Jan came down to meet us to help sort out the general mess of assigning rooms, and writing down where we would all be spread out throughout this somewhat dingy hotel, where not so successful businessmen congregated in the small carpeted room off the lobby to smoke. Doug and Jimmy (our guitar tech), Wink and Jan, Jerusha, our wonderful nanny from Louisville, and Janet, me, and 15 month old Matt took turns in the claustrophobic elevator to various upper floors to unwind. Matthew, restless from the long journey, grabbed everything in sight in the room, knocking the phone off the hook and putting the cord in his mouth. Time to take a walk.
Finsbury Park was just across the busy road, and there was, to our delight, a carnival in the process of going up. Bumping the stroller over thick electrical cables linking generators to rides, we wheeled Matt through the puddles past rising poles and canvas, pneumatic arms and nicked up oversized teacups. The American carny is a legendary figure--the hardest, most ornery breed of alcoholic pill-freak in wife-beater t-shirt and trucker hat. But the British carny was a different breed altogether. I certainly had never seen one on television or in the movies. Where the American brand had tobacco stained teeth, the Brit carny had few teeth to discolor. The fashion sense featured long stringy unwashed hair under a cap--the kind AC/DC singers used to wear. A good stroll through the park did the trick and put the kid out, and after a little dinner and a pint at the closest pub it was time to retire. The next day was the first show in Camden.
Pulling up to soundcheck was the first indication of how the Lemonheads were strapped to the rocket to stardom. A gaggle of giggling tweenagers lined the stage entrance, and as we walked in we saw lead singer and guitarist Evan Dando surrounded by television lights and photographers. If you tried to engineer a teen idol, Evan with his good looks and who-me? personality would make any record company see green. He shot us a nod, then stared back into the sun.
We had known Evan and the band for a couple years by then, we had both been signed by Bettina Richards at Atlantic in 1990. We crossed paths occasionally, playing shows together, as we both garnered good college radio success, but languished comercially in our little corner of a mid-level floor of 75 Rockefeller. Then they put out a single preceding their second record.
Mrs. Robinson was a hit. It's a Shame About Ray was a great power pop record, but the punked up cover of the Simon and Garfunkel song from The Graduate was "the ticket" as Jon Lovitz was saying at the time. Every A&R rep in the nineties would try to jump start careers with a well-placed cover after that. Our version of Wire's Ex Lion Tamer apparently wasn't what they had in mind.
So, on an overcast April day in 1993 our paths crossed again. This time, Atlantic was throwing us a bone, or at least a life preserver. We were somewhere in the middle of our El Moodio tour, we had already hit the road with The Chills on the West Coast, and had done our South by Southeast duty in the motor home. While the shows were going well, and decent reviews poured in, our bar code was not getting zapped enough in the Towers and Best Buys of the world. As I looked around at the buzz surrounding the Lemonheads, I felt a bit invisible.
The show was great. The girls down front tolerated us, saving their vocal chords for Evan, but we went over well in spite of their indifference. A lot of times it stinks to be the opener, but there is something special about a tightly packed thirty minute set where you can expend every ounce of energy. I don't usually play to the crowd anyway. I close my eyes and let the songs carry me off. It varies how long it takes on a given night, but I can usually lose myself in the moment, a zone, a space without a place. I came off stage sweaty, dazed and ecstatic .
But that feeling doesn't carry over long for me. I get a sense of despair. If someone outside the band enters the dressing room I have to look for an exit. I don't want to talk. This show was no exception. I recognize now looking back that there was something deeper at work--I was entering a period of depression in my life.
I don't know how you can possibly know it when you're in it. I mean, I was happy, I thought. Artistically I felt like I had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. I was in the middle of touring the world on our third major label record, I had been recognized as a songwriter and guitar player, and it was what I was doing for a living. I got to be with my family while I was doing it. But I was also 35 years old and it was becoming evident that commercial success probably wasn't coming my way. That is a weird feeling--not caring about fame, but craving attention to satisfy an over-sized ego, at the same time realizing that a lot of people around you are banking on you becoming famous.
