecture and ornate Eastern European domes with that incomprehensible language on signs everywhere reminding me of a stroll down Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint.

The hotel the festival put us up in was probably the only five star hotel I've ever stayed in. A thirties building redone very creatively with glass that kept the old parts intact. Deco rugs and furniture and a super-fancy restaurant which we ate in cause by now it was almost eleven at night and hey, who knows how much a zloty's worth anyway? The meal was amazing and served so impeccably which I really appreciated because we were looking shabby and road-worn and the young, very clean-cut waiters still poured the wine and grated the pepper like we were David Lynch, who was also apparently staying in the hotel.

Next morning I went in search of the pool. It wasn't easy, as I was half-awake and the signs were all in Polish. I wandered into a locker room and panicked when I saw a manly leather satchel on a bench. I fled what turned out to be the men's room and went through another door - the laundry room. When I finally got to the pool, it was like stepping into a perfume ad - there were all these tall muscular men in tiny bathing suits, splayed out in lounge chairs and walking pantherlike across the tiled floor. I was really desperate for a swim so I blocked out the male parade and got in the water, but I had to pass on using the sauna.

I have more to write but really need to sleep - tomorrow is the last show, in Paris. Last show. Funny, I already feel nostalgic for life on the road, even as I write this from some anonymous hotel on the autoroute.

Questions I Can Possibly Answer

2009-11-23T08:15:00.003+01:00

Why was the Marks & Spencer parking lot completely, two-days-to-Christmas full on a Tuesday noon in mid-November?

Why do I dislike Amsterdam so much right now? Maybe because someone broke into our van during the show there, and took Eric's winter coat, his bag, a tiny red vintage purse with nothing in it. They probably took a few tea bags too, but I hadn't done a count beforehand so I'm not sure. Then as we tried to get the van out with its broken window obscured by a Melkweg plastic bag, a group of drunks found it hilarious when I tried to lift a bike out of the way, knocking over three other bikes in the process. Damn you and your healthiness!

Why does our van become a mobile recycling unit on tour? The next person to break in will find dozens of water bottles, various old copies of the Guardian, cardboard boxes and even Eric's mother's last months' recycling.

Why do I love Eric even more after spending two days with his mother?

Why won't the British border control accept that I DO NOT want to live in the UK and stop interrogating me every time we go there? This time they even took us out of the car and into a special room for "high risk" visitors. But it was more Monty Python than the Prisoner. Pointless!

Why is Germany one of the best places to play in the world? Great venues, good food, open-minded and interested audiences. Respect for artists? It doesn't hurt to play with Yo La Tengo - they begin their show with at least ten minutes of guitar mayhem and the people are with them every step of the way. A club manager wouldn't think of coming onstage to tell them to turn down, a la the loathesome Rams Head in the US.

Why am I sitting here typing when I could be availing myself of the plentiful breakfast buffet? No limp "Continental" breakfast in Germany - just a table heaving with muesli, fruit, various yogurts, fresh butter, ham, cheese, the most beautiful bread in the world...

What will it be like in Berlin tonight?

"I Got A Rock"

2009-11-15T12:16:00.007+01:00

The first few shows with Yo La Tengo are over. What a great band they are, and popular all over. Does it sound sappy to say it couldn't happen to nicer people? I don't for a second believe these things (popularity, excellence) just happen - there is a consistency and work ethic and aesthetic at work. Attention to detail and genuine decency. How encouraging to see real passion, imagination and integrity rewarded with an audience.

And then there's me and Eric. We've both lived, in different ways, pretty chaotic but productive lives, and we keep working. It means a lot to us to be included on this tour.

Sometimes things go wrong - my pedal board went haywire in Amsterdam, kept muting the acoustic guitar. I won't go as far as to say it's the story of my life. I don't think I'm cursed or doomed. It didn't ruin the show. Let's just say it made it more...er, challenging. People really didn't seem to mind - they told me afterwards as they were buying our records. I was still kicking myself.

But then we got up to do "You Tore Me Down" with Georgia, James and Ira. And Ira's pedal board was acting up. He couldn't get his guitar in tune. We're standing there in front of this huge crowd, and it's like we're in someone's living room, a low-budget "Peanuts, The Musical". And we're all Charlie Brown.

Perfect.

Das Leben Es Und Cabaret

2009-11-11T17:29:00.003+01:00

So we played our first show with Yo La Tengo last night, in Bielefeld. I thought we went over well! It was great playing on a big stage with proper lights, sound, monitor man, everything. People seemed to like it.

Still sweating, I rushed over to where we'd set up our merchandise next to the bar, hoping to sell some stuff. A guy came up to me right away.

"Zwei rotwein, und ein tasse der tee," he said cheerily.

Wow, a compliment. I wished I could understand. He saw the incomprehension in my eyes and launched in again, speaking louder. "Zwie rotwein, und ein tasse der tee!"

Shaking my head, I smiled. "I'm sorry, I don't speak German?" In other words, please tell me how wonderful you thought we were, so I can understand.

"I'd like two red wines please, and a cup of tea."

