Diary Of Amy Rigby

Tu Down

2008-07-18T21:29:00.003+02:00

We scored what felt like a major victory the other day when our next door neighbor gave us the go-ahead to use the informal "tu" instead of "vous" with her. We were doing our usual chat over the garden fence when she said `this is crazy, you don't have to be formal with me.' Since she is older and we're newcomers, it had to come from her. We were thrilled.

Hands still sore from high-fiving, Eric and I went to pick up his wedding ring from the jewelry shop. It's been months of waiting, repairs and resizing so we've become pretty friendly with the woman who sold us the rings in the first place. Let's `tu', she said, and then she hugged us as we were leaving.

It was a nice farewell as we were off in the car for ten days in England and Scotland. We have some shows to play but tomorrow Eric's singing with the Proclaimers at Edinburgh Castle. They recorded Whole Wide World for their latest album Life With You. I find them so inspiring and uplifting. And we'll get to see our friend Lindsay Hutton which is a treat.

Edinburgh is special for us because it's where Eric and I had our first date. But we've still never had that deep-fried Mars bar he promised me. Maybe tomorrow (though I think they're only available after 1 or 2 AM). I love Scotland!

But my heart's in France.

Good Things

2008-07-15T07:41:00.009+02:00

The last time I wrote, about a week ago, I said I was going to try being only positive. And then you never heard from me again, and that might seem a little ominous.

But the simple truth is things are getting really busy around here, with putting the record out. We've been dealing with the logistics of booking and travelling to other lands and it starts to be all consuming.

The good news is there are a lot of gigs in the next few months! And Eric has updated his website!

Another happy thing was our gig the other night. After struggling with the sound and the cold at an outdoor concert the previous week, it was reassuring to play in our favorite local place, the Lawrence d'Arabie, with a nice crowd of friends and strangers around (except for that sour couple at the table right in front...but wait, only nice things...at least for another day or two) and sound like we know we can sound.

Then there was the fete du bois the next day. It's simply that, a celebration of - wood. There's a lot of it around here. This is supposed to be brawny men stripped to the waist, armed with chainsaws, battling it out over who can take down a tree fastest. But it rains every year, so that part of it is a little mythical. Instead it's some cute stalls displaying every kind of cutting board imaginable, and other stalls selling sausage sandwiches and beer. It poured rain just as we were eating and Eric and I ended up huddled under an umbrella with a couple of guys who were grilling and drinking wine. We laughed and talked with them until the rain stopped enough to run to the car. It was goofy and fun.

We've been working on the garden a little bit, getting a winding path going and trying to find the right spot to put a table and chairs. It gets the morning light and some evening light too, which the courtyard misses. I find myself walking up there a lot, which is what I love about paths - you want to follow them. Before, it felt too daunting, this big open green space (mostly weeds - oops, negative) but now there's somewhere to go.

Glass-Half-Full Girl

2008-07-09T16:10:00.003+02:00

Eric was catching up with my recent blogs the other day. I wonder sometimes how other couples deal with blogging. Do you tell your sweetie the moment you post some witty insight ("Hey hon, come check this out") or a recounting of an event you both attended ("I need some fact-checking here!")? Or do you wait til they stumble on it in their own time? If you talk about someone online, do you ask their approval beforehand, or do you wait until you've posted and then alert them? I imagine there's a lot of new business in counseling these days to help people sort out their issues with sharing - not the old-fashioned kind between two people, but rather sharing with the world in general, especially when it might be things you haven't gotten around to talking about at home yet.

I'm often a little shy in front of Eric about what I write, mostly because I think he is such a fine writer himself and I would want him to like what I write. When he was looking at the last month or two of posts, I was reading over his shoulder and I noticed a few bad habits in my writing.

One is my overuse of the word "just", as in "they were just the worst band I've ever seen." A pretty useless word, "just", when trotted out constantly to somehow soften or make judgements and statements less definitive. (There's another word I overuse - "somehow". Same as "just", I use it to back off a little from whatever it is I'm saying.)

