Tuesday, May 05, 2009,
10:11 AM
I made more money in Port Dover on Friday night than I made in three shows last week. Perch Gallery, local arts gallery with great acoustics and room for about 40 people. Corin and I sold nearly 50 CDs. To 40 people.
Great night tonight, as well. The Kilgannon's house in Hamilton, Ontario.
Now, it may seem to you that art galleries and pleasant houses in the suburbs are not places where you go to rock and be rocked. Rest assured, we shifted the foundations of institutions tonight. A little house in the suburbs may be the best place, in fact, to go to the edge. There is no sound system and about a foot and a half between my guitar and the face of a woman in the first row. I tell her it's making me self-aware and I feel like maybe I'm blowing her away on the big parts because I like to stand up and play hard and she says, "I like it," and she looked to me, in her eyes, like a girl dancing in front of the subwoofer at a club.
Corin said to me last night that there are some people who will never appreciate great art, because they're not secure enough to expose themselves. "They would be forced to rewrite their souls," he said. I think the same is true of artists. The artists we love are fearless, which doesn't mean "without fear." It just means they go on anyway.
Corin has not played his guitar in six weeks, because he's been touring in Australia singing a completely different set of songs. So he is also two days jet-fogged. A concert with 40 people in an art gallery, with no microphones, curtains, lights, and not even a stage, he had to stand as a mortal before mortals and make them believe in forever. He was nervous. I'd be nervous, too.
But he is fearless. I learn how far I have to go when I see him perform. He gives everything. I frankly don't know how he does what he does. The rooms are full. The tour is dense, just a few days off in two weeks. It takes great skill and energy to do any one of: booking a tour, promoting a tour, or playing a tour. Corin does it all like his coat's caught in the door of a train.
I'm going to learn all I can from him, but I'm afraid that he might just be superhuman. It's assuring to me that he is asleep right now.
Your fan,
jbyrd
Tuesday, April 14, 2009,
3:32 PM
If You See Us When We Are Old
If you see us when we are old
and it seems as if she is only
putting up with my forgetfulness
because I am a good gardener
and a mathematician
and it seems as if I am only
putting up with her constant demands
because she is a good cook
and keeps the house in good order
and still beautiful, besides
I want you to know that, now, right now,
we are so madly and passionately
in love that no one else will ever do.
I want you to know that now, right now,
we are following each other's movements
with the greatest curiosity and desire.
I want you to know that I love every flaw
in her skin, every break in her voice,
every crack in her perfectly crazed veneer.
So, if you see us when we are old
and you think, "Those are the only two
people in the world who could put up
with each other," you are right.
It is all we ever wanted and we have it.
Thursday, April 09, 2009,
12:29 AM
So many people asked me if I got my guitar back from Northwest/Delta, I had to leave a comment about it. Of course, I outgrew the comment box, so here ya go. If I had more time, I'd make it shorter.
I got my guitar back in Milwaukee on the way down to Chicago. Northwest/Delta never called me as I had asked them to, and the 800 number they gave me was automated. Useless. After a day, it started saying to me, "We believe we have located your luggage. We are currently trying to confirm its contents with a name." Like, you believe you have located it in, say, Taipei? Azerbaijan? Would a location be too much?
So, I had to take it on faith that it was there in Milwaukee, as I had requested. In fact, it was. Milwaukee allows you to park for 30 minutes for free and I was determined not to spend even fifty cents getting my guitar back.
I practically ran to the baggage desk and pounded on the office door. No one was there. God, don't tell me there's no Northwest flights and no employees here. I walked up the escalator, across the merch court, and back down the escalator to ticketing.
A lanky, red-headed man was assisting customers at the self-help kiosks. I told him I was here to pick up a baggage item and showed him my ticket.
"Go to baggage claim. It's across-"
"I know where it is. I was just there and no one was there. I banged on the door." I stared at him and held out my claim ticket.
He said, "Uh, I'll take you over there." Which he did. Thank. God.
