Had a dream the night before I left for this tour: a committee of interrogators, asking me what I’ve been doing for my work lately. They are bemused, and I’m getting that sense of dread one gets when one’s interrogators are bemused. “Doesn’t it seem a little odd,” they ask me slowly, “that this is your career, and other people are working hard while you’re just sitting around? Doesn’t it?” I was just going back on the road, I say pleadingly, knowing I sound desperate. In fact I’m going to the airport first thing tomorrow. “Of course, of course,” they nod at me. Their bodies cast silhouettes on the far wall. “See that you do.”
The day will come, I’m sure, when having a few weeks of downtime doesn’t give me anxiety nightmares. I’ve just been in motion so long, it’s hard to relearn how to sit still. No reason to learn it now, I guess.
27 April, 7:30 am: It occurs to me that everyone looks sort of homeless in an airport restroom, especially coming off a redeye flight. Brushing teeth at a long row of sinks, smoothing wrinkles on slept-in shirts, pushing cartfuls of possessions in weary slow motion. We look displaced, without anchor. I think of people elsewhere in the country who have to do this weeks, months, even years at a time.
27 April, 11:00 am: A blind man makes his way confidently across the subway platform, his cane clickclacking like a metronome. He’s wearing headphones. It takes a moment for the significance of this to sink in: he’s navigating purely by feel. I marvel at the audaciousness of it. Wonder what he’s listening to.
We met up in Boston, Amy, Andy, Dave (of Deep South) and I, and spent the day at Rounder Records headquarters. The folks at Rounder are an understated bunch, and that suits me well—instead of flattering speeches and vague promises, we got timelines, updates on plans already in motion. They spoke thoughtfully about the songs, asked good questions about my audience, explained their strategies and listened to ideas. It reminded me of conversations with Michael at Virt Records, albeit with more people at the table. “It’s an excellent record,” they said simply. “We want it to reach as many people as it possibly can.”
3 May, 4:30 pm: Spring has come to the Eastern Time Zone. Pollen makes a thin coat on the windshield. Brilliant green suffuses all of North Carolina, and red poppies dot the median of Interstate 85. Ellery’s Lying Awake is now firmly entrenched in the CD player and in my head; just now the aching, delicate voice of Tasha Golden floats over the band and her husband Justin’s guitar in “Arizona”:
sixty years and then a sudden goodbye
he still forgets and calls her name sometimes
I’m reminded of how they bewitched the room in Annapolis, and of the privilege of seeing performers backstage before they walk on—the effortless transformation from normal, nice people to artists. It’s a minute shift, but fascinating to watch. There is another side to everyone. There is a part of themselves that you can see only when the light is just right.