Allemagne-Bound

2009-11-09T17:06:00.003+01:00

We're packed and ready. And not a moment too soon - the heating stopped working yesterday. Suddenly, the prospect of a night in the ambulance or even, God forbid, a Formula One (think Motel 6, but without the luxury), seems cozy and inviting.

And tomorrow, we see our pals in Bielefeld. And play for the people. Didn't find anything new to wear, but I think I've still got a new pair of false eyelashes lying around somewhere...

Mud

2009-11-03T19:40:00.006+01:00

The road out front is mud. We are almost prisoners now. My computer is still being worked on. The weather is foul.

Why did I take my computer in? Self-sabotage is my middle name. Here I have been working almost a year on a first draft of a book. We finally got a printer a few days ago, after months without one, so I could start printing this thing out and see what I've got. The computer was crawling, and so I decided now, of all times, to get it looked at! When all I've wanted was to feel like I've accomplished my goal of having something done by the time we leave on tour. I'm not worried that the work will be lost - just questioning my lousy timing. It's been four days now and I'm stuck. Every time I ask if it'll be ready today, the computer guy says "Maybe. Or tomorrow."

I'd been wanting to see "Julie & Julia" since it came out back when I was in the US. Maybe I would have enjoyed it more, seeing it there. Watching it in France - I was sort of ashamed. I sank lower and lower into my cinema seat, sure that my American vibes would be detected by the other audience members and they'd stuff me and hang me in effigy outside the theatre as some kind of warning. As the movie dragged on and on, I could understand why it has such a limited release in this country. I don't know why I expected anything better from Nora Ephron. Her hackdom as a director continues to mystify me, because I always thought she was a fine writer. Why that should translate into an ability to not take the low road, to go for the cute, coy and cliched every time, I don't know, but I like to expect the best from people. When they used "Psycho Killer" over the lobster scene, I wanted to throw up.

It's a shame because I swear there was something interesting underneath all the cute concept, about wanting to make your mark, do something with your self. I spend probably too much time thinking about that, these days. Then joke about cows.

Afterwards I had a lousy time at the eyeglass place - my fault for choosing the chain whose spokesperson is Johnny Hallyday! His dessicated visage is everywhere right now. His final tour continues and this week he plays Limoges. It may be the most exciting thing that's ever happened to the place. Gil Rose et Les Hydropathes, who were here recording, cracked me up because they say Johnny must never, never die. They pray that he is immortal, because should he not be, when he dies France will be in interminable mourning and those who don't care will have to hide away somewhere until the public grief subsides. Which may take a while.

I'd finally decided to reorder the glasses I lost back in Chicago this summer. The Optic 2000 employees stared at me like I was nuts - look, there are all these other frames here! Why would you get the same pair twice? I tried explaining that I'd chosen those frames, over all the others, so why go through the work, the agony, of looking again?

But things move on quickly in the eyeglass world, and they're likely no longer available...except in beige. Again, stuck.

Wait, one positive thing - the test pressing was fine, the 45's are being stamped out at this very moment! Now if we can only figure out how to get someone to brave the mud and deliver the package to us.

Under Construction

2009-10-30T13:32:00.005+01:00

Everything is under construction around here. The street out front is torn up - impassable by car and thrillingly treacherous on foot. There are big plastic pipes, men in safety vests and heavy machinery grinding, cranking and hauling. All coming to a very civilized stop between twelve and three and after six.

A French band was here building a new album with Eric as foreman. When the building wasn't shaking from the work outside, and even when it was, they recorded. I tried to stay out of the way, while at the same time I was charmed by them and interested in what they were doing.

Like 80% of Americans I've been working on a book. Will I ever finish? Yes, I will.

But right now my computer is out of commission - it had slowed down so much I was spending at least an hour a day trying to get it to do the most basic things. I took it to the local computer guy, the Rupert Pupkin of computer guys `cause I heard his mother calling his name from next door. Let me adjust that, since he is at this moment holding my computer and all the work I have done on there the last year hostage - and say he is delightful and not like Rupert Pupkin at all.

So I can't post the photo of the work going on outside and I can't write on someone else's computer (that's my excuse for this week any way). But I will be back at it again soon.

White Noise

2009-10-18T19:36:00.003+02:00

I wanted to get out of the house because a band is here recording with Eric and it seemed like it would be a good idea to go write somewhere else for a while. I packed up my laptop and drove to the next village over, thinking the library might work, but it was closed for lunch.

So I drove off - maybe there was a café or salon de the I could sit in for an hour or two. All of a sudden my choices seemed impossibly limited, possibly nonexistent.

There’s a bar near the library, but it’s not even inviting for a short cup of coffee, let alone sitting for an hour or two. The Salon de The is a new English-run place we tried once and never went back to - the tea was cheap and nasty, the croissants from the supermarket. I was almost tempted to give it another try but as I drove past a sad English face appeared in the window and I had to drive on.

