SixMileBridge Notes from the Road

So I have to go out and eat a bunch of bread to shut up my extroverted middle, and half an hour later we're on to North Country Fair. It's the week between Christmas and the New Year, and I have committed to making a dozen cheesecakes for the New Years Eve Party. Fortunately, we had cut drums (and yes, as if I have to say it, Tim was amazing his first time in the studio, it's wonderful) and various other live necessities at Muse Mix Studio down the road, but for the single parts like my vocal overdubs, we have the luxury of recording at home. One of the big reasons we moved up here, the house is great for instantly transforming into a studio. So for the entire week I wake up, pad down to the kitchen in my pyjamas, spend a couple of hours up to my eyelids in cream cheese and various combinations of crumbs, stick them in the oven, then pad across the house to music room and sing. I couldn't ask for a better arrangement.

As a result of the new recording comfort level, everyone blazed through their parts like the brilliant people they are, no, more like aliens. They shouldn't be able to do that.

Us 'r' Dorks but We Music Good

Well I only thought we were dorks before. I now realize that people have some specific stake in our being megadorks. Over the past months, various non-gypsy type people (that's code for corporate/day job/can't imagine living in a van and who would want to?) have been feeding our well-known monkey for sleek computer thingies. First, somebody (to remain anonymous, let's just call him JOE) got sick of not being able to reach us via email, so the laptop got leased. But then obviously, nothing was really efficient with me standing in the rain at every gas station trying to interpret the latest phone card. So along came the cell phone, again at the instigation of Joe Anon.

And at Christmas this big huge box showed up along with a rumor that the anonymous group of Texans headed up by the incognito individual we'll just refer to as JEN, has just gathered a group to send us to color printer nirvana with a HP color ink-jet--it can print pictures--printer.

I had felt like an investment banker (whatever that is) back in the gameboy days when Colleen gave us a little plug-in light for it (lower chiropractor bills). But NOW we've received palm pilots, thank you Joe A, and "Bill", computerized chess games, and get this, a modem for the palm pilot that lets me hook in with the cell phone. Then an anonymous donor we'll just call "Mom", sent one of those alarm clocks that's permanently hooked up by remote to the universal clock and automatically resets itself every half hour for whatever time zone you're in. All so people can know at any instant that we're not in a ditch somewhere. Thank you wonderfullies.

But you know we're just going to become more addicted. Can you imagine how real gypsies in Romania would travel with a ragged, cold van, counting singles for gas, and the latest possible updates in communication technology? What a film image, is someone getting this?

It's already got me itching for a portable printer, not to mention the pocket Global Positioning System mach9.0348/H3-a7. It's all downhill from here. Anders won't survive another tour without the new eraser sized cell phone and a little satellite on top of the van, for the TV he built himself, promptly stolen by Sean and Tim for Monday night football. Oh and if you believe that, Paul builds his own lightbulbs.

I can see it coming already, the day that there's more machinery than luggage, no room for my duffelbag of shoes....

So new years eve was the biggest hoot ever, I just thought I'd say. I think we've made a new tradition, Hole in the Wall Theater is the greatest, the people are divine, we work great together, I hope we get to do it again next year, and yes I'll do cheesecake again, mostly because I love you, but also because I will NOT be recording a CD next holiday season.

BTW, if you're interested enough to be reading these notes, then you most certainly better sign up for this cruise ship. I know it's a big commitment, bla bla bla, but it's the greatest fun ever. We'll all just hang out and eat and bake in the sun and drink blue and pink fru-frus with umbrellas and sit around in our swimsuits and make music all night. I swear I used to be a crotchety old cynic about organized vacations, and I even had to take seasick precautions, but I mean it, it's the greatest fun I've ever had. Heaps of familiar faces to hang out with and get to know and things that I thought would be dumb, like dressing up for dinner and costume parties, I was a different person on that ship. Less of my uptight self, and most of you know I'm pretty uptight, to the point I feel sorry for people who have to deal with me while I'm working. But out there my greatest concern was "am I really burning my legs and getting NO sun on my stomach?!!??!"

