Chaps- let me see if I can keep up to date with all that’s been going on since our arrival in this fair land. We’ve been busy. Yesterday (Friday) was one of the busier days of my short life and it occurred on the back of one of the worst night’s slumbers that I’ve had in my many days.
The plane ride over was on NWA northwest airlines. Eazy-E RIP. Thankfully my dad had given me this little traveler’s pouch that he had gotten on an airline once and it had some of those sleeper masks that old ladies and that one chick on the Real World use to help them go to sleep. That and a little melatonin allowed me to sleep upright the best a man could sleep upright. Everyone else on the plane just played this trivia game that you could play on the t.v. screens. “What is the period in a polo match called?”
When we arrived there seemed to be more people around than there should be in one place. Perhaps it was drowsiness, stress, brits, or some phobia causing me to think this, but everyone wanted to get the heck out of the airport. So much so, I left my book on the plane.
We arrived at the hotel and checked in. The Columbia is bona fide. (for those of you keeping a grifting tally, we had managed to get all the way here without dipping into our wallets.) For some reason or another shaggy-haired, tight-jeaned, unshaven youts seemed to be all around. Someone told me that this is where all the rock bands stay. Even our Nashvilliane comrades-who-we’ve-never-met-but-heard-a-lot-about Be Your Own Pet were in da house.
A bunch of stuff blurred by in between this time and the show. We devised ways of not going to sleep despite being what travelers call jetlagged, whatever that’s supposed to mean. We shook hands, talked about the current state of music a few times and sat in the back of cabs a few more times. Some spintos found that these cab rides were the perfect sleep joints. No one offered us tea.
The show was exciting. One of my fears in planning this trip is that all this effort would go into coming over here only to have the shows be empty. When I arrived at the club I realized this wasn’t going to be the case. The Windmill was a sweet little spot. It’s manager, Nick, was friends with Grimey who is this fella whom you buy records from if you live in Nashville. So we talked to him a bit about Nashville and the ol’ Slow Bar. The stage was small and the club was intimate. People come right up to the stage so you are scared of kicking them and they have these really bright lights that keep you from seeing what’s going on off stage. I met someone who does photographic research about polar bears. She said that in Canada they have a polar bear prison. I think they should not only lock up garbage-rummaging polars in the prison, but also child rapists.
Alright, I just typed this all up, I hope I can find somewhere with some internet to post it online.