Another word I abuse is "adorable." Yuck! This has to stop immediately.

But my worst bad habit is one I've been guilty of for a long time, in my songwriting as well. And sure enough, with Eric's laser vision focused on my writing, it came clearly into focus. I accentuate the negative way too much. For example, why, when I wrote about the neighbor's get-together, did I have to turn it into a post about my lack of French skills? I have clearly made progress with the language from last year. Several of the neighbors made a point of telling me so! But in order to someh- (shit...see what I mean?) put a cap on the writing, to make it all fit together, I grabbed a convenient "hook" - and in my case the hook is usually something to do with me not being able to get it together.

So I'm doing some writing practice now that involves not falling into default self-flagellation mode. It's going to be hard. No, let me rephrase that. It's going to be a wonderful challenge, one that I'm looking forward to very much. From now on, or rather for as long as I can stand it, I'm going to see if I can tell a story without the woeful attitude. Call me Glass-Half-Full Girl.

From A Duckling To A Swan (And Back)

2008-07-07T17:13:00.008+02:00

Yesterday all the neighbors got together for the annual meal in the barn across the street. We knew what to expect from having joined them last year, and in some ways we wished the whole thing would go away. Mostly because we were afraid of having to eat farci again.

Just like last year, I heard the gang gathering outside at around 10 AM. I wanted to get something to wear out of the front room where I keep my clothes and, since I hadn't remembered to shut the shutters the night before, I had to hit the floor and soldier crawl to the dresser in order to avoid being seen and waved to and shouted at by about thirty people.

Eric and I went over at noon and it was pretty much the same as the first time: kisses and handshakes all around, aperitifs and little sandwiches and then everyone sat down to eat the big meal. Which, thankfully, was not farci but delicious wild boar and roast chicken. And the most adorable pastries.

We listened to some stories and songs and Eric and I managed to make it through a song in French, as we'd vowed we would do last year. It all seemed a lot easier the second time around. Part of it was knowing what to expect, who to kiss, who to "tu" and who to "vous". When the cheese course would come, when they would tell us to break out the guitars.

A big factor in it being easier was that I could understand and speak French better. It's actually possible for me to make small talk now, about gardens and travel and bakeries and music and children. I felt like I'd really made progress.

But apparently that was only an illusion, a little bit of magic bestowed on me for showing up at the barn yesterday. Because this morning, in the bank, in the bakery - nothing. I could say barely one intelligible word of French. The spell was broken.

Picture Book

2008-07-02T00:13:00.009+02:00

Photo by Julia Gorton from "No Wave: Post-Punk.Underground.New York.1976-1980"

When Eric and I were doing photos for the album recently, I thought "God I've been doing this a long time." Like some old actor who trots out a variety of expressions that have worked for him year after year. Only there's a few more lines and wrinkles to compensate for. Still, we had fun acting out little scenarios while our friend Karen snapped away. At least in "band" photos there's someone else to interact with. I always sort of liked doing photo shoots. It's the one time I feel like I can control how I look - in real life my hair is straggly, the acne scars show too much, I'm self-conscious and awkward. I can stare down a camera lens in a way I never can with real live people.

I started getting my picture taken back in college days, by my friend and dormmate Julia Gorton. I hadn't done anything much with my life except for going to art school and knowing how to put on eyeliner and thrift shop clothes and loving music, but I figured in Julia's photos somehow. I got excited when I heard about Thurston Moore and Byron Coley's No Wave book that came out a few weeks ago. I heard there was one of Julia's photos of my brother Michael and I in there and I couldn't wait to see it. This was taken before I started posing as part of the job. Like most everything else at the time, it was all just for the sheer novelty and excitement of doing something, even if that doing something was just sitting around trying to look bored.

I can't wait to get my hands on the actual book. Looking at a few of the photos online was kind of a shock - at the time I was so intimidated by the whole scene, and now I just marvel at how cute and fresh-faced everyone was, while acting tough. Young & odd. I like how we fit in, a little.