So we're back on tour, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the new CD, and today it's Kentucky. Never played Kentucky before, no idea what to expect, could be playing to four people, and before we even realize what's going on at the Rudyard Kipling in Louisville, Ken the owner comes up and says "you've got a house full out there. You probably oughtta start right on time." Holy crow, where the hell did they come from? We got started and warmed up to these people like we'd known them all along. It was the greatest surprise and most fun with a new audience ever. We have to go back asap. And the next night was just as wonderful at Jack Quinn's in Covington, although there seems to be some local tension as to whether Covington is an over-the-river suburb of Cincinnati or a separate entity emancipated from such a title. Nevertheless, yet another crowd appeared out of nowhere to see our debut show there, and it was just divine. We even had hecklers shouting out requests and smart-aleck remarks just like home…(sigh)

But I messed up really bad. I hadn't been eating much for a few days; I only had access to junk and had been choosing no food over bad food. By the end of the show I was ravenous, and at the obligatory after-the-show junk food stop, I grabbed the first giant convenience store Italian super sub on the shelf, and inhaled it. That was at 2:11am. At 5:43am I was keenly aware that something was wrong. Bad wrong. The next six hours were the worst of my life, thank you Dr. Josh in NYC for taking my call and figuring out it was staph food poisoning and not E.coli, which would have been a hospital trip and caused about three show cancellations. As it was, I rode the five hours to Nashville unconscious, lucked out beyond belief that the show was just two short sets, and came way too close to passing out before being the ultimate weenie and sitting on a barstool. So that's my sob story for this tour. Paul, Frances, Anders and I have made a new plan for having healthy food in the van. Cereal, bananas, stuff for peanut butter and honey sandwiches, granola, whatever. We have to do better. Sean and Tim? Guts of steal.

More soon. I'm off to bed, it's 8:am and past my bedtime.
Love yous guys.
Maggie

I have put off writing about the cruise for way too long, mostly because I think I'm the wrong person to write about it. You see, I don't "do" water. I wasn't just seasick, I was terrified and most of all just disconcerted and wiggy the whole time, even when I finally got the patch behind my ear that took away the nausea.

(Interpretation for New Age fuzzy bunnies only: I am an air sign with no water in my chart, heavily dependent on physical earth for grounding, i.e., I was a babbling idiot for a week)

Hence my procrastination. But the thing is it was fantastic. I can't wait to do it again. We swam with stingrays, shrieked and giggled over dolphins, got sunburned, sundrunk and sunsilly, saw Sean turn up to an afternoon performance barefoot in his pyjamas, hungover like never before. We dressed like well-to-do geriatrics at the costume parties, gorged on choco-holic night, sang till the sunrise and slept on huge waves that felt like baby ones tailor made for sleeping. We landed in the most amazing places, Cozumel, Cayman (my favorite) and Jamaica, just enough time to get more burned and spend even more money beyond where we decided we were broke.

We're doing the cruise thing again in July, this time on an even bigger ship, the Carnival Celebration, and you should be there. It's so incredible, I'm over my fear about it, and those of you who worry about being on boats, well, just do it anyway. I know you won't regret it.

So very soon we'll be stressing about the deadline for this new CD. It's always rough recording over the holidays, but better than trying to release a CD for Christmas. That's when everyone and their dogs is trying to get their album out and the pressing plants are backed up and you wonder if you're going to get your CD at all. Now that bites the big one.

So think about us this month and into January as we get all snake-headed with time crunch and come up with a new disc that I am already way impressed by. And know that things are working and we're all really happy with things and we hope your lives are going smooth and glad and healthy and all things warm and comfy. We'll be seeing you soon. I'll have new reports about the warped and twisted world of 6MB in the studio….

Look, by now you all know we are the dorkiest band alive – we don’t party or get really plowed or go home with strangers. We’ve never signed any private parts exposed to us in a frenzy of backstage post gig euphoria. I suppose we would, but our fans are so nice, they would rather have us sign with a stylus onto the color screen of their new Palm-Computer-du-jour-Mach-XXIII, so they can zap it home that instant with the cell modem to the kids and the babysitter. Anyway, we just go to bed, and on rare occasions sit up and talk shop with the local drunken aspiring musician. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. I took out the computer to tell you about snow, barf and turnpike travel plazas.