He opened the office door and I said, "That's it! Right there. The guitar." He handed it to me and I said to him, "Thank you for coming all the way over here and getting this for me."
Already ten paces away, he said, without turning around, "Yup." Poor guy. He must be tired of dealing with this shit every day. I'd probably last about fifteen minutes. Which brings us right back around to the fact that I love my job. When I do my job well, people stand up and applaud. It doesn't matter how well he does his job; his company has pissed off every one before they even walk through the door. I'm going to give a standing ovation to the next customer service employee who is nice to me.
Your fan,
jbyrd
Wednesday, April 08, 2009,
3:05 PM
This is just to tell you, in case you were thinking about buying a Sears product: don't.
I've got a Kenmore dryer. I know, I know, it's probably hard for you to believe that I wash my own clothes. That's what I'm here for- to upset the mythic paradigm about rock stars such as myself. Beautiful women throw themselves on my front stoop all the time, begging to wash my clothes, but, alas, I am a self-made man, an adventurer, a regular Davy Crockett of the modern age.
The dryer broke down. I looked at the tech sheet, scratched my coon-skin cap, and took the top apart. Modular repair: take a part out, replace it, and it should work. The tech sheet is very specific- if this happens, replace thus-and-so.
So, I order a thus-and-so from Sears Parts Direct. The operator was super friendly and helpful, and sent me the wrong part. I sent it back to them and they refunded my money, including postage. They sent me another part- the wrong one. I called them and got a little more detailed. The helpful, friendly operator informed me that they "don't make that part anymore." So, if you can't get a pancake, an old sock will do? They refunded my money, including postage and picked the part up.
I said to hell with it and called Sears "service." We set up an appointment for April 2nd between 8am and noon. We were told there would be a minimum $65 charge, even if the technician decided that it couldn't be fixed. Sure, I'd pay my auto mechanic an hourly wage to get a diagnosis. Seems fair.
On April 2nd, I was tracking a rabid grizzly that had been terrorizing settlers in Door County, Wisconsin, and I had my wife's phone. She was waiting at the house for the repairman. She called Sears at 10am, 1:45, and again at 2:30, only to be told that they didn't have a record of an appointment for that day. She asked to speak to a supervisor and was told that she could not. She finally left the house at 3pm and left a note on the door with my phone number, since she had my phone with her.
I got a phone call at 2pm, saying the repair person would be late. Nothing I could do about that, since I was locked in a death-grip with said grizzly at the time, but I called my wife and she blistered my ear for a few minutes about her day. I told her to wait 'til I got home and I'd reschedule and demand some sort of compensation.
Sears called us five times to reschedule. Each time, I said, "I will call you when I'm ready," meaning when I get home. "My wife is a crack shot with a .38 (this is absolutely true) and I don't think your technicians are safe with her anymore." The second time, I added, "Please don't call me again." Each Sears employee lives in his own hermetically-sealed cube and talks to no one, evidently.
Today was the day for rescheduling. I spent about three minutes in a maddening phone tree, until I started saying things like, "Wubba wubba wubba," and "Mumu. Mumu! Wagaducho! No capiche!" The little computer lady-voice calmly told me to hold for the next available operator.
The next available operator could barely speak English, which is funny, because the first step in the phone tree allows you to pick the language that you would like to communicate in. I guess the operator's preference doesn't necessarily have to match mine, or perhaps they took a wild guess, based on my crazed gibberish.
She asked me for my phone number, which I had already entered during the phone tree. What happens to all the phone numbers that get entered into the phone tree? When I call my credit card company, I enter my credit card number, my phone number, date of birth, enneagram number, hat size, and inseam "to better assist you," and then the operator comes on and asks for all of that info again. What did you do with the first round of info? They have these things called "computers" these days that could help y'all keep all that stuff straight.
Anyway, I give slumdog millionaire my medical history and she offers to reschedule our appointment. I tell her my whole sob story and how my wife wasted her entire day waiting for a guy who never showed up and never had the professional courtesy to call and nobody at Sears seemed to give a damn about it or us or my scars from the battle with the damn grizzly. I asked her, "What is Sears going to do for me? I want a free hour of service or a free part or something. What can you offer me?"