I'll Always Have...Perigueux?

2008-06-27T07:59:00.005+02:00

I was hoping to go to Paris this week. I need some clothes, and a little shot of sophistication in my life. And I still need to make up for the lousy trip I had in April, when what was supposed to be a lovely treat to myself before getting hitched turned out to be pretty much a dud.

It seemed like everything was off that time - the weather was cool and rainy one minute, broiling sun the next. My clothes weren't right, and that can make all the difference: I felt like a pluc (read "hick") who doesn't get to the big city too often, which at this point is pretty much true. I was stressed about finding some kind of wrap to wear over the dress I was getting married in and spent way too much time being indecisive in stores. I was supposed to get a facial and then couldn't find the address, ending up buying a tube of facial mask at Monoprix instead. Randomly chose a movie so bad I had to walk out after forty minutes. Got up and left a Chinese restaurant because they never bothered to serve me. And made the mistake of booking a cheap charmless hovel of a room - since I'd be out having a ball most of the time, what difference did it make, right? I think sleeping on a park bench would have been better.

The only really good thing about the trip was I realized how much my French had improved. And it made me appreciate the calm and quiet of the countryside. But I know that the next trip could be completely different - I know it's possible for things to line up perfectly.

But this isn't the week for it, what with visitors and booking and rehearsing. I had to make do with a trip to Perigueux the other day, which was actually a big deal for me because I've never driven that far (over an hour) by myself in France.

In America I'm used to driving huge distances alone. But having recently learned to drive a manual car, and basically having nowhere I need to go around here, solo adventure is unusual. Perigueux is a pretty town in the Dordogne with some decent shops and cafes. It's got a little more of a southern feel and even has a big movie theatre. A good place to wander around for about three or four hours.

The drive was easy and uneventful. I managed to maneuver into an underground parking garage which sounds pathetically simple but again, changing gears and reading French signs is new to me. But typically my timing was off. If I'd have checked the calendar or the newspaper I would've noticed that the big summer sales were starting the next day. So most of the stores were closed in preparation.

I decided to see a film. "Sagan" was playing and I was curious about this film bio of Francoise Sagan. Partly because I remembered reading "Bonjour Tristesse" as a teenager and thinking it was incredibly French and glamorous. But the main reason I wanted to see it was for the period details: fifties, sixties and seventies cars, clothes and home furnishings. If I couldn't keep up with the dialogue there'd be plenty to look at. And aren't most films about writers kind of similar? There's usually a person sitting at a typewriter occasionally, either typing furiously or staring into the distance with a blank look on their face, a tumbler of brown alcohol nearby. The rest of the time is filled in with scenes of the writer fighting with their family & friends.

"Sagan" was no different. Even in French I could tell that the movie was pretty bad. But Sylvie Testud and her haircuts were adorable. And that white 70's cowboy shirt she was wearing in one of the typewriter scenes? That alone was worth the price of admission. It wasn't exactly a trip to Paris but for the moment it'll do.

Fete de La Musique, Pt 2

2008-06-23T13:34:00.022+02:00

A few rules for next Fete de la Musique:

Bring along some friends. Without Emmanuel and Michel on equipment and crowd control, we could not have done 4 shows in 4 towns in the space of 6 hours. If there had actually ever been a crowd, they surely would have played the heavies with charm.

Nico (patron of le Lawrence d'Arabie), Michel, Emmanuel, Amy & Eric

Make sure you're louder than the generator. Ours sounded like a small plane taking off. Thankfully we had a long, long extension cord, so we could play twenty feet away from it.

If you set up across from a church on Saturday afternoon in June, there is an excellent chance of being drowned out by the sound of wedding bells. The newlyweds surely got their money's worth that day - the off-key clanging went on for a good ten minutes while we waited in the baking sun.

