Diary Of Amy Rigby

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.

Good Times Cafe

2009-10-08T09:55:00.002+02:00

Rushing to finish up our double A-side single so that it's ready in time for the Yo La Tengo shows we're opening in Europe next month. No time to write this week, but here's a photo from the middle of France.

Sorry To Disappoint

2009-10-04T12:36:00.003+02:00

So, we're off the road and I'm catching up with things. Decided to look at my website stats, see if there's been much action on the site lately. The thing needs a major overhaul and I have to figure out what exactly the point of a website is anymore, what with all my other accounts, sites, etc.

It's interesting to see what brings people to the site, it's often words that turn up in lyrics and can be pretty amusing: "Housewife Have Sex" is one, or "Knapsack Girl".

But yesterday I was a little taken aback by a string of search words entered by some unknown person out there: "Amy Rigby Dead".

Now, I know I haven't been playing in the US as much lately (and the stats told me that's where the searcher was based). And I know I had a kind of meltdown onstage at the Lakeside Lounge in New York back in July (memo to self: avoid appointments with doctors, lawyers or accountants on the day of shows in the old hometown) that might make people wonder how long I was going to stick it out here on earth, but I swear that's all behind me now.

Then I started worrying - maybe it wasn't whether I was dead the person was trying to figure out, but how to kill me. They just didn't put in the words "I Want" and "How To Make This Happen".

Would it be an accomplishment to piss someone off so much that they'd want to off you? I haven't even read any Pat Highsmith lately, but my mind is racing at the possible suspects.

I'm not famous enough to be the victim of one of those Twitter hoaxes - the majority of people wouldn't be interested enough to even click on the trend.

Maybe there's a little old lady named Amy out in Idaho (there's a whole town called Rigby in that state) who just passed away.

I know one thing. In future, I'm staying off the website stats page.

Evolution

2009-10-01T10:19:00.003+02:00

Twenty-one years ago today, twenty-five minutes after a breakneck taxi ride across 14th St. in Manhattan, my daughter Hazel was born at St. Vincent's Hospital. Forget a Grammy speech - it is the biggest honor of my life to be the mother of this most beautiful, talented, wise and hilarious individual. Happy Birthday Hazel!

The Most Mundane Travel Notes

2009-09-29T11:09:00.004+02:00

Been in England ten days now and played eight shows. Lots of zigzagging (Portsmouth to Norwich to Brighton to York to Preston to Newcastle) which is how it works out sometimes. The shows have gone well - everyone's expectations are so low at this point, due to the lousy economy, that even if twenty-some people show up the promoter says it's been a success. Eric and I have both found joy in playing again, after the burn out/wall we hit in the US.

I still haven't learned to drive the ambulance, and since Eric is expert at driving the left hand drive vehicle on the right side of the road, my job has been to try staying awake in the passenger seat and studying current British culture. Here are some of my notes:

I'm never so aware of fashion as when we're touring around the UK. Forget France, which moves so slowly, with flair. Things change here - all of a sudden everyone's in slightly baggy jeans, though not as quickly as the skinny ones a few years back. I devour the papers and magazines and they have the desired effect where suddenly I'm longing to go shopping and buy this new lipstick, jacket, or skirt. Or why stop there, how about a shiny new "property"? We watch as many property shows as possible.

One of the best shows ever, Peep Show, is back on TV. We caught up with what seemed like the second episode in the new season, but has something happened to Mark? The weird stuffed animal sparkle has gone out of his eyes.

Is it possible to climb a grassy bank from a humble chain hotel to a service station to buy milk without feeling like Alan Partridge?

My new obsession is Jackie magazine. I saw a 1987 compendium of this teen girl mag on our friend Kate's shelf and now I'm hooked - crude but cute illustrations, spotty faces, scrawny sallow limbs and crooked teeth on the models. Before technology made perfection an obligation. I know I'm going to be on eBay seeking out my own copies as soon as I get home.