"Can I put you on hold?" Six deadly words. A jazzy organ began to play a funeral march for my phone call and my entire relationship with the Sears company. I felt like the grizzly was winning.
After about ten minutes: "Thank you for calling Sears, this is Angela, how may I help you?"
"I was just on hold with another operator. Can I have her back?"
"I'm sorry sir, this is the national call center, can I help you?" It's a damn good thing she spoke English, because I had to use some American vernacular to get my point across. I told her the entire story again. "Can I put you on hold?"
"No, you can not put me on hold. That's how I wasted the last twenty minutes of my life. I rather go back and wrastle that damn bear again."
"I'm just going to put my headset down, okay?"
"Okay." Now there was only silence. The silence of a funeral parlor, as we walked up to the casket of my relationship with Sears and peered in. Its great, burly paws were filed and combed. It looked so natural. So life-like.
"Sir, we can reschedule as soon as April 15th. Would you like to make an appointment?"
"I'm not going to use your service people unless you can offer me something in exchange for the day that my wife wasted waiting on your technician."
"Sir I can't offer you anything. I see here that our technician tried to call you at 2pm and was unable to reach anyone."
"Do you understand that 2pm is not the time to call and tell me you're going to be late for an eight-to-noon appointment? That noon might possibly be the latest time you could call and even consider yourself within the limits of professional courtesy? That even then you should offer me something for wasting my time?"
"Sir, I am sorry, I can't offer you anythi..."
"Can I put you on hold?" Click.
Sears practically built this country from the ground up. Half of the houses still standing in small southern towns were milled and sent by rail from Sears. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
I did some searching around online and found dozens upon dozens of these same stories about Sears' arrogant customer "service." This is not indicative of modern American customer service. I will not accept economic excuses for such disrespect and thievery. My CD duplicator, Cravedog in Portland, Oregon, answers the phone, gets everything right, and ships my product on time, every time.
One principle has remained consistent since the pioneer days- customer service is not a luxury item. I'll not buy a Sears product again in my lifetime, if there is any alternative, and I urge you not to. Certainly there is some desire to take down the diseased bear, a boycott that I can enact in my own small community, but I am also just concerned that someday, you too will be faced with this frustrating experience, bound to create ripples of ill will. In this regard, I consider customer service to be a spiritual calling, a mission to make someone's day brighter by saying, "Thank you for being a customer. What can we do for you?" They could start by simply answering the phone.
Grr. Your fan,
jbyrd
Thursday, April 02, 2009,
6:18 AM
Woke up at 6am, still sick. Flight at 9, be there by 8, leave house by 7, get up at 6, that's the logic. Most things were packed. Figured out how to get absolutely everything into one rolling bag and a guitar case. So glad I'm not a woman.
Remembered to pack my phone charger. Forgot to pack my phone. We're pretty much all the way to the airport when I realize this. Mary says, "Take mine." I do. We have very few numbers in common.
I check myself in and the security people are sweet as Stuckey's iced tea. They tell jokes in the morning. I love my airport, except that I have a portion of disgust for any airport that makes you pay for wi-fi. It's just inhospitable. There's no excuse.
Security is a peach, which makes me feel relieved, because I had some trouble with the Texas Border Patrol earlier this year and I thought it would show up to haunt me. It has, in one quirky way, but not in the Homeland Security way. I sit and read about half of "Writing The Novel," by Lawrence Block. Outdated, but funny and honest about his own first career as a sex novelist. Discussing chapter length: "I'm positive my average fan, turning pages with one hand and panting over the lurid innuendo, barely realized that the book was divided into chapters in the first place. In his mind, it was more conveniently divided into hot parts and dull stretches. Now that the books I write no longer contain hot parts, I'm a good deal more flexible in dividing the dull stretches into chapters."