This is my first winter. I am a Texas sunbunny to the hilt and I knew full well it would be a major adjustment to move to New England. I think Frances and I, the two Texans, have dealt rather well with the temperature itself, and the isolation of being snowed in for days way out in the mountains. The guys have dealt better with the cold, but had severe withdrawal from Best Buy and Circuit City. But the actual snow is just the most fascinating thing in the world. I had never seen it snow in the daytime until a couple of weeks ago, and I got a really good look at it. So how do we know there aren’t two flakes alike??? And how do you know when it’s not okay to drive in it? There has to be a better answer than “ask Paul”.

I guess I just haven’t learned to trust nature yet. The trees are trying to get these little buds on them, and I can’t help but feel they’re rushing it. There’s still several feet of snow on the ground up here. It would soooo awful if they jumped the gun and all the little flower embryos got ruined and Spring didn’t come. And how can Spring show up anyway? I keep thinking, what am I supposed to do with all the snow when we’re done with it? Am I supposed to clean it up? Or does the city come and get it, or do we have to pay extra taxes to have it removed, or… I don’t know. They tell me it goes away on it’s own, but it’s really hard to believe with it piled up to my windows

So we had our first show at Finnegan’s Wake in Philadelphia. Other bands had told us it was a great place to play, and no question they were right. This place is three floors of music and booze, holds at least 3000 people. We were astounded at how well organized the setup was. On our floor, the Quiet Man Pub, bouncers stood on chairs every 15 feet or so, just keeping the peace, looking out for our equipment, generally just being bouncers. The place was just unbelievably mobbed, and I couldn’t wrap my brain around the aggressiveness of the alcohol consumption. Never seen such partiers in my life. We had a really great time, especially due to the glowing presence of John and Peggy from the Celtic Classic, and Kris and Ilona with husbands in tow. We played to enthusiastic dancers and reeling Irishmen slurring Chritsty Moore lyrics, but the overwhelming attitude of the whole building was get smashed.

Which naturally leads me to the topic of sidewalk barf. Every band has to deal with it. A band is last out of the bar with the rest of the staff, but also with heavy equipment to haul into the van. In a case such as this particular show, we could pretty well assume it was going to be a night for serious puke protocol. The post-gig reconnaisance dispatch came back unable to move the van any closer to the door than where it was – down the street around the corner and then down some more – because of the number of people who had gotten sick on their way out the door. Now here comes the really bad part, bad mostly because it’s in the job description: One person has to be nominated to stand over the pile of barf so that the people carrying huge-heavy-cumbersome things can avoid stepping in/slipping on/dropping cases in the aforementioned substance. In this case the nominee must actually coach the stuff-hefter through the obstacle course of complex designs on the sidewalk. The only way to maneuver such a thing successfully is to keep a very watchful eye on your band-mates feet and the barf-splats. Now if that isn’t the world’s most vivid motivation to get really famous and only play concert halls, I’d be hard pressed to name it.

Alright, something less disgusting, one game we play in the van is Feed Sugar to the Swede, which we submitted to Milton-Bradley earlier this year. Matel thought it was too violent, but oh well. See, Anders is hypersensitive to sugar and never eats it, unless it’s a 4am crap-stop and we show him just the right, most attractive sugar-bomb snack. Usually those waxy chocolate coated donuts. So we put him in the van and watch while his metabolism surges to that of a manic toddler in a plastic ball-pit. He babbles explicit details of the oncoming rush and ensuing head explosion, and shrieks incoherently at the slightest stimulus (which can be dangerous since his voice is louder than GOD – earplugs necessary for this game). For the duration of the game he also rocks the van in convulsive involuntary cackling. He’s a very happy sugar head, easily the funniest comedian we’ve ever met, but we can’t keep him bouncing long enough to actually put him on Comedy Central, make a million dollars and retire. It only lasts about twelve minutes. Which on second thought is fortunate, since we’d have to carry a tranquilizer gun if it went any longer. But now we’re experimenting with other substances and trying to create the ideal van entertainment. Nantucket Nectar Smoothies with guarana produce a longer lasting and equally cheerful high, but not quite crazed enough for our taste. Pastries don’t have much effect at all. And besides, with hardcore sugar the crash is just astounding: in mid-yell he’ll suddenly freeze with a hypnotized stare, his body goes from fully craned in a rabid frenzy to a fast-melting metabolic puddle, complete with semi-comatose whimpers of “mommy I go nite-nite”….

