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 21: Bologna To Graz
Even on a Wednesday, the show starts late in Bologna, the proud “European Capitol of Culture.” 10:30 PM is actually on the early side I’m told. My return to the Bravo Cafe last night is warm as ever. The place feels like a living room full of old friends. Many that I converse with after the show have been listening to my music for as long as I’ve been making it.
Mid-set, I’m interrupted. “You have a phone call,” a woman in black says, approaching the stage. “It’s Howe Gelb calling from Paris.” I place him on speaker, and we proceed to exchange greetings. (Howe, of the band Giant Sand, and I played the Bravo Cafe together about a year ago. This is déjà vu.) “How ’bout we do a George Jones song?” Howe says. Slipping the phone into my shirt pocket where the microphone can pick it up, Howe and I perform a long-distance duet of “I Always Get Lucky With You,” which George Jones sang and Merle Haggard wrote. Later in the evening, I honor the recently departed Haggard once again, with a cover of his classic song “Silver Wings.”
I’m back in the hotel with Spike, my road manager, by 1 a.m. We’re sitting in my room, splitting a pizza, trying to sort out the accounting. A wad of euros on the bed. I’ll be calling home to Nashville soon, saying goodnight to my wife and daughter. We’ve got a 9 a.m. train to catch and a long day of travel to Graz, Austria, ahead of us.
In the morning, we realize that our journey isn’t entirely by rail as we assumed. Perplexed, we stare at the board down at the station. Bus to Klagenfurt, it reads. I say to Spike, “Bus must be short for business. We’re on a business train!”
It turns out that “bus” means “bus.” I’m thinking Greyhound. Childhood memories of lost days spent on the Greyhound bus between Stockton and San Jose rush to mind. Looking out through bottle-green windows at barren hills is what the word “bus” conjures up; that and the monotonous tours we did in the ’90s. Anything but a bus. But it’s actually a nice ride. It has Wi-Fi—and there’s hardly anyone else on it. I’ll save my complaining for another day.