The food has improved on the motorways - we used to have to hold out for the Marks & Spencer branches to buy fresh fruit or salads. Now they're everywhere.

Went into a Starbucks in what had obviously been a Little Chef. The inside was just like any Starbucks, but I swear the windows still had that steamy, greasy Little Chef look. I remember staring at the black and white photos of egg and chips in the Quadrophenia booklet when that album first came out and thinking "how exotic, gritty and glamorous, cause it's England." And Little Chef probably hadn't even been invented yet. It really is all the same everywhere now, sort of.

We went for a stroll and admired narrow boats on the canal near Manchester yesterday. Then we had ice cream. God, are we middle-aged.

The promoters and venue owners have been so nice to us. Makes me feel bad all over again about certain clubs in the US. Club Cafe in Pittsburgh in particular. I hate that place. Not the people who come to shows there, just the place.

Saw a really good film last night, The Damned United. 70's footballers - it looked great with amazing actors Michael Sheen & my favorite Timothy Spall. I want to go to a football match, but only if someone invents a time machine and I can go back to the seventies when the players had cool haircuts and sideburns.

We had to cancel our show in Henley tonight. Doubt anyone will even notice. The humiliation factor was just running too high. On to London tomorrow, the Buffalo Bar in Islington. Then back on the boat.

This is rambling and disjointed but I'm posting it anyway. I've got important things to do (ie, there's a Boots and a TK Maxx not far away).

Our Indian Summer

2009-09-21T12:06:00.003+02:00

I was almost barred from entering the country the other day at the port, but since they have decided to let me in to England, it looks like we've got to play these shows.

Now that we're here, things are going well. Visited with Andy and Amber in Herne Bay after my run-in with the British authorities at Boulogne and they revived us with cups of tea and fish and chips. Saturday night in Bristol was so much fun! And we benefited from the Premier Inn money back "Good Night" guarantee because there was no TV remote in our room, so we couldn't actually have a good night's sleep. So, we're saving money too.

Our gigs were in the Guardian Gig Guide! Not that in makes any difference whatsoever whether anyone shows up, and true they called us a folk-punk duo which I think would surely cancel out any potential audience, but hey - at least we're in there.

I'd forgotten how some audiences actually clap and cheer for music. Cambridge was a small, select crowd and we used a weird bedroom lava lamp type thing cause we couldn't find the light switch in the venue. Very psychedelic. Phil Parker from Except The General provided excellent support - he's been doing some recording with Eric and he writes great nostalgic but immediate songs. Now we're on to Portsmouth, and back up to Norwich tomorrow. We've lucked in to some Indian summer weather too. Maybe this is our personal Indian Summer. A little blast of warm air, a shot of light.

And amazing news, our friend Karen called yesterday to alert me that Craig, one of my favorite haircutters ever who was apparently also on Big Brother (meaningless to me but he is a true character) had surfaced with a new salon in Norfolk. And my hair is in sad shape. I hope he can fit me in. So glad I'm not picking apples back in the Haute Vienne. There's always next year for that.

Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby UK Tour

Kir In Plastic Bottles

2009-09-14T13:06:00.012+02:00

I spent all week collecting clothes and shoes to sell and then cleaning, ironing and separating them into piles for how I was going to display them. I borrowed a table, some umbrellas in case it was hot and sunny and got the lawn chairs out of the van. I was nervous, like I was getting ready for a gig. But I’ve done so many shows whereas I’ve never tried to sell stuff at a flea market, especially one in the French countryside.

I’ve been looking for another way to make money, and also a way to get into the French health insurance system. I researched picking apples during the fall harvest but it starts today and we’re touring in England beginning Saturday so that’s out. For a while I’d been thinking “Damn, I wish I could be a migrant farm worker but instead I have to go play these #$%^ shows” but since I hit on the market seller possibility I’ve started looking forward to the tour.