We board and I gate-check my guitar. I always do. Slept through take-off and woke up in time for orange juice and a cookie. I asked for hot tea and the lady brought me another cookie with it. Nice. Delta/Northwest, by the way.
I get to Detroit, disembark, and stand there waiting for my guitar to show up in the tunnel of love. Finally, the flight crew walks off the plane and says, "What are you waiting for?"
"Gate-checked my guitar," I say.
"Very unusual that they would pink-tag anything on a jet of this size."
"I had a tag and it was pink," I say, and pull the carbon copy from my pocket. The pilot looks at it and says, "It'll be in baggage claim. What's your final destination?"
"Milwaukee," I say.
"It'll be in Milwaukee," he says. Now, I knew this was wrong somehow. You know how you know? Well, it took all day for me to figure out how you know, but this is how you know: The pilot's never gate-checked anything in his life. He's never been on the baggage crew. He's never had to beg for his lost luggage from the luggage bitches. His luggage is behind his seat. He may be able to fly a plane, but he doesn't know shit about luggage.
I took a seat at my next flight gate and checked the wi-fi. A portion of disgust for Detroit Metro Airport. So, I get up and walk around, noticing the Detroit swagger, pushed-up boobs, young men's penchants for sports wear and nearly shaved heads. People don't look at me.
I make some phone calls. I know Mary's, John Laird's and Raina Rose's number by heart. Mary and John Laird I need now, Raina I'll need later. I use these numbers to get numbers. I call people and tell them my new, temporary number. Mary calls me from my phone.
By the time we land in Milwaukee, the book is almost done and I've slept through most of it. The flight, I mean. I look down, a little surprised to see snow on the ground.
By this time, you've guessed that my guitar is not in Milwaukee. It's still in Detroit. I'm four hours from my gig in Fish Creek, WI. The baggage lady tells me my guitar was only checked to Detroit. Someone sent it to baggage claim, when it should have come up the ladder to me, like I knew damn well it should have. At the least, I should have used my *hour and a half* in Detroit, where the bailout is definitely not going to free wi-fi in the airport, to go down to the baggage claim, get my guitar, and come back through security to my gate with the only thing I need to do my job in my hand.
But I didn't. Note to self: airport abbreviation of final destination is written on those little tags they give you for your checked items.
So, the lady tells me it can be there by 4. I'm thinking, no way I'm waiting that long, catching rush hour here *and* in Green Bay, possibly still not getting my guitar, and then walking into a gig at showtime. "I'm going to Door County."
"Oh," she says. "You can pick it up in Green Bay. I have a flight landing at 5:20 in Green bay."
Last time I played in Door County, I flew into Green Bay and I remember it being an hour and a half to Fish Creek. An hour before showtime. "Okay. Do that. Send it to Green Bay and I'll pick it up there." She gives me a number to call and a pickup number for the package. Or, my guitar, which she keeps calling "the package," which makes me think that this bitch has no idea what I'm talking about and is not really doing anything but making me go away, so that she can continue talking to her daughter on the phone.
I go get my rental car from Enterprise. I prefer Budget, always have. That was the quirky fallout from my run-in with the Texas Border Patrol. No charges filed, but the Corporate Security Manager of Budget/Avis sent me a polite letter, explaining how I can't rent their cars anymore. I set them back a friendly letter, telling them about my local Budget employees, whom I called by their first names, as I always had. Never heard back from the Corporate Security Manager.
Anyway, the Enterprise girl is really good at selling the getting-you-to-forget-and-buy-them-half-a-tank-of-gas package, the insurance-you-don't-need-that-doubles-the-price-of-your-rental package, and so on. I ask her, "Is there any crunchy place to get a bite to eat? Like, I'll settle for Whole Foods, but is there a local natural foods store?"
She says something like, "Whole Foods is better, like for meat, but it's way out of your way." (did I say anything about meat? do words mean nothing to anyone? do people assemble new sentences from the ones they hear?) Then, she tells me about the apparently meat-deficient place that she likes to shop at and how there's one right on the highway to Green Bay. There's a huge sign, you can't miss it. Did you miss it? I said, "You can't miss it," which almost always means, "You're going to miss it."
