These are the true tales of the rail and the wing, seen from the vantage point of train stations, dressing rooms, airports and the not-so-glamorous back of a cab. Buckle up in the jump seat for this caffeine-fueled 15-day tour of Italy, Austria, Denmark, Germany, Netherlands, France, England and Ireland. Don’t forget your passport.
April 22: Graz To Vienna
Last night in Graz was one of those shows where adrenalin kicks in, and I leave the stage drenched. I try to pace myself these days, allow myself the opportunity to explore all of the compelling places a song can take me, try to keep from ruining my clothes, but if the energy in the room is combustible then the music tends to reflect it. They weren’t holding back. Mugs of beer were racked up at the edge of the stage. I was stunned to hear how far some folks had travelled to be there, some from Slovenia, where I’ve never played. And these were serious fans who knew the words better than me.
A half hour before taking the stage, I heard that Prince has died. “It’s a hoax” I said. “No way that’s true.” Afraid so. What the hell’s with this year? Fifty-seven and gone. Although I never eyed his career too closely, he was such a phenomenal artist who you couldn’t escape or deny his ultraviolet presence. “The Cross” was one of my favorite songs of his. Atypical of his predominant style, it had more in common with The Velvet Underground’s stark and primitive “Heroin.” His ability to synthesize his influences and then create a music that was unmistakably Prince was staggering. Almost a foreshadowing, he had recently covered Bowie’s “Heroes” in concert. Artists like Prince are like comets that we are not apt to see the likes of again in our lifetime. Maybe our grandchildren will, but we won’t.
The few clothes I have on the road have achieved a funk of their own. I’ve located a coin laundromat on a street in Vienna that has a coffee bar every other block and quite a few seedy “Sex Cabins,” as they are called here. Hard to hold those two ideas in mind: sexy and cabin. This is the city of Mozart, but from my vantage point, it’s all hot-dog stands and vice. My clothes tumble counter clockwise in the dryer, Austrian pop pipes in underneath the din of washing machines. Strangely soothing.