Brantome

When stopped by the police, be honest. As the gendarmes pulled us over for a "routine check" we considered telling them we were daytrippers enjoying the scenery. Then we remembered the posters we'd stuck on the sides of the car. They demanded all our details - so that they can come see us play next week.

Pick some slightly bigger towns/villages. Notice there's pretty much no one in the photos but us. This part of France is, shall we say, tranquil. It was best when we had listeners, gawkers, and the occasional dancer.

Face your enemy. We saw a poster proclaiming that our arch-rivals were playing outside a bar in the village. We showed up to play (thankfully, they had already finished, so we didn't have to listen to it) and taught them a lesson. Don't. Mess. With. Wreckless Eric. &. Amy. Rigby.

La Cabane (enemy territory)

It's hard to keep looking groomed after hours of sweating and playing. And it's wonderful to stop caring.

Chalus

It's worth taking a risk. From the time Eric and I talked about doing a commando raid for Fete de la Musique, I kept wanting to back out. I wished we'd gotten a spot on one of the many organized stages or at a bar in the region. When we went to pick up the generator and it turned out to be super loud and impractical, I really hoped that meant we could put the silly idea to rest and stay home.

But Saturday was one of the best days I've spent in France. With all the traditions and prescribed ways of doing things that exist here, it was such a relief to go right in the face of all that and just do what we do. I felt like myself in a way I don't often get to, what with trying to speak the language and fit in somehow.

Michel, Amy, Eric, Emmanuel, Nico

In the end, the day really was about freedom. And we got three other gigs out of it. No sitdowns required.

Fete de la Musique

2008-06-21T09:05:00.004+02:00

I got the impression that Fete de la Musique in France is a free-for-all, that it's a crazy day of anarchy and mayhem, where by government decree anyone can play any kind of music anytime, anywhere they choose. And that's possibly the spirit the day was started in, back in 1982.

I love playing for French audiences, but even booking a show in a tiny bar in the back of nowhere here requires a sitdown with the proprietor, various family members and some friend of theirs that owned a guitar once.

And it's not surprising they take it very seriously - if the French performing rights society catches wind of them putting on live music, they are subject to heavy charges.

So June 21, Fete de la Musique, seems like a perfect day to get around all that and just go out and play. We've rented a generator and have a plan to go around to some of the more populated towns neaby, set up our PA, plug in the guitars and play.

But just to be on the safe side, at the suggestion of our friend Michel who would hate to see us languishing in a French jail, I checked the rules on the government's website. And found, to my amusement or horror, I'm still not sure which, this chart regarding the organization of this very spontaneous day:

This, for an event that gives the impression of being about freedom. And it's written there in the really fine print that one is obliged to inquire in each town what their policy is regarding public performances on June 21, "for the safety of the public."

But we're going to pretend we never saw any of this stuff, and play anyway. Is there internet in jail?

Surveillance

2008-06-15T15:02:00.006+02:00

We got back from England early the other morning after a temporary breakdown at the Dover ferry terminal. We were in line to drive on the 2 PM departure, knowing full well if we shut off the engine the car might not start up again. But we absolutely had to get a quick cup of tea in the cafe after travelling all morning without stopping.

Between us, Eric and I have lived through several lifetimes of worn out vehicles, tow trucks and roadside assistance, so missing the ferry and spending a few extra hours dockside waiting for a repair was nothing new. We were able to catch the 6 o'clock ferry and it was fascinating to learn that some people actually arrive a good two and a half or even three hours before departure time, instead of skidding and squealing through the gates just before the boat leaves. Car maintenance, careful preparation and allowing plenty of time is our new code of behavior. In theory at least.

It's good to put aside all the frivolous work of finishing the album now, and concentrate on what really matters: surveillance.

First, there are all of our properties. We don't actually own any of them. We're merely real estate stalkers.

"That place across from the supermarket is still for sale."
"Which one, the little fifties-style house across from the ATAC or the partially-finished barn conversion out past the Intermarche?"