And I was a father. Matt hadn't been diagnosed with his rare condition by April '93, but he had been having multiple seizures, been delayed walking and talking, and judging by his frequent crying, very agitated by something in his beautiful little head. It was difficult to prepare for a concert with Matt on the road with us. Before Matt was born, my nervous energy would send me walking in the hours before a concert, exploring whatever city it was we were playing, but with Matt, Janet and I did our best to be parents. After a concert, I was emotionally spent.
So, when this show ended, and Janet said that everybody was going out clubbing, I immediately volunteered to drive back to the hotel with Matt. I had my usual after concert funk and it was a relief to think I could drop out of the social scene. I've never been good in a crowd. In a small group of people I can talk it up and have a great time, but hanging out in a crowded bar drinking and smoking was never my thing.
The plan was for me to drive the van back with Matt in the car seat, and everybody would cab it back on their own. The route was not an easy one. The club was some distance from the hotel, and while I had paid attention on how we got there earlier in the day, the prospect of retracing the drive in an unfamiliar vehicle on the opposite side of the road was daunting to say the least. Jan wrote the directions for me, but it was dark and rainy, and I had to rely on adrenaline and luck to get back. Which I did.
I got up early with Matt and consumed bangers and a boiled egg in the dining room, Janet groggily joining us. Lots of stories about the evening. Party night on the West End. Fashion models hovered around Evan. He and Janet sang Gram Parson songs until the wee hours. Wink, Jimmy, Doug, and Jan liquored it up. Eventually the traveling party managed to pull together to drive to Manchester.
Manchester succeeded in matching my greying mood. Driving in, I realized the influence of geography on art, and saw how my heroes in Joy Division could emerge from such a place. We had a good hang and pre-show backstage, post-soundcheck dinner with the L-Heads, then played to another massive and adoring crowd there to see the headliner. Teenage Fan Club was the middle act and were fantastic. Janet and I skipped The Lemonheads though, and walked across to a nearby university where The Jayhawks were playing in a campus student center.
The next, and final stop was Glasgow, Scotland. It was a beautiful, but long drive on an off-day, and I remember entering the city from high elevation where you could see roof tops extending for miles. The hotel was close to the city center and after settling in we explored on foot with stroller. There was a great bookstore, but browsing with a baby cut that shorter than I would have liked. That night, in the dead of sleep, a deafening and persistent alarm rang out and hotel employees ran up and down the halls urging everyone to get out. Standing outside in pajamas with dozens of other guests, the rumor eventually passed close enough to hear that it had been a bomb threat.
Made it through the day to a late afternoon soundcheck in a cavernous beer hall in an especially dingy part of the city. The concrete floor had that smell of stale ale and bleach, a smell that still sears my memory. The concert however, left no impression on my mind, which leads me to believe that it was just another concert. And the end of the "tour".
We had a few weeks of rest when we got home in preparation for a return to Europe for a five week jaunt through Germany, Belgium, Netherlands, Denmark, Switzerland, and London again. There was absolutely no buzz on our record. Radio wasn't playing Making Like a Rug, and Atlantic seemed to be giving a collective shrug. The Lemonheads went on to more success, the spotlight explored other Chicago bands, and I gravitated toward the darker pole of the el moodio persona. (Note: El Moodio was a nickname first given Wink in honor of his moon child star sign which I also share and is characterized by moodiness and the tides/ pull of the moon. I have self-identified with the nickname and co-opted it. My apologies Wink.) After a long and exhausting tour that ended with a wonderful birthday in Jan's home town in the Netherlands, I unofficially retired from the grind in July. Teacher would soon displace musician in the employment box on my tax return.
I include a write-up I recently found in a box that sparked this memory. It sums up the miasma of emotions whenever I look in the rear view mirror. Bartender, lemonade for all my friends!
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