That simultaneously lonely and liberating feeling of being alone in a crowd - I don’t think I’ll ever stop craving that. The countryside can feel so empty sometimes. Is it wrong to get bored by the peace and quiet of it? No more so than it's natural to crave silence and space when you're surrounded by people and noise every minute of the day. I thought of all the villages nearby and had to rule out everything: the ones where I know the proprietors, because I just wanted to sit down and write and didn’t want to have a conversation.

And the thought of hauling my laptop into an unknown bar was also out of the question. It is not habitual around here, like it is in cafes in big cities, to see people sitting there working on computers. There’s much to love about the slow, civilized pace of life in France, but the downside is in many circumstances you have to play by the rules - it would be tacky or downright uncomfortable to do otherwise. I knew that whatever I found, it would either have people still eating lunch and I’d feel obnoxious barging in with work to do, or the place would be empty and one or two friends of the owner would be sitting there making conversation while a sporting event flickered on the TV set. No doubt I would have to crawl around trying to find an outlet to plug my computer in until a big deal would be made about it, with my plug eventually having to be stuck into a fluorescent light fixture up above the bar. I’d probably have knocked over a chair and started sweating profusely and blushing by then, and have to flee the scene.

I tried the bar/restaurant by the lake, even though I’d vowed I’d never set foot in there again cause they hemmed and hawed about giving us a gig and then continually book that lame duo who play the Who medley. I figured if there were a few people in, it was a pleasant enough spot and is run by women so I wouldn’t feel as self-conscious about being on my own in a bar in the middle of the afternoon.

The parking lot was completely empty, the place closed for the afternoon. I sat in the car and wrote in my notebook for a little while but it was the keyboard I wanted.

By this time I was thinking the library had probably re-opened after lunch. I turned around and was cruising along when I saw a pheasant standing right on the center line of the road. Then two others walked out to join him. They showed no signs of moving any time soon.

I slowed down and honked the horn - they still didn’t move. I stopped the car and started cursing at them, and instantly felt a little better for having a random moment with someone, even if it was a couple of pheasants.

When I managed to get them out of my way and had started up the car again, a noisy Publicity Vehicle came along - these are usually slightly battered looking vans that drive around the countryside with a guy in the front seat holding a microphone while a crappy loudspeaker blares incomprehensible announcements about whatever corny event is going on that weekend (I think it’s the circus this time). Nothing but him, me and the pheasants. I cursed at him too.

The little bibliotheque’s not a bad place. The women who work here are sweet - there are books, magazines, children - life! I found a table to work at with a plug socket right nearby and breathed a sigh of relief. At last, I could begin. There was a little hum, a few very quiet conversations. Perfect.

Only for some reason they’d found it necessary to install a bell next to the front door, so that any time someone leaves or enters, which seems to be every two seconds, a chime goes off. Guess where the speaker is?

I’ve been willing myself to block it out. I know I can write something - I just needed some static, some white noise.

Here comes that damn Publicity Vehicle again.

Like Grand Central Station

2009-10-14T12:19:00.011+02:00

I quickly gave up on the turgid French Resistance drama. Turns out some of it was filmed nearby in Limoges - no wonder it was drab. Funny, what used to be exotic (lots of stone, old chateaux, tall shuttered windows, endless countryside full of cows) is what I see every day. If I'm looking to escape, I have to look elsewhere (though a great director like Claude Chabrol can take the commonplace and turn it otherwordly - tonight I'm watching Les Biches which probably isn't one of his best but oh my God - Stephane Audran.)

Instead I decided to go to New York City so I watched "Hannah And Her Sisters", again. I know people rave about "Manhattan" for the look of the city but I'll take this homey mid-80's city of all seasons, with rich colors made even richer by the general beige-ness of the characters.

This morning it was almost like the mean streets here in the countryside, with pounding on the door and lots of trucks outside. The fuel man was here to make a delivery for the oil burner and they chose that moment to tear up the road outside, so he'd parked down the hill, snaked his hose through the debris and into the barn. He asked me where the "trou" was? Trou, trou - I couldn't think of what the word meant, without coffee, until I remembered that trou de cou means asshole. So he wanted the hole to pump the oil into. I moved the guitar cases off the tank, happy for my slight knowledge of French slang. Maybe I can go swear at some cows.

Home Alone

2009-10-13T19:52:00.003+02:00

Eric's off to England to get the 45 ready to be pressed up next week. It's all so immediate, unlike the long gestation for a full length album. I haven't made a stand-alone single since The Shams "Only A Dream/3 AM" for Bob Mould's SOL label back in late 80's, so I find it very exciting! We're going to make it available as a download too, for the turntable-impaired.

It's funny with Eric gone, since we're always together. I imagined I'd be sliding out into the kitchen in Ray Bans, white socks and shirt with Bob Seger wailing. Or at least buying eggs and bananas at the supermarket because he can't stand the sight of them. But I couldn't find where they keep the eggs, and I'd have to call Eric and ask where he keeps his Bob Seger.

I took a stroll in one of the villages where we have several of our "properties" to keep an eye on but somehow they just looked like normal village houses without my conspirator to help with the surveillance.

So, writing and drawing and watching a French film made for TV. Omelettes and bananas Foster tomorrow.