I asked her if it was local, this place called 'Oupost.' She said, "Oh, they're all over the place around here." At which point I gave up on what was obviously going to be a long road to clarity, unless I mentioned that I wanted her to rape me with their shyster insurance plan, at which point I'm sure she would have been clear as a bell about terms and conditions.
I am not one to turn around. If I miss it, there's something else down the road. I must have missed it, because 94 turned to 43 and I never saw it. Forward ever, onto Green Bay on 43 North.
Several miles up, I look up and see a big green highway sign that says, "Exit 76A, University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee." now, if there's one thing in this world that means "crunchy place to get a bite to eat," its "university." Two blocks later, I am redeemed. My status as a human GPS is re-founded and I feel good about one thing that I did today. There's absolutely nothing wrong with Outpost. It's fabulous. I didn't notice any lack or abundance of meat products, although I did grab a can of sardines on the way out. I've recently become a fan of sardines, I mean straight out the can with a fork and I'll eat the whole damn thing. It's weird to me, too. First, remember I still am talking like the bastard child of Lurch and Janis Joplin and breathing through one dripping nostril, so I got the fresh, hot spinach-coconut soup from the soup bar. I would have taken a bath in it. It was so good, I nearly cried.
I didn't have time to cry just yet. I called the White Gull Inn, the place where I am typing now and the place where I had a future gig then, to tell them my saga. The clerk was so warm and friendly, I knew I had to get my ass up there. Really, there's a point where you've gone so far north, that you're back south again. She was very concerned about me missing supper. Now I am gonna cry. Okay, not yet. Grab some home-made granola, about a half pound of goji berries, the can of sardines, and my first cup of coffee in at least a week. Why can't I just quit the coffee? I don't know. It's like, I've got one drug left, you know?
The coffee was good and the road was good. People drove like shit. Milwaukee's a city, after all. I was reminded of the words of warning from the Enterprise lady (Ashley? Amber? one of those mid-nineties baby names), "Wisconsin is one of the few states that allows uninsured drivers..." Damn, they're good. They get that paranoid rap that won't leave you alone. "No matter the fault..." It makes you see windshields cracking before your eyes.
What was good about the road is that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step on the gas, and more of Milwaukee was in my rearview mirror all the time. When the country finally opened up, it felt good to get high on caffeine and sing some silly old rock songs, chew on some apple granola, and watch the needle dance around 70. There was one really silly commercial about their silly mascot, which was a duck, a rock station with a duck mascot and this huge, gravelly voice echoing around from speaker to speaker like he was announcing a Van Halen tour or a monster truck rally and really he was announcing the radio station's new mascot, a duck. Like "1-0-3-point-FIIIIIIIVVVE, THE DUUUUUUCK, DUCk, DUck, Duck, duck..."
I pulled into a rest stop and filled my empty coffee cup with water. One for the green man. One for the cheap man. Win-win.
I got to Green Bay early, hooked up my laptop to the car's radio, via my little handy-dandy audio cable that I also remembered to pack and listened to rough mixes from Anthony da Costa's next album. I finished the book, deleted all of the rough mixes from my computer, because I promised John Elliott I'd have fresh ears for the next round and I meant it, and I checked the time. 5:22.
Drove a couple blocks to the airport, which is very small (this town has a football team?!) and walked in to get my beautiful guitar. There wasn't even a baggage desk, you just have to go to the ticket counter and they handle baggage, too. They didn't know what I was talking about, except that they did know about the flight, which had come in and, did I check the carousel? In fact I had. There were three very ugly suitcases circling it and no one there to claim them. I wouldn't have claimed them either. They said, "Do you have your claim ticket?" I did not; it was in the car, which, thankfully, was not very far from the front door. I love small airports.