"They're working on that place next to the beauty parlor."
"What, the old auberge?"
"No, on the other side. With the maroon shutters. I noticed them clearing out a lot of rubble."
"Better check back and see what's going on with that."

There's the weird house with workshop next to the tower, the plain but with good potential fixer-upper two doors down from the furniture repair place, the cute but impractical maison de garde-barriere that we fell in love with two years ago.

And that's just the properties. There are our business interests as well.

"That corner store for rent? I think someone's moving in."
"It looks like a pharmacy."
"Wait, but there's a pharmacy up the road. I don't think the village is big enough for two pharmacies."
"It's them. They're expanding into the bigger space on the corner."
"Oh. Good."

"You know that British hairdresser that was opening across from the church?"
"Uh-huh."
"I think they changed their minds. The sign's gone."
"Oh. Good."

And on and on. There are also all the blogs of strangers, friends and family members, plus the myspace pages of my brothers & daughter (and even some of her friends if her page is lacking pertinent details/updated information). Keeping tabs on our turf war rivals. All of this barely leaves time for maintaining watch on the moral behavior of our local commercants.

"Wasn't that the boulanger going into the tavern across from the chateau?" Like in school, where you can't believe your teacher could possibly exist outside of the classroom, it seems so incongruous and...somehow extra tawdry.

Which is why we must remain vigilant.

Sometimes it even pays off. Like just yesterday, I noticed a new business opening down the road. We better take a walk later and check it out - it might be a car mechanic.

It's Only Make Believe

2008-06-07T18:47:00.004+02:00

Eric and I are back in England putting the finishing touches on the album (mastering, artwork). When we're not busy watching "The Apprentice" and "Big Brother", dodging speed cameras and eating bacon sandwiches that is.

It's always one of my favorite times in the record-making process because the initial hard work is done and there's this brief moment of hopefulness before the actual release and inevitable disappointment. For a tiny second, you can imagine a world where every person is singing along to your song, where every festival and promoter is clamoring for you to play, where, at long last, you magically succeed.

And this time, I have another believer to share it with, because Eric's the same kind of deluded fool that I am. I guess it's insane to still feel this way, at this age, making pop music. But it's somehow the only way to go about it. When things screw up or stall or just stay the same, when it's the reality of one more night putting makeup on in the not-too-clean ladies room of an Indian restaurant because the club doesn't have a dressing room, I want to remember this feeling.

Beige Mischief

2008-06-03T15:41:00.003+02:00

Except for having a bunch of people over after our wedding , we rarely go to parties around here. There’s a lot of being asked to someone’s house for dinner, but for some reason I imagined all sorts of “White Mischief” style goings-on, decadent parties with decaying expats and colorful locals. We definitely get the decay, but it’s mostly because there are so many retirees in this part of France. I thought everyone would be running from something or hiding out from someone this deep in the countryside but it seems like the most trouble any of the barn conversion set have run into is irresponsible builders and local supermarkets selling HP Sauce past the sellby date.

And the French are as colorful and interesting to an outsider as expected, but it’s rare that those born here and those who’ve only come here recently mingle socially. So you get whole bars and social gatherings where there is barely a word of French spoken all night.

Still, I live in naive optimism and so was hopeful when we got an invitation to a party the other day from a couple we don’t know too well, except that they have good taste in vintage cars and come to all of Eric’s film nights at our favorite local bar. We started imagining some variation of a key party - not that we newlyweds were looking to do any swinging ourselves, you understand, but just as reassurance that our expat community was not as completely boring as they appear to be. We followed Derek and Sheila’s directions, driving even further into the countryside if that’s possible and down a dirt and gravel track where we found their house. The assortment of parked cars was pretty glamorous, with MGs, several Mercedes and a few BMWs. We hid our dirty white Ford Escort behind a bush and timidly knocked on the front door.