It was good to have something different to be stressed about for a change. Eric helped me load the car the night before so all I had to do was get up at six and drive to Piegut, a half an hour away. I’d never been out in the countryside at dawn, except when we’ve been rushing to the train station. It was slightly misty, the sky rose-colored, the trees dark shapes along the road, all the old stone houses with their shutters down. No one on the road. I got to Piegut and the street was blocked off where all the rides were set up for the Foire, or fair, and even though I’d consulted Via Michelin about where exactly the flea market was, I still wasn’t sure. So I parked and walked to the boulangerie which I’m familiar with from when we go to the Piegut market on Wednesdays. I was wondering if the flea market part was happening at all, because I didn’t see another car anywhere.

In the bakery there was a guy picking up a cake and two huge baguettes. At 7 AM! People are farmers around here, but it still seems unthinkable that they’re out doing errands at that hour, and on a Sunday. I imagine he’s probably in bed asleep by eight o’clock at night though, not out partying at Kim’s in Brantome, as we’d done.

I asked the woman behind the counter where the flea market was and she told me, but because of all the weird hills and one way streets in the village I decided I’d better walk over and see how to get there before I got in the car. I’ve gotten a lot better with the manual transmission but I still have my moments, especially around pedestrians, where I have extreme fear I’m going to do something wrong and go plowing into a crowd.

The place was full of people setting up, all looking like they knew what they were doing. It was a big parking lot on a hillside, surrounded by trees and some bizarre moderne official type of French buildings that turn up in small towns - it’s hard to tell whether they’re from the thirties, fifties or seventies - lots of curves and geometry, white or grey plaster. A weird contrast to the fifteenth century buildings and cows and sheep on hillsides in the distance.

I walked back to get the car, carefully maneuvered in to find a spot, choosing a space between what looked like an English couple (she - blonde in sweats, so it was pretty obvious she wasn’t French, he - tall, bald with a dark beard, so same thing) selling furniture, and a couple of French country guys unloading an assortment of furniture and old TVs from an ancient white and bright yellow Peugeot van. I asked if there was room next to them and they were nice and helped me unload the table from the car and when they saw me leaving to find a place to park, one of them ran over to tell me to just park right next to their van.

I put the clothes on the rack, laid some more out on the table and shoes beneath. I didn’t bother with the umbrellas because we were under the trees. Our friend Francoise was supposed to join me later so I put out a table for her and the lawn chairs. By now it was eight and the first shoppers were coming around. I hadn’t been sure whether to put prices on things or not, but I thought if I put a few it would at least give people an idea of my reasonable prices.

For a few minutes at the beginning it hit me that possibly I would not sell anything. I wish I could say I was completely wrong and that when I left at the end of the day the car was empty except for a table and rack.

But there just weren’t very many customers. By eleven o’clock, when I’d sold enough to feel like it was worthwhile, the not-exactly-a-crowd thinned out for lunch and never returned. The woman running the market came around with a recycled water bottle full of kir, low-grade champagne and cassis, and poured a plastic cup for all the sellers, and that was pretty much it. I hung around for a few more hours sketching, hoping for another customer or two and having to endure the lame, limp-wristed versions of Beatles, Paul Simon and Bob Marley songs by local group Vis a Vis. When they launched into their Who medley I knew it was time to pack up.

I have to look at it as a learning experience. I’m 100% sure I chose a bad vide grenier - it seemed promising because it was connected to the fair with its rides and feasting and those draw a lot of people, but they’d chosen a location all the way on the other end of the village for the flea market. Eric tried to find me but the signs actually pointed in the wrong direction, so that couldn’t have helped.

And it’s clear used clothes are not an easy sell in the French countryside. I saw sellers who just threw a nasty tarp on the ground, dumped a pile of clothes on it and shoved a torn piece of cardboard on top saying “1e” - one euro for everything. Charge anything more than that and people huff and raise their eyebrows.