Oh yes, I was going to tell you about our strange and miniscule sources of security on the road. It’s the funniest thing that even physically uncomfortable situations on the road can become something we need and wouldn’t do without, just because it’s familiar. At this point in our tour circuit, the family or person that takes us in could practically feed us cat food or make us shower in the back yard, just as long as we get to sleep in that same old corner of the living room that we always had before. It’s an intense realization for me: that psychologically, in a situation where everything is different every day, where there is never any chance for routine of any kind, not even close to a bedtime ritual, we become attached to whatever familiarity there is. There’s one place where we stay that is one giant loft studio, no walls, no privacy, no beds, we sleep on foam egg crates, only 5 gallons of hot water, no “real” food since our host is vegan and we’re omnivores, and get this – said host is also a wood sculptor which means every square inch of the place is ½ inch thick in sawdust. I’m not kidding. And yet we’ve been staying there for years, dozens of tours, and we can’t wait to get back. Because that spot on the floor by the weight bench is mine, where I always make my dust-angels, where I know what I’ll see when I wake up in the afternoon, and I won’t have to think about where I am. It’s absolutely familiar, and as comforting as anything can be in our world.

Something that’s gotten a little too familiar is the spoon. Everyone told me not to write about the spoon, but if I’m going to give the real picture then I’m going to do just that. The same disposable plastic spoon has lived in the van for about five months now. I was inspired to write about our reletionship with it the other night in Boston when we all piled in the van at 2:45a.m. with our leftovers from before the show, and Sean asked “could I have the spoon please?” And then we all took turns eating our own food with one untensil among us. For those of you who are getting ick-shivers about now, may I remind you, we’ve long since become immune to spit germs and fuzz from dosing in slightly larger increments over a long period of time. The spoon’s been in use consistently for about five months now, for the random yogurt, cup-o-soup, ice cream, Texas chili, and of course our favorite greasy-diner-macaroni-and-cheese dish. And plus we all know that animated cartoon The Tick, whose battle cry is a blood-curdling SPOOOOOON! We’re sentimental.

Not that we aren’t sanitary. Frances and Anders would strangle me if I gave you that idea. We carry more anti-bacterial toiletries than a Walgreen’s, literally bathe in pure iodine, bags of waterless hand and face washing stuff in the van, bla bla, all these extra steps to keep from catching a cold, or whatever, cause if one gets it, we all get it. Spoon or not, we all share the same germs, no way around it. I think it helps make better music.

I think I really dig this writing thing. I get so many people coming up to me and saying "I can't believe that happened to you!" And I'm just like, 'yup'.

This tour we were at the White Horse in Va. Beach, easily the most downright lovable, respectful and appreciative crowd ever, and when we're there it's always more like a mutual admiration society than a gig. At the risk of souding more New Age than usual, the band and the audience, are all experiencing something together, reciprocating each other's energy and making it great as a group. It's just magic. So it was of particular interest when two guys sat down in front of everyone and started arm-wrestling and screaming and hollering over Witch of the Westmerelands. I looked at the audience and they were all with me as I went forward and started singing directly in their faces and staring. I was completely shocked when they proceeded to behave as though they were in a strip bar, screaming, "Take it off!" and "Show us your______!" I actually didn't mess up the words, finished the song and said "Would everyone like to extend a cordial invitation with me!!???! Let's invite these gentlemen to go sit at the bar…." (massive applause) Then they lit into us right there in front of a full house, yelling "what the @$%* did we do!?….We're just sittin' here maaaaan" And got up to fight Anders on the stage! Swede did keep his cool, I left the stage to go get the owner, who sent the most capable of bouncers to remove them, who of course would be named AMY. Amy took care of things in due course, cut them off from drinking, but didn't kick them out. At the end of the show they had stripped down to their wife-beater shirts and were waiting to kill us all. The manager and waiters were begging us to stay on our side of the room till they could be removed, and the whole scene was amazing. They left, I was almost disappointed they didn't swing a punch, because the entire audience would have made them cease to be alive, and we all would've felt even more like a team than before. Moral of the story is you can insult me or talk over our music if that's your fetish, but if you mess with our crowd's right to enjoy a show, we'll make yo u unconcious real fast.

I have issues about asking for tips. In other words, I hate it. Thanks to everyone at Flanagan's for being generous, listening to my stupid stories about the poor lonely little tip jar who never got any attention, and forking over money that really does help. Here's an itemization of