I went and got my claim check. My guitar was still in Detroit. My heart was still in North Carolina. My temper was right there in Green Bay, breathing hot on the back of my neck. I said:
"This is what i want you to do. Send it on to Milwaukee. Not Green Bay. Not here. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." Ooh, this guy had a clear look in his eyes. Was I communicating for the first time today? He wasn't looking at his computer screen. He was looking right at me. I know- weird.
"When it gets to Milwaukee, call me. You have to call me. Do you have my number?"
"Yes, sir." He showed me.
"Is this still the number to call and the correct item number for my guitar?"
"Yes, sir. I'm really sorry about your guitar."
He called it a guitar. I smiled at him and thanked him for his time. I went out to my car and called the White Gull Inn. I told them that I needed a guitar. The desk clerk replied that the owner's daughter was there and that he had two guitars I could choose from. One was a nineteen-forty something Martin D-18 and the other was a Collings. I said, "Would you put her on the line?"
I got here about 7 and they showed me to my room and how to turn on the gas fireplace. They delivered Pasta Bolognese, a salad, a hot cup of tea, and two incredible guitars to my room. The gig was amazing. My voice crackled like a busted speaker all night, but it was kind of cool. I more than half wish I could walk into a studio right now and make a record. I love my job. I fucking love my job. I will swim Homeland Security-infested waters for you, if only you will pay me to make music. It's 4:51am and I can't sleep and I'm sick and I've gotta sleep and I can't sleep and I still love my job. I may or may not get my guitar back in one piece. The real problem is that my thermal underwear is in my guitar case. (Just so y'all really understand, there is still ice in Green Bay.) I still love my job. I just had to tell you. Maybe now, I'll sleep.
Your fan,
jbyrd
Saturday, March 28, 2009,
5:13 PM
You are my investors. I just did my taxes, which is about as much fun being strapped down across a nest of fire ants while my nuts are being tasered. However, I do learn a lot about where all the money comes from and where it goes.
In the interest of full disclosure to all my business partners, hereafter referred to as "Y'all," here are the results of my yearly mission to bring beauty into the world.
WARNING: The following financial information is of a graphic and violent nature, not suitable for young people who are thinking about a career in the music business.
Total income for 2008: $42,662
agent fees- $5119
telephone- $1680
internet- $540
dues and subscriptions- $428
professional conference- $350
towing- $74.03 (included in standard vehicle deduction)
parking- $378
rental cars- $532
gas for rental cars- $674
hotels- $682
goods to be sold (my CDs)- $3910
mileage- 36,650=$19974 standard deduction (50.5 cents a mile for the first half of 2008, 58.5 cents a mile for the latter half)
misc music equip- $1951
medical- $665
tolls- $201
food- $2510
postage- $603
flights- $2796
misc office- $481
home office (rent and bills)- $1800
LOSS for 2008= $2612
That means I paid $2,612 to be a musician last year. Some nights, that feels like a bargain. "How do you do it?" you say. I hear ya.
The only fudge here is the standard deduction for the mileage on my own vehicle, which includes repairs, gas, towing and anything else you can think of that makes the wheels roll. (I know about AAA plus. They booted me out of the program for using it too much. I still have the standard-grade AAA, which remains a no-brainer for anyone who travels for a living.)
I probably did not spend twenty thousand on my car, though I'd be willing to bet I spent twelve thousand. So, that leaves me about $9000 to spend on frivolities, such as my mortgage, pants, and lettuce.
So, the next person who complains to me about CDs costing $20 is going to get strapped to a fire ant hill and tasered in the nuts. Can we all take a vote? All in favor, signify by saying "aye." All opposed?
Very well, then. It's unanimous.
Your fan,
jbyrd
Thursday, March 26, 2009,
4:36 AM
It's 4:30am and I'm "doing" my taxes. I think they're doing me. Wouldn't it be easier if I just made a big pile of everything I own and burned it once a year? Walk away naked and start over. Sounds nice.
If was homeless, once a year I'd think, "Shit, at least I don't have to do my taxes." My regards to the homeless out there. Are contributions to you guys tax-deductible?
jbyrd
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