There are very few people under forty in the countryside - they are the ones who bought the vintage stuff. There are a lot of English people around but they’re all broke thanks to the devaluation of the pound. The French are very marque-oriented - things I had from H&M, a pair of Superga sneakers never worn, shirts and skirts by Benetton - these all sold. The US brands are too much a mystery. The US sizes are different - even though I ended up translating them and writing the French equivalents on stickers, people are unsure and I can understand that, especially with trousers and skirts that they can’t try on.

People would rather stand around in the baking sun than try to stay warm in the shade - I noticed that the few tables out of the shadow of the trees got more customers. And they won’t look at clothes unless they’re on racks. For the table you need household items, or at least purses (no!), objects. And only having things for women - that’s no good, because you cut out half the crowd right there.

So I will definitely try it again, in the spring. I’ll do more research on where the better markets are - out of the sticks closer to Bordeaux and Toulouse probably. And if it doesn’t work there’s always next year’s apple harvest.

Wreckless Eric & Amy Rigby - UK Tour Dates

Don't Take Your Gloves To Town

2009-09-10T22:35:00.007+02:00

As if to make a point, my computer has been giving me a lot of trouble the last few days. Proving how indispensable it is to me - I think between the two of us we share one brain.

Giving up on the computer for a while gave me a chance to start getting my stuff together for the flea market I'm selling at on Sunday. I started out with a huge pile of clothes and shoes, but if I keep "organizing" much longer there won't be much left to sell.

Lots of my clothes haven't fit in over two years - those have to go. There are some I have no problem getting rid of: any clothes I bought and wore for temping. Also some black clothes hastily purchased to wear to my mother's funeral a few years back - as if I ever needed more black clothes, but it felt like it wasn't respectful enough to wear a skirt or top I'd played a gig or gone grocery shopping in. Items from Target or H&M, usually a cheap pick-me-up that briefly served its purpose and then made me feel kind of worse - those can definitely go.

There are some things I'm incapable of parting with: purses - I have dozens, even though I tend to drag around the same tired messenger bag everywhere. Each cute purse is a potential other life where I'm daintily pulling a compact out of a tiny beaded handbag instead of heaving a janitor-worthy set of keys, water bottles, notebooks, set lists and trail mix around; hats, same thing - all the possibilities to become someone else; scarves - even if I hate the colors and have no intention of ever doing anything with them but looking at them next to each other, it's like a miniaturized amalgamation of every thrift shop I've ever been in, there in the scarf drawer.

I can't even think of selling the odd unwearable vintage clothes I've been carrying around forever - a skirt sewn to look like an entire roulette wheel with felt numbers around the hem and a sequined ball pinned on, a floor-length white raincoat with big black buttons, a 50's white leather jacket embroidered with silver, a black lamé pantsuit from the late 60's worth keeping even for the label - "MicMac St. Tropez" in bright green thread on royal blue...A 70's grey Western suit jacket, 100% polyester but incredibly well-cut by that master of tailoring Kenny Rogers, either before or after his chicken restaurant failed.

It's a good thing I wasn't here when the vide grenier woman returned my call to book a space - they do it by metre and I thought a metre was comparable to a foot so I was going to ask for five. A metre's actually closer to a yard. Eric told her two, but if I keep subtracting stuff that's still going to be too much.

Go Ask Alice

2009-09-05T19:56:00.008+02:00

I fell down a rabbit hole the other day. I really, really did not want to open the South by Southwest 2010 email that was in my mailbox as there is not much chance I'll ever be springing for a trip to that long-running music festival again. Now if they invite me to waddle up the aisle for some kind of lifetime achievement award in the year..ah, 2025, that's a different story. But til then I think I'll keep sitting it out, having had a great time in Austin for many years since the thing was held in a tent with a case of beer and everyone in sleeping bags. Back before the internet was invented.

