A Very Brief Tour Diary

Machinists! Sorry for having been absent from these pages the last few weeks. As it happens, I’ve been at my laptop keyboard a lot since the beginning of the year, working on one project or another, and I’ve found that my writing juju has been a little bit exhausted once I’ve needed to turn my attentions to the Machine Shop. But here I am! I’ve traveled from Portland to South Carolina in the space of 48 hours and I’ve lived to tell the tale. Here’s the diary:

Friday, June 5
Portland, OR

Wildly, this is the only performance date I have left this year. After this, there is nothing on the books. A strange territory stretches out before me, but I’ll be the one deciding whether it’s a barren desert or a fruiting orchard. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I don’t really love touring, so there is part of me that is elated at the prospect of an empty calendar. I have my hands full with a couple writing projects and that’s enough to keep me fed (body and soul). I imagine I’ll get a yearning in a couple months, but for now I’m content.

I meet Troy at the airport. He’ll be my one traveling tech guy on this short hop. He’s been off and on with the Decemberists apparatus since The King Is Dead days and is a beloved member of the family. He also works with Snow Patrol, Brandi Carlile, and The Shins, so it’s sometimes hard to get him on our schedule. But when it works out, we’re all the more thankful for it. He’s a good dude.

Our flight will take us to Charleston, South Carolina, where I’m to perform at the Spoleto Festival. I admit to knowing next to nothing about this festival aside from the fact that they are the sort to ask me (me!) to perform. I’m not sure if that’s a strike against them or not. The band has played in Charleston only once before, so this will only be my second time in the city. I don’t recall much about that first time through, aside from the fact that the show might’ve been a tad undersold. I’m sure it was a great show and the performance was inspired and the audience was rapturous but I am cursed to forever only focus on the empty seats. Ugh, what a sad sack am I.

On my flight to Atlanta, I’m seated next to a man who appears to have a serious fixation on claiming the armrest between us. He’s in the middle seat; I’m on the aisle. At one point, just as we take off, he cedes territory and I put my elbow on the armrest. He abruptly puts it up, saying, “I guess we’ll go without this.” I ask him why. He says because I was pushing into him. I was not pushing into him. This, sadly, is how our 4+ hour flight to Atlanta begins. I’m stuck sitting next to a petty manchild.

On arrival, Troy and I are greeted by Frank from the festival. He takes us in a white van to our hotel. I help myself to a Guinness from the minibar and settle in to watch the rest of the movie I’d started on the plane: The English Patient. Why am I watching this movie? Strangely, I’d been trying to recall the plot of it, only a few days prior to leaving, and there it was on offer in my seatback entertainment system. Kismet!

Saturday, June 6
Charleston, SC

I am determined to lay low for as long as possible, to luxuriate in my hotel room like a goddamn starlet, before I dare venture into the light of day. I read my book, which is Little Big Man by Thomas Berger. It is, shall we say, of its time. I’ve been on a bit of a Western novel kick lately after reading Butcher’s Crossing (by John Williams) and True Grit (by Charles Portis). Both of these books are absolutely ace — True Grit in particular. Portis’s novel might be one of my new favorite books of all time — I’d never read it before — and one that I can envision returning to over and over. There are only a few books that rise to that level for me, that demand a yearly or bi-yearly re-read, and those are as follows: Dubliners by Joyce, The Buried Giant by Ishiguro, Train Dreams by Denis Johnson, and now True Grit by Charles Portis. I’m not sure what the through-line here is, but those are my guys.

By lunchtime, however, I feel like I should at least see what Charleston has on offer. I wander the maze of streets in the afternoon swelter, falling in with the Charleston tourist traffic. There seems to be a kind of uniform among the young people of Charleston. Lots of white shorts and oxford-blue button-ups. I feel like I’m at a fraternity/sorority mixer that’s spilled out into the city streets. I find an obliging restaurant, belly up to the bar, and positively house a half-dozen oysters and a chicken sandwich. Then it’s back to the hotel to luxuriate just a little more.

At 6, I make my way to the venue, which is an outdoor stage set up on one end of what looks like an oak-shaded college quad. I meet the genial front of house engineer; I do a short soundcheck. Then I’m led to the greenroom, which is some kind of dormitory lounge. I pass the time till Troy calls me to the stage.

The heat of the afternoon has worn off but here, at 9 pm, it is still warm enough for short sleeves. The stage is wide and there’s only me to occupy it. I look out into the half-darkness; they’ve strung lights through the boughs of the oak trees and I feel as if I’m at some Charlestonian’s wedding (which would explain the gaggles of tipsy twenty-somethings, swaying through the streets today — perhaps the bachelorette party has finished and the ceremony has begun). From my vantage point, it feels like a goodly crowd — or at least an improvement over our last Charleston showing — so my ego is assuaged. I open with “My Mother Was a Chinese Trapeze Artist,” which is my only song that mentions South Carolina. I thought to put it farther along in the set, but I feel as if I need to get in everyone’s good graces immediately. The rest of the seventy-five-minute set goes smoothly: my voice feels in fine fettle and the crowd seems sweet and attentive. I play “Everyday Is Like Sunday” in A, which I’d never done before — I always play it in C — because my C harmonica had a touch of the grippe and was misbehaving when I played it at soundcheck. It’s an easier lift at a step-and-a-half lower, which is maybe something I should start embracing. Those E and F notes that I blithely wrote into my songs when I was 30 take a little more effort to hit at 51.

Here’s the final setlist, for those keeping score:

MY MOTHER WAS
ENGINE DRIVER
WBGDT
ARCHITECT
ELI
JANUARY
EVERYDAY IS LIKE SUNDAY (A HARP)
APOLOGY
SEVERED
RRA
BURIAL
ROX
VALENCIA
JUNE (A HARP)
STAGE

Looking at this now, I’m realizing that I skipped “Engine Driver” and I have no idea how or why. These things happen. It does explain why I was about five minutes short as I got closer to the end of the set. I slipped “1952 Vincent Black Lightning,” the Richard Thompson tune, in there to make up for it. I also played “Sons and Daughters” as an encore and, spontaneously, tried to get the crowd to do the in-the-round parts with me. That worked about as well as you’d expect, considering it took some doing to even get the parts down in the recording. No harm in trying.

I skipped offstage, my labors through, and was walked back to the greenroom by Troy. There, we busily stuffed our knapsacks with the several bushels of granola bars the venue had provided. We then hopped in our transport back to the hotel. Safely cocooned in my hotel bed duvet, I abandoned myself to sleep, a thousand gimlet-stained cotton camisoles whirling in my mind. Adieu, Charleston, adieu!