Chapter Thirteen

Farewell to a forefather; ciao Roma; keeping on

Tracks in this episode:

• Flashback from Girl To City
• Babysitter
• Rode Hard from The Sugar Tree

Thanks for listening!

Transcript

SPEAKER_03 0:00

Chapter thirteen I parked the Aerostar in the Nether Regions of Queens near JFK to fly over to the UK for another solo tour. It was not exactly convenient to Nashville, but I'd coordinated a short run of Northeast gigs on either end of that overseas trip. After the UK I'd finish up with a festival in Rome, then fly back to New York to open shows for Richard Schindel, a deep and acerbic singer-songwriter with a devoted following on the folk circuit. I was always scrambling to make this connect to that. My excitement about the upcoming gigs almost paled next to the promise of a business class flight, courtesy of a frequent flying fan who'd become a friend. The ticket even included access to the British Airways lounge. I checked in, ready to assert my right to be there in jeans, boots, guitar case, and scraggly hair in amongst the business suited and well heeled. I marveled at the comprehensive buffet, comfy chairs and couches, bottled water everywhere you turned, and a free bar. I settled into a freshly upholstered armchair with my plate of food, glass of sparkling wine and cup of coffee, and practically swooned at the pile of crisp daily newspapers and glossy magazines of every description, artfully splayed on a coffee table. I leaned forward to load up on reading matter. Then everything felt like a sad cartoon. The New York Post, Times, and Daily News, and the British papers The Guardian and Independent featured headlines like a sock to the gut, punk icon Joey Ramone, dead at 49. Joey, gone, not yet fifty. He'd felt like an elder since I discovered the Ramones back in 1976 when he was twenty-five years old to my seventeen. To say we all looked up to him was true and an understatement. At six feet six inches, literally everyone looked up to him, but his stature was broad and wide too, as catalyst and front man for what many considered the first punk band. Fast and loud but with wit and a calculated aesthetic. I'd never known him, but seeing the Ramones at CBGB had been my portal to the developing New York scene of the seventies. Towards the corner of the room was a stage with two large pictures of a man and a lady that made me think of funny girl, old New York and Vaudeville. There was a band just about to start playing. I expected to feel conspicuous and out of place. Everyone was looking at the stage. The remote were less than 20 feet away. I've never seen musicians up close unless you counted piano recitals. All the concerts I've been to so far have been in huge places. Uncle John kicking out his piano stool, or Bowie in black vest and white shirt, a hockey rank away in Civic Arena, mythic, epic shows. I might as well have dreamed. Their moments looked almost like the guy standing next to you, only more so. Times four. They moved with choreography as intense and masculine as a rapid-fire game of basketball in the chainlink corner of a city park. Joey was the center of the cocky, but graceful. The volume had a physical effect on the audience. The melodies Joey sounding over basic chord changes made me happy and sad at the same time. I gripped the back of a chair. Glad the floor was so sticky. It kept us from being lifted and tossed around beneath the dusty beer lights. There was no pause between songs. When the short set ended, the crowd streamed outside for air. Bob passed me a Marlborough and lit both our cigarettes. My ears were buzzing, and I felt like I'd been beaten up. Bob, I said, Can we come back tomorrow? My treasured memory of an early nineties in the round show at the bottom line, a bunch of songwriters sitting around singing, is Joey sitting next to Lucinda Williams, singing Be My Baby with an acoustic guitar, his sweet, gawky fandom and sincere croon on full display without the buzzsaw of the band. I'd even met him once in the lounge of Coyote, the rehearsal and recording studio in Williamsburg where the Shams recorded our album Quilt. He'd been cute and shy, or maybe I'd been the shy one, and all I could think and remark on at the time was that he resembled Amanda, the cool six foot tall black haired siren of my band. In the airport lounge, I read about the lymphoma that killed Joey, and details of his young life I'd never known. A few businessmen, the only other woman in the lounge, greeted me from behind the check-in desk. Business class felt like a boys' club. Sat engrossed in their papers or prepared for meetings. In 2001, the BA Lounge wasn't a great place to find a kindred spirit to share the news with. The Ramones were icons to a certain type of music fan. They had yet to become t-shirt shorthand for alternative. Long live Joey Ramon, gone too soon. I wanted to speak or shout out loud, but I just thought it. On the plane, I snuggled into my private, fully reclining seat in free socks, eye mask, and earplugs, after spritzing myself with the complimentary molten brown toiletries, and silently toasted Joey with my champagne flute.

SPEAKER_00 5:49

On the couch with my special one.

SPEAKER_03 7:17

Two spowed teacups in a particular pattern available at Harrod's or Fortnum and Mason's, not exactly frequent stops for touring musicians, a particular type of Cadbury's chocolate bar, and as much Baracco Vitamin C tablets as I could carry. She promised to reimburse me. I thought the opera world must be a lot different from the Troubadour game, and did my best, but the spode would have to wait. I landed at an airport way outside of Rome, without Lyra or even an Italian phrase book, having arranged to be picked up by the Contessa's driver. He didn't materialize, and the only way I could manage to travel to Rome was via taxi. The rogue took me the long way around. I gasped when the Colosseum came into view. The Contessa, regal, tall and pale, with once lustrous red hair coiled into a chignon, met me at the hotel and was aghast at the fair on the meter. She demanded to know why I hadn't waited for her driver. He'd only been delayed an hour or two. Welcome to Italy. The next day, I played for a fabulous crowd in an ancient courtyard while the Contessa stood to the right of the stage acting out my lyrics for the Italians. The women in the audience mobbed me when I finished. It might not lead to anything. I never played Italy again. The Contessa passed away years ago. I doubt anyone remembers that day. But right then and there you have to enjoy the moment as its own reward. I was taken all around the city, ending the night with Gelato and a peek at the Vatican Dome, through the keyhole of Santa Maria del Priorato on the Aventine Hill. I felt it was my birthright, or at least my Italian mom's, to enjoy everything about Rome. I drank wine, I bought shoes, I bought sunglasses, not knowing how much I was spending and not caring. All those lira felt like play money, worthless, except for what it paid for in the here and now. But then I came down with the flu. I was feverish, delirious even. I managed to catch my cheap flight back to London, where I'd booked a Paddington hotel to spend one last night in England before catching another flight to New York. I'd imagine myself strolling around this familiar part of London, visiting old haunts from when I'd lived near Queensway twenty years before, enjoying one last curry. The best I could manage was to find strong cold medicine called Night Nurse and crawl back to lay shivering in my sad room like a desperate character in a Jean Reese novel. It was scary to be alone and ill so far from home. I suddenly felt very vulnerable and American in spite of my chic sunglasses. The British Airways flight attendants tucked blankets around me on the return flight to JFK as my teeth chattered, and I wondered how I'd make it through the next week of shows with Richard Schindel. I managed to score some prednisone from a doctor in New Jersey and carried on playing, wondering if Joey had done it this way. Working, not letting the cracks show. I felt certain he had. This was the life we'd chosen. What didn't kill you made you stronger until maybe it killed you.