But my hand slipped on the keyboard and next thing I knew I was reading the SXSW newsletter, where they were giving people a chance to vote on potential panels. Then my hand slipped again and I was scrolling through eight or nine pages of panel proposals, mostly along the lines of "Making Social Media Work For You" and other promotional workshops that made my eyes cross with boredom just reading the titles - marketing was never a big interest or strength of mine, but apparently it's pretty much all anyone involved in music thinks about any more.

There was a time when that selling business was the (usually neglected) job of a record company. Now it is apparently possible to make a pretty good living at this music game, if you're willing to put in your time at the keyboard. Not keyboard as in piano keys but to sit in front of the computer constantly reminding people of your existence. Damn, I'm doing it myself right now - when I could be coming up with some excellent music. But who would know, if I didn't make a point of keeping in touch at all times?

One title caught my eye - something about writing a song a week. I clicked on the proposal, where a singer/songwriter said the old model of putting together an album of 12 good songs every two or so years was not going to work anymore - that now it was all about providing new content for the fans as often as possible and by challenging yourself to write and make available a new song a week, you'd be giving them just that while keeping yourself creative, exercising those songwriting muscles.

People were allowed to comment on the panel proposals and someone wrote in saying you couldn't force creativity, sometimes it takes a while to say something meaningful or interesting, he resented the whole idea of a song a week.

The song-a-week guy then replied to album's-worth-of-twelve-good-songs man, first saying he was entitled to work any way he chose but then s-a-w got warmed up and his creativity really started flowing as he made all kinds of suggestions for what the (obviously) old codger could do with his prehistoric mindset - I got the feeling it was the most emotion s-a-w guy had felt about anything in a very long time.

The sad part, aside from the time I was wasting playing imaginary referee, was that this is just the type of lively argument that would have once occurred in real time, in front of a crowd who could have also joined in the debate. Blood might have even been spilled.

And now I can't decide who to cast my lot with - accept that fans will take what you give them as long as it's with some regularity, that if they believe in your "brand" well that's good enough for them? Or have faith in the possibly archaic form of the record album itself, a collection of a certain number of songs that go together, some kind of perfection worth aspiring to, whether anyone hears it or not?

Flea Fever

2009-09-03T15:13:00.004+02:00

It makes total sense that as soon as I finally get my bike tires fixed, it starts raining...and raining.

Still, we had fun visiting Kim in Brantome yesterday. She's a rarity in this part of SW France - an American, and has opened a lovely shop that will expand next summer to include a cafe. It was inspiring to see what she and her business partner Jean-Yves are doing to her old French house, keeping the charm and the patina. And her garden gave me hope!

We had a bite to eat in a cafe and, as much as I loved Roger Cohen's ode to eating in France in the NY Times the other day, it was more telling about the general direction food's going in this country too that both Kim and I were surprised when the omelettes we ordered were actually good. Expecting the worst in restaurants becomes a sad habit, even here.

Then she showed us the Perigueux (shhh, don't tell anyone) Emmaus. It's hard to find any kind of thrift shop-style bargains in France- even some of the most unsightly crap is prohibitively expensive but this store has the stuff and the low prices. Too bad I'm out of money right now cause I saw these 70's panels (one pictured above) that I'd love to have for something. But you know you're broke when it's too much of a risk to even inquire how much an (admittedly useless) item costs!

It gave me some ideas though - I'm looking around for a flea market in the next weekend or two so I can unload some of my old stuff, thus enabling me to buy some new old stuff.

The End Of Summer

2009-08-29T12:23:00.007+02:00

I started feeling under the weather the other day. A cold, the flu, I don't know. A 19th century doctor might say I'm suffering from "deep melancholia, exacerbated by cessation of potential feminine contribution to the prolongation of the species" or something. I have got to stop reading Germaine Greer, even though I think she's brilliant. She quotes 15th century poets, doctors in Victorian surgeries to make her arguments but generally disregards all of 20th century popular culture. Making most of the experiences of the first fifty years of my life feel pretty beside the point.