Our hosts greeted us warmly and led us into a large tiled living room filled with people sitting on soft beige leather couches. I guess we were a little late to arrive, and in a scene straight out of Rosemary’s Baby the other guests regarded us avidly as we stood in the center of the room and were introduced around. Within minutes, we met an opera singer, a concert violinist and a devil-worshipping Dutch pornographer who lives in the nearby chateau. Things were looking up.

But after discussing gardening and the dietary requirements of everyone’s pets for about a half an hour, most people had to leave. Not for any kind of wild assignations, but because pets and elder parents were calling. You know you’ve crossed some frightening chasm into true middle age when it’s no longer babysitters and young children that are good excuses to exit social gatherings, but dogs, cats and aging parents.

So that was it. I had a brief moment of excitement when I bit into one of those Mon Cheri candies, but after making some nice conversation with our hosts and the opera singer and her husband, I realized that Eric and I are actually the freaks around here. I don’t know whether that’s reassuring or not.

Blame It On The Rain

2008-05-31T08:07:00.003+02:00

I think I've managed to overcome this week's crisis. It was helpful to take a step back and look at my work habits, which are nonexistent. The way I used to have an actual schedule dictated by my daughter's school hours, the isolation of the French countryside and maybe the fact that it's rained every day for the last year all add up to leave me constantly reaching for the internet like it was alcohol or comfort food (which I usually manage to hold off on until at least, umm, after five PM). I have to keep better track of the things I want to do, and trawling around online comes after. If it was only so simple. But at least I've got time management as my number one priority now, when I can get around to it.

We've had sun and blue skies for almost three whole days, and yesterday I finally managed to cut a springtime's worth of grass and weeds in the garden. So with the smug self-satisfaction that comes after only very occasional hard physical labor, I'm writing again. Without guilt!

Conflicted

2008-05-27T15:32:00.005+02:00

I had a dream the other night and it wasn't so much what happened in the dream that was disturbing. It was the realization that the me who was in the dream was thinking "and I'll put this in the blog later."

I go around and around with whether to keep writing here. Sometimes it's enjoyable, having a little structure and a few friends and strangers who check in and who I like to check in on. Sometimes it's more like torture - wondering what's it all for, thinking I should be accomplishing things instead of reaching for the quick fix. Sometimes it feels like excellent writing practice and some kind of discipline, and other times it feels like the very opposite of that.

I started writing online in 1999, a tour diary that I updated a few times a year. I would pour myself into those entries, spend hours on each one. I kind of missed the whole blogging thing when it started, maybe because I had little or no internet connection. I barely wrote my diary for a year or two due to the fact that there was not much going on in my life that I was willing to share with the very small part of the world that might be interested.

And then when I got back online a few years ago, I saw there was this whole world of parent blogs. In one way I wished they would've been around when my daughter was young, but at the same time I wondered if I'd have written notebooks and cassettes and albums worth of songs, if I'd had such easy access to sharing with people. And then when I got to France I found the expat blog world. I believe it's been a really helpful thing for me. Who wants to hear "Song Cycle From A Cow Pasture" or "Size 44 Ain't As Big As It Sounds", anyway? I've loved seeing how other people cope and adapt to their new lives in France.

I go back and forth between thinking I should just accept that it's part of my life and enjoy the sharing (didn't I come up with all kinds of reasons to stop writing last summer, and didn't I come back in, timidly waving "I'm still here" a few months later?)

On Sunday I was reading the NY Times online - oh how I miss being able to read the actual paper. I try to make do with the local Populaire which features scintillating news such as "three umbrellas were found in the cinema in Saint Junien last weekend" (that's good, but did they ever find my gloves?) and got caught up in a Sunday Magazine article by this young woman, Emily Gould, and her trip down the rabbit hole of blogging. Though a lot of the choices she made in her personal and work life were just plain stupid (and the accompanying photos reinforce the false drama of the whole thing), I thought it was a good description of how the lines between living and blogging can get a little (or in her case, a whole lot) blurry.

But even more interesting than the article was the reaction of Times readers. People are so incensed that this woman's story is not Times-worthy that the online version of the paper has taken the drastic step of shutting down the comments section.

It's reassuring, somehow, that there are still huge numbers of people out there who use the internet but don't blog, hate blogging, have no interest in it. It makes me feel like I could always step away. Life would go on, just like it did when I was traveling a week or two ago. But didn't I find myself checking into a sleazy internet cafe to post, "just this once"? At the same time there are the people whose writing I enjoy reading. I love checking in on what they're up to. There's something reassuring in thinking maybe I'm that, for someone else. Not for long with posts like this, probably. I wonder how other people do it. Write, I mean. Without feeling conflicted.

Holiday

2008-05-24T12:40:00.003+02:00

I can’t keep my holidays straight. Tomorrow is Mother’s Day in France, and that will make it the third time this year I sort of feel like I should have a special day but don’t know whether it’s the right one to be celebrating. There was the UK one back in March, which we learned about too late to do something for Eric’s mother. There was the US one two weeks ago, where I was in Swindon (see below) but I did get an email from my daughter which is a rare enough occurrence that it qualifies as cause for celebration. They seem to make a big deal about it here too, so maybe I can parlay that into lunch out somewhere. I could use a little cheering up on the mother front, as my daughter takes off on a rock and roll road trip and I find myself echoing my father’s words that ring in my ears, even to this day - “What about a job? Aren’t you going to use your talent? How are you going to support yourself?”

Meanwhile we’re booking a tour in the fall (I know, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree and all, but someone in this family has to be the responsible one and I'd always felt sure it would be Hazel) and the US part is sort of like a board game where you throw darts at the various sections of the country and see what sticks. There are the obvious highly-populated areas where we have to play (New York, DC, Chicago) and the ones where it’s never a sure thing (Boston, Los Angeles, Philadelphia). And the rest of the country in between. Complicated by the fact that the first dates are in the Northwest. It’s all beginning to take shape, only yesterday the email box was a little inactive and I got kind of anxious and frustrated. Then I realized it’s the start of that long Memorial Day weekend there. Who's working? I remember dressing up bikes with red, white and blue streamers when we were kids, and parades honoring soldiers and going to the cemetery. My family are all meeting up in Pittsburgh and I know Eric and I will see them in the fall but it’s kind of strange being so far away. If I were actually there I doubt I’d think about "Memorial Day" at all. Or I'd be too busy to get together.

I think I’m definitely going to play the mother card tomorrow.

Going Mobile

2008-05-22T14:12:00.010+02:00

The garden is completely overgrown, the car is filthy and making a hideous racket and both Eric and I are decrepit shells of the dewy-faced newlyweds we were a mere three weeks ago. But I guess it’s the fairly typical end result of touring.

At least we’re still speaking to each other. The only time we fell out was when he insisted we go to Little Chef instead of Costa Coffee for lunch. And the shows were for the most part well-attended, and a lot of fun. Except for a Sunday night in Swindon. But that seems appropriate.

When we started the tour England was experiencing the warmest, sunniest weather in a year or two, or more. Lovely for strolling around Southend or Walthamstow or Bristol, but impossible to appear attractive or in any way dignified on stage. I don’t think I have ever sweated so much in public.

I still find it hard to take in exactly how overcrowded and expensive it’s become. (Or maybe it’s always been that way and I’m just gathering perspective?) How truly hellish the motorways are, with surveillance cameras everywhere. How I can’t help but devour every newspaper, magazine and tv show in sight, and I end up feeling better informed about all the latest news, music, books, movies, etc but somehow emptier. How vans have become traveling websites, with as much type and information as possible crammed onto the sides and back (so you never have to stop reading, what with the heavy traffic and all). How it’s easier to make myself understood in a shop or restaurant in France than in Essex. How half the female population is now sporting the Posh Bob. How, even though you hear so much about the best food in the world being in Britain these days (hell, the French mention it constantly) there is so little good eatin’ to enjoy, if you’re on the road anyway.

But another thing I forget is how a good audience in England can add so much to a show - the shouts, the comments, the appreciation. Maybe because it takes more nerve, somehow, for the English to express themselves in public (Americans can’t ever stop. In France, I’m not sure - it’s so difficult to book gigs here...but that’s a whole other post I guess). But one thing I never forget is how deep the vein of rock runs - it’s what’s attracted me to the place since I first heard the Dave Clark Five. Listening to Who’s Next while driving through Lincolnshire is profound in a completely different way than hearing it on say, I-80. Deep, rather than wide.

We ended up on the north Norfolk coast before returning to France. Don’t tell anyone, but it is one of the most gorgeous places in the world, with charm and beauty everywhere. And no gigs or driving for two whole days. You could almost call it a honeymoon.

Somewhere Between Southsea and Brixton

2008-05-14T13:52:00.002+02:00

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

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

In Transit

2008-05-07T11:04:00.006+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

The Misfits

2008-05-04T20:00:00.005+02:00

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

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

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

The Snowball Effect

2008-04-22T21:36:00.005+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

Composed

2008-04-19T13:00:00.009+02:00

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

Prompted by Sunday Scribblings

Terrible Twos

2008-04-16T12:43:00.009+02:00

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

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

Deep Country

2008-04-14T12:43:00.004+02:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then we saw this rainbow...

Getting Married

2008-04-10T14:34:00.008+02:00

Eric and I are getting married.

There, I said it.

Some time later this month. It's taken months to get all our paperwork together. Birth certificates, certificates to prove we're not married, or if we were married that we're officially divorced. Papers to prove we're not siblings, that Eric's not my son, stuff like that. I'd heard about the crazy French bureaucracy and it really has been a labyrinth.

Yesterday we had to take everything and have it translated from English to French. We made a day of it, driving down to a translator near Tulle which is in the next department. The surrounding countryside was darker, hillier and more dramatic than where we live, kind of reminding me of West Virginia, except with bakeries, PMU cafes and old stone buildings. The very nice woman who went through our papers warned us that the ceremony in our local mairie would be far from romantic. She said she thought we should know, because often English and American people are disappointed in the civil ceremony and how formal and dry it is. Eric and I both laughed because we've been in our mairie and seen the room (and the mayor). I don't think either of us have any illusions. But we're still excited.

Now anyone who knows us knows we've been through our share of romantic frustrations. What person over the age of, say, fifteen, hasn't? But when you've written lots of songs about it, people can be a little skeptical. After Eric mentioned that we were planning on getting married, someone even asked if he meant it as some kind of joke. But didn't Eric write one of the most romantic songs ever? And didn't I meet him because I loved and played that song whenever I felt lonely? And didn't we know from the first time we went out that we'd be together?

So bring on the doubters! We still need to get our medical exams, where they possibly make certain we don't have foot and mouth. And I still want to go to Paris to buy a cute dress, and get my hair done, and make sure Eric has a suit. And find some rings and the best restaurant around that stays open past 8 PM. We'll celebrate with our families later (though I think we both hold out hope that we can miraculously get our daughters over here).

We've already been to Venice this year. So instead of a honeymoon I think we're going to finish our album.

Dropping Acidophilus

2008-04-09T10:27:00.008+02:00

Maybe it's that Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young record Eric kept playing a few months ago.

Maybe it's the way clogs have become an indispensable part of my wardrobe.

Or maybe it's the fact that good old-fashioned yogurt is getting harder and harder to find in the stores here.

Perhaps it's that things are so quiet there's nothing better to do than herald the arrival of our newest small appliance, a yaourtiere:

"I'll light the fire, while you place the flow-ers in the vawz that you bought, to-day-ay-ay-ay."

On Eclair Day You Can See Forever

2008-04-08T11:58:00.004+02:00

It's raining again.

Thankfully, the patisserie is open.