Maybe I should go back to school. It's that time of year, isn't it? In France, everywhere you turn it's "La Rentrée! La Rentrée! La Rentrée!" until you want to scream. The whole country returns to work and to classes on the same day after taking the month of August off (though I noticed, this summer, with the crise and all, a week here or there seemed more likely.)

In the US they stagger going back to school instead of everyone returning the day after Labor Day. The Northeast sticks to that tradition, but down south everyone goes back in the middle of August - supposedly to do with farming. Ohio's a week later. I don't know about the rest because I haven't actually had the chance to live in every geographic region of America.

Which is sad. I would've liked to go on being a mom forever, sending children off to school in Bakersfield, in Phoenix, in Saginaw. This year, with Hazel going back to college, I couldn't help but feel that this is the last time, with the new books and classes and all. Of course I could be wrong - she might get so into academia, she'll become a perpetual student. But it won't be on my dime, on my mind, like it is when they're young. And if it is, that probably means I haven't found a way to move on with the rest of my life.

It's that damn hopefulness at this time of year that gets me down - not in January, but now, when it's all starting up again. Like this will be the one. I had it last summer, when our album came out. That surge of positivity, that naive energy. You ride it for a while, and then it peters out. Leaving a great big pile of dead leaves. To what? Contemplate? Jump in? Mulch.

Missing Jordans

2009-08-25T10:46:00.010+02:00

Now that we've dealt with the minor distractions like gigs, moving and robberies, it's time to get back to what really matters - breakfast cereal.

The staple of our lives for the last three or four years has been Jordans Crunch. A UK company, but widely available in France - until last month.

I've mentioned before how the village we're in has possibly the worst bakery in France, so croissants and fresh bread are not such a good option for breakfast. In the morning I just want to eat. I don't want a project involving driving to the next town, and then dealing with all the social requirements of the bakery.

So Jordans has been there for us, the delicious basic Country Crunch. During a health kick we tried scaling down to muesli but unless we make our own (which is too much effort...see yogurt machine) it's like eating sawdust and lumber offcuts.

Now the Crunch has disappeared from supermarket shelves around here and I don't know what to do. The only Jordans product left is the Chocolate Crunch which is fine once in a while but as much as I love chocolate, I don't want it for breakfast.

We'll be playing in England next month so I guess that means filling up the ambulance with boxes of the stuff. Come to think of it, I've been looking for a way to make money. Black market cereal? Or as a sales incentive - with every CD purchased, a box of Jordans?

Reunited

2009-08-21T13:37:00.006+02:00

Hazel at the Star Bar, Atlanta, July 2009

Sometimes miracles happen. Hazel got her guitars back yesterday. We'd alerted some of the music stores in town and the guy at Music Exchange spotted both instruments when someone tried to sell them at the same time. No sign of the computer but Hazel is overjoyed.

Thank you everybody for your kindness - offers of laptops, guitars, love and support.

Long may Hazel rock.

Welcome Wagon

2009-08-19T11:27:00.003+02:00

I know I took the name New Orleans in vain a few times with my last post, but I've said how very much I love the place. I don't think it was worthy of this kind of karmic payback - my daughter who just moved there last week got robbed yesterday.

Someone went into her apartment and stole her guitar, her bass and her laptop. Pretty much the only things of value she had.

I say went in because the lock wasn't broken, and she had locked the deadbolt. There have been handymen in and out of there all week and it looks pretty apparent that someone saw what she had and the first day she was out at her new job, went in and took it.

People have warned about the high crime in the city but this is some kind of welcome. I know they're only things, and she's alright, and everybody has stuff happen to them.

But she's just about to start classes, moving's taken all our resources, she has several hundred dollars of textbooks to buy. Does anyone have a spare laptop sitting around?

Mad At Jazz

2009-08-16T14:46:00.014+02:00

Maybe I'm just tired. But last night's show really pissed me off.

We'd booked this gig months ago, at a little bar down the road in Perigueux. Having played there before, we knew what the deal was. Some money, dinner, drinks, hopefully a couple of fans, curious bystanders and just plain bystanders along with regular bar customers.

Then jazz came to town. We got a call the other night from the bar owner - seems there was a New Orleans jazz festival going on this week and the world-acclaimed musicians had been stopping by the bar for some jamming each night. The crowds had been unbelievable! Did we mind if they showed up after our gig and did some playing, on their own equipment? We might even get a chance to sit in, if we liked.

Ohh..kay. Sounded like not such a big deal.

But the whole thing felt wrong as soon as we showed up, because of all the posters we'd sent the place, there was not one up. But, prominently featured in the front window - posters for the Jazz Festival.

We asked, nicely, and the guy went and put one of our posters up. One, cause that's all he had left. So where were the rest?

Then during soundcheck he came up to tell me my distortion pedal was too loud - since the jazz musicians were coming to play into the wee hours, he didn't want to test the patience of his neighbors with our unruly volume.

Hmm. Don't think that's ever happened to me before. How loud does an acoustic guitar really get?

The place was hung with paintings of prominent jazz musicians, like, umm, Bob Marley and even Jimi Hendrix. Serious, artistic stuff.

We finished our soundcheck and ate dinner, which sucked and took forever to come. I noticed a nice couple at a nearby table who appeared to be waiting for us to play. They'd read about the show on one of our sites. That was pretty much it for an audience, because the owner had decided jazz was the way to go and had made a point of not letting anyone know about our show that he'd been so very pleased to book a few months ago. Now that jazz was floating big euro signs in front of his eyes, we could just be like a noisy potted plant in the corner of the bar, adding a little atmosphere while the audience filed in for the "real" music that would happen later. These New Orleans musicians were, after all, world-renowned, and who were we? Two unfortunates who happened to live up the road, and weren't we lucky to have a place to park our sorry asses for a few hours so people could hear us play for free.

The lighting in the bar looked way too bright and before we started to play, we asked if he could please turn some of the lights down?

Oh, no, no - the "New Orleans artist" who did those marvelous jazz paintings had insisted that they must be bathed in glaring light at all times - so that the public could fully appreciate his genius.

At that point, the culprit behind the so-called art, who'd been sleazily sucking up to Eric, telling him what a fan he was, strolled past and then exited the bar, practically shouting over his shoulder that he'd be back when the jazz musicians arrived.

We convinced them to turn a few lights down and we played for an hour, with some people enjoying it while a few others trickled in, looking confused because we didn't look like jazz.

We were wrapping things up with the last few songs of the set when the owner excitedly came onto the stage to tell me "Mr. World-Renowned New Orleans Musician" (who no one had actually heard of) had just arrived.

I saw a man in a loud shirt and straw hat casting an irritated look in our general direction. What exactly were we supposed to do? Yell out, "Hey everybody! At last, there's some real talent in the house! Mr.WRNOM's finally here so we'll just shove off so you can be a part of something wonderfully artistic, creative and spontaneous that is sure to bring in plenty of bar revenue and leave you all feeling so much better about yourselves for having been in the presence of...well, damn, can't remember his name but trust us, he's from New Orleans so it's got to be better than this shit we've been subjecting you to"?

Invite him to play with us, even though neither he nor us knew what the other person did?

That may have been the way to go, but there was no chance to be neighborly because as soon as we started another song, he made a point of walking right past the stage and out the door.

We finished up, packed up, and loaded the van. But not before the owner tried to short us on the money. And asked Eric if he could help the real musicians figure out how to work the P.A. Giving Eric every legitimate right to now claim that he has worked with New Orleans legend Mr. What's His Name.

Better yet, I think it makes absolute sense that in France we will now be known as New Orleans musicians. After all, Eric owned a Meters record once. I wrote a song called "Calling Professor Longhair". And aren't we helping my daughter pay rent on a place down there while she's in school?

Did I mention